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2minsforslashingTitle: Chemistry
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jennyagain
Pairing: Blake Wheeler/David Krejci/Vladimir Sobotka (Boston Bruins)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,530
Summary: The moment Wheeler skated to the blue line to start his first drill with Krejci and Sobotka, he knew.
Visual Aid: Inspired by this video. Definitely check it out if you haven't, especially if you don't know Wheels, Krech, and Vladdie.
Disclaimer: The following is for entertainment purposes only. Real people, places, and things appear, but the work is complete fiction, and there is no intent to defame, insult, or slander. No money is being made. Any and all errors belong solely to me.
Notes: I’m quite certain my extreme ignorance of all things Czech is showing here; please forgive me any missteps and chalk the remainder up to artistic license? Thank you! I’m also assuming the guys hopped on their plane back to Boston after the game in Nashville on Valentine’s Day, but it’s much more fun to leave them in their hotel for one more night.
Chemistry
It was always about chemistry.
They were all good at talking about it – even Aaron Ward, who hated clichés like each tired phrase had been caught sleeping with his sister – because it was true. If you weren’t clicking with your teammates or, more importantly, your linemates, you were fucked. So coaches would shake things up periodically, looking for that spark, that just-right mix: chemistry.
The moment Blake Wheeler skated to the blue line to start his first drill with David Krejci and Vladimir Sobotka, Wheeler knew. Krejci deked, Sobotka crashed the net, and Wheeler snuck in around behind; Krejci’s pass found the tape on Wheeler’s blade as if a lead line had been tied between the two sticks, and Wheeler beat Manny Fernandez low on his blocker side.
Sparks flew everywhere.
When a neat variation on the same theme happened on their next two rushes as well, congratulatory hugs between the new linemates didn’t seem out of place, even though it was just practice and the only people who’d seen their flashes of brilliance were other Bruins and a handful of reporters. Wheeler bumped foreheads with Krejci and Sobotka, the three of them grinning at each other as if they’d just beaten the Habs 10-0 – because that’s what it felt like.
Wheeler loved chemistry.
::
In Nashville later that week, chemistry nearly trumped all. The game hadn’t gone according to the original script – Win! And win big! – but life had certainly returned to the Bruins’ bench when Zdeno Chara had smashed home Patrice Bergeron’s sweet feed for the tying goal with less than two minutes to go in the third. Despite the eventual shoot-out loss, Wheeler, Krejci, and Sobotka had reason to celebrate, too: their line had tallied the first score. So, while not as joyous as they would have been had they grabbed the two points, the new trio took hold of their one point and their one goal – as a line – and declared it a reason to go out and play a bit.
“Drinks, Wheels! We have celebrating, yes?” Sobotka, fully dressed, elbowed a half-naked Wheeler in the ribs.
Krejci, also dressed, poked at him from the other side. “Yes, c’mon, Wheels. Let’s go, eh?”
“Jeez, guys, lemme get dressed first, OK?”
“Hey, can I come, too?”
Wheeler looked up into Milan Lucic’s hopeful face. “Sorry, Looch. Linemate bonding. Go see what Savvy and Kes are up to?”
“Man, they’re no fun. Savvy’s an old man –”
Marc Savard’s head snapped up across the room. “See if I ever pass you the puck again, Lucic!”
“– and Kes just wants to play video games. Sober.”
“Sorry, Looch. Really.”
“Aww, man –”
Krejci poked Wheeler again. “Today, Wheels!”
“Calm down!”
Wheeler buttoned up his shirt amidst additional poking and elbows from Sobotka and Krejci. “You guys are eight years old, you know that, right?”
“Very mature!” Sobotka agreed.
Wheeler grabbed his jacket and wallet. “OK. Drinks!”
Sobotka grinned, arm slung around Krejci’s shoulders. “Drinks. Celebration!”
Wheeler fell into step behind his new linemates.
::
“To chemistry!”
Wheeler raised his glass, clinked it with Sobotka’s and Krejci’s. The bar they had settled on was around the corner from their hotel: cozy, kitschy, crowded and loud. No one was paying the trio a whit of attention – except their waitress – which was fine with Wheeler.
“Chemistry, that’s funny for this,” Krejci said, setting down his beer. “In Czech, translation makes no sense.”
“What would you say then, for linemates who click?” Wheeler was genuinely curious. So far Krejci had managed to teach him one word in Czech – pass – but he loved the way that word felt on his tongue and wanted to learn more.
Krejci screwed up his face, looked at Sobotka and, presumably, asked him Wheeler’s question again in Czech. Sobotka replied, grinning, and Krejci laughed.
“ ‘Click’ makes even less sense,” Krejci said, and Wheeler felt a little silly.
Still, he wanted to know. “Well, what then? We’re great together, the three of us – we fit together out on the ice. I know you know what I mean, jackass. What would you say for that?”
Krejci feigned hurt, and Sobotka snickered and repeated “Jackass,” under his breath, but the question hung between the three of them unanswered. As the silence drew on, Wheeler could swear some of those on-ice sparks were materializing around them. That’s when he noticed Sobotka’s hand sliding up Krejci’s thigh.
Wheeler’s eyes snapped back to Krejci’s face, grew wide at the lazy smile he saw there.
Krejci broke the silence. “In Czech, closest is ‘sleeping together.’”
Wheeler drew in a sharp breath, not at the audacity of the clear meaning of Krejci’s words, but at Sobotka’s free hand curling around Wheeler’s wrist, tugging him toward Krejci as well. Sobotka placed Wheeler’s hand on Krejci’s leg, just below his own. The denim was soft, worn and warm. Wheeler’s thumb moved of its own accord along the seam lining Krejci’s inner thigh and the barest hint of a gasp escaped Krejci’s lips. Wheeler’s eyes were drawn to Krejci’s mouth then, but they were almost immediately pulled away again, this time to Sobotka’s lips, moving against Krejci’s neck just under his ear, whispering in Czech. Sobotka’s eyes were locked on Wheeler’s face.
Krejci moved his hand to Wheeler’s waist, quickly sneaking under Wheeler’s un-tucked dress shirt. One finger crooked past his belt and the waist of his jeans to find warm, goose-prickled skin. Krejci’s other fingers joined that first one, and that warm touch, the slightest hint of roughness on the pads of Krejci’s calloused fingertips, spread goose-bumps all over Wheeler’s body. Unsurprisingly, his cock wanted in on the action, too. Wheeler took another sharp breath.
“Come,” said Krejci in the pause that followed, and Wheeler couldn’t imagine that the double meaning was an accident.
::
It was a blessing and a curse that the bar was just around the corner from their hotel. The walk back passed altogether too quickly for second thoughts, for “maybe I shouldn’t do this with my linemates,” and truly, before Wheeler could process what was happening, he was pressed against the wall of Krejci’s room, Sobotka was kissing him – thoroughly and hungrily and with a lot of tongue – and Krejci’s soft hands were guiding down his zipper.
It was clear from the way Sobotka and Krejci moved around each other that the pair had done this before, but it also seemed clear they’d not done it with a third. There were many hurried, slurred questions in Czech – none of them contained “pass” so Wheeler was permanently lost – but these seemed to suggest each was looking to the other for direction.
Wheeler, for his part, was content to be pressed against the wall and ravished.
Krejci started by lowering Wheeler’s zipper, then tugging down his pants. Wheeler helped toe off his own shoes and socks, and Krejci planted kisses from Wheeler’s knees up to the lower edge of Wheeler’s boxers. Krejci hissed something to Sobotka and Sobotka drew back from his kiss, tugging at Wheeler’s lower lip with his teeth as he moved to let go. Wheeler was barely able to focus on Sobotka’s devilish smile and the twinkle in his eyes before Sobotka moved back in to kiss Wheeler’s throat and his hands moved quickly to unbutton Wheeler’s shirt. Moments later the white cotton lay pooled next to where Krejci knelt – oh God – at Wheeler’s feet.
Sobotka moved to stand behind Krejci, and he placed his hands on the bare skin of Wheeler’s shoulders, pressing him against the wall again as Krejci went back to work. Wheeler watched Sobotka watch Krejci kiss along the length of Wheeler’s now-quite-hard cock. The light in Sobotka’s eyes sent shivers down Wheeler’s spine. Then Krejci dragged his tongue over Wheeler’s cotton-covered length, and the shivers changed. The rasp and slide of the damp cloth along his cock was exquisite, and the torture of having Krejci’s wet, hot mouth so close and yet not on him was new and terrible and wonderful.
But then – God – Krejci curled his fingers around the waistband of Wheeler’s boxers and tugged them down, freeing his cock to the cool air and the searing heat of Krejci’s wicked tongue.
Wheeler looked down, not quite believing this was happening. He took in both Krejci, cheeks hollowed, hands on Wheeler’s thighs, and Sobotka, hands still pinning Wheeler to the wall, eyes on Krejci’s bobbing head, Czech whispers – encouragements? – on his lips.
Then Krejci swallowed Wheeler down, and as the head of his cock hit the back of Krejci’s throat and Wheeler felt Krejci’s nose press close against him, Wheeler’s orgasm took them all by surprise, and as he came, gasping, his knees buckled so that the only things holding him upright were Sobotka’s strong hands, pinning him. Wheeler seemed much more surprised about his quick trigger than Krejci or Sobotka, both of whom just grinned at him as he slumped down the wall, finally released by Sobotka. He pulled his knees to his chest, wrapped his arms around them and said, “Oh my God.”
“Chemistry,” said Krejci, and Sobotka laughed. All Wheeler could manage over the aftereffects of his intense orgasm was a weak smile.
::
He only closed his eyes for a moment, but when he opened them again, Krejci and Sobotka had pulled off most of their own clothing, and they were kissing.
That was when Wheeler became certain they’d done this before. There was ease and grace in the way they touched each other. Wheeler knew all too well the fumblings of being with someone new – that happened each time he brought a girl back to his room and in some ways he liked the thrill of discovery that accompanied it – but what he saw when Sobotka pulled away – just for a moment – to tweak Krejci’s nipple with his thumb and to capture his earlobe with his teeth was something comfortable, something familiar, something beautiful.
Wheeler’s cock was already stirring again.
He never thought watching two guys – his friends, his linemates – like this would set his pulse racing, get his fingers itching to touch, but here he was, and Wheeler wasn’t the kind of guy who passed up an opportunity.
Tentatively, he reached out and threaded his fingers through Krejci’s sweaty hair, then Sobotka’s. When his thumb rubbed along the nape of Sobotka’s neck, Sobotka moaned, and Wheeler could feel the vibrations both with that hand and with the hand in Krejci’s hair. It was incredible.
Krejci broke the kiss, turned to face Wheeler, and smiled. Wheeler’s own cheesy grin was soon matching it, and Sobotka laughed – at them? – but he was grinning, too.
“Bed?” Sobotka asked.
“Bed,” Krejci agreed.
“Chemistry,” said Wheeler, and he followed them.
::
Wheeler had no clue what he was doing, so he followed a blend of his instincts – It feels good when someone licks me there, so I’ll try it – and instructions in various degrees of English from Krejci and Sobotka – Kiss right there, yes, and Curl your fingers, and Tighter, please, yes, there – there. Then, somehow, Wheeler found himself – sheathed, slick cock in hand – ready to press himself into Sobotka with Krejci urging him “Yes, do it, yes,” and Sobotka, presumably, echoing those sentiments in Czech. Sobotka was like nothing Wheeler had ever seen or experienced or expected to experience: he lay there on his back, looking up at Wheeler, his pale skin flushed with desire, sticky with sweat, legs spread invitingly wide. Wheeler moved his hand over the pale curve of Sobotka’s ass, trailing his fingers up the soft skin of Sobotka’s inner thigh. Sobotka hooked one foot around Wheeler’s waist and began to curse him brokenly for “Tease, fuck” – and then he began to beg. Krejci’s urging became more insistent – and less coherent – as well. Wheeler looked over and found Krejci’s hand on his own cock, long fingers drawing out longer strokes, slender wrist twisting around his shaft as Wheeler had seen so many times with his hockey stick on the ice. Wheeler was never going to be able to watch Krejci stickhandle again.
Sobotka begged again, brokenly – “Wheels – please – need – fuck – now!” and Wheeler pushed in.
That first perfect slide, the incredible new sensation gripping him, had Wheeler wanting to grab Sobotka’s hips fiercely and pound him, thrust into him savagely and pull from Sobotka more begging and more sweet whining and more heat, but Krejci, to his side, grunted and warned, “Careful – ”
– just before Sobotka said “More! ” –
– and Wheeler reigned himself in, followed Krejci’s warning rather than Sobotka’s plea, slowed down, savored the slow thrust, let Sobotka adjust to him – despite Sobotka continuing to beg that he was ready, damnit – or somesuch in Czech. When Krejci said “OK, yeah yeah, now,” Wheeler dropped the reigns, grabbed Sobotka’s hips, and fucked him.
It was hot and tight and incredible, and Wheeler knew he was recycling his descriptions, but the bliss of it made each seem newly minted and he could’ve said “Oh my God this is awesome,” over and over again and each time it would have been newly true. Krejci slid his arm around Wheeler’s waist, gripping Wheeler’s hip, and, Wheeler supposed, used the contact to time the movements of his own hand on himself to Wheeler’s thrusts, lending extra heat to the proceedings.
Krejci came first, gasping, his spunk landing on Sobotka’s chest. He recovered quickly, though, and moved his still-slick hand to Sobotka’s cock to help. Wheeler kept pace, hips moving in smooth rhythm, Sobotka still begging in counterpoint to his thrusts, which – really – was incredibly hot. Then, and Wheeler probably shouldn’t’ve been surprised at this point, Krejci moved down to swallow Sobotka’s cock.
Wheeler couldn’t take his eyes off them if he’d wanted to – Sobotka’s cock disappearing into Krejci’s mouth, that full lower lip nudging over the head of that cock as Krejci pulled back to take a breath and to tease Sobotka with his tongue. When Krejci swallowed him down again, Sobotka screamed, and bucked his hips up, and the angle between Wheeler and Sobotka changed just enough, and Sobotka came, hard, whimpering in Czech. It was that, and the intimacy of the picture in front of him – Sobotka’s fingers threaded through Krejci’s hair – that pulled Wheeler over the edge into an orgasm no less profound than his first.
They lay there, together, and it was messy and sticky but no one made a move to get up. There were words cycling through Wheeler’s mind: spent, exhausted, overwhelmed, happy.
Wheeler spoke, quietly: “So that’s how you say ‘chemistry’ in Czech.”
Krejci snickered, and Wheeler listened in unlooked–for bliss as Krejci whispered in Czech, presumably to make sure Sobotka got the joke. Sobotka began to laugh, and only a beat passed before Krejci and Wheeler joined him, and the perfection of the new line was cemented.
It was always about chemistry.
Author:
jennyagainPairing: Blake Wheeler/David Krejci/Vladimir Sobotka (Boston Bruins)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,530
Summary: The moment Wheeler skated to the blue line to start his first drill with Krejci and Sobotka, he knew.
Visual Aid: Inspired by this video. Definitely check it out if you haven't, especially if you don't know Wheels, Krech, and Vladdie.
Disclaimer: The following is for entertainment purposes only. Real people, places, and things appear, but the work is complete fiction, and there is no intent to defame, insult, or slander. No money is being made. Any and all errors belong solely to me.
Notes: I’m quite certain my extreme ignorance of all things Czech is showing here; please forgive me any missteps and chalk the remainder up to artistic license? Thank you! I’m also assuming the guys hopped on their plane back to Boston after the game in Nashville on Valentine’s Day, but it’s much more fun to leave them in their hotel for one more night.
Chemistry
It was always about chemistry.
They were all good at talking about it – even Aaron Ward, who hated clichés like each tired phrase had been caught sleeping with his sister – because it was true. If you weren’t clicking with your teammates or, more importantly, your linemates, you were fucked. So coaches would shake things up periodically, looking for that spark, that just-right mix: chemistry.
The moment Blake Wheeler skated to the blue line to start his first drill with David Krejci and Vladimir Sobotka, Wheeler knew. Krejci deked, Sobotka crashed the net, and Wheeler snuck in around behind; Krejci’s pass found the tape on Wheeler’s blade as if a lead line had been tied between the two sticks, and Wheeler beat Manny Fernandez low on his blocker side.
Sparks flew everywhere.
When a neat variation on the same theme happened on their next two rushes as well, congratulatory hugs between the new linemates didn’t seem out of place, even though it was just practice and the only people who’d seen their flashes of brilliance were other Bruins and a handful of reporters. Wheeler bumped foreheads with Krejci and Sobotka, the three of them grinning at each other as if they’d just beaten the Habs 10-0 – because that’s what it felt like.
Wheeler loved chemistry.
::
In Nashville later that week, chemistry nearly trumped all. The game hadn’t gone according to the original script – Win! And win big! – but life had certainly returned to the Bruins’ bench when Zdeno Chara had smashed home Patrice Bergeron’s sweet feed for the tying goal with less than two minutes to go in the third. Despite the eventual shoot-out loss, Wheeler, Krejci, and Sobotka had reason to celebrate, too: their line had tallied the first score. So, while not as joyous as they would have been had they grabbed the two points, the new trio took hold of their one point and their one goal – as a line – and declared it a reason to go out and play a bit.
“Drinks, Wheels! We have celebrating, yes?” Sobotka, fully dressed, elbowed a half-naked Wheeler in the ribs.
Krejci, also dressed, poked at him from the other side. “Yes, c’mon, Wheels. Let’s go, eh?”
“Jeez, guys, lemme get dressed first, OK?”
“Hey, can I come, too?”
Wheeler looked up into Milan Lucic’s hopeful face. “Sorry, Looch. Linemate bonding. Go see what Savvy and Kes are up to?”
“Man, they’re no fun. Savvy’s an old man –”
Marc Savard’s head snapped up across the room. “See if I ever pass you the puck again, Lucic!”
“– and Kes just wants to play video games. Sober.”
“Sorry, Looch. Really.”
“Aww, man –”
Krejci poked Wheeler again. “Today, Wheels!”
“Calm down!”
Wheeler buttoned up his shirt amidst additional poking and elbows from Sobotka and Krejci. “You guys are eight years old, you know that, right?”
“Very mature!” Sobotka agreed.
Wheeler grabbed his jacket and wallet. “OK. Drinks!”
Sobotka grinned, arm slung around Krejci’s shoulders. “Drinks. Celebration!”
Wheeler fell into step behind his new linemates.
::
“To chemistry!”
Wheeler raised his glass, clinked it with Sobotka’s and Krejci’s. The bar they had settled on was around the corner from their hotel: cozy, kitschy, crowded and loud. No one was paying the trio a whit of attention – except their waitress – which was fine with Wheeler.
“Chemistry, that’s funny for this,” Krejci said, setting down his beer. “In Czech, translation makes no sense.”
“What would you say then, for linemates who click?” Wheeler was genuinely curious. So far Krejci had managed to teach him one word in Czech – pass – but he loved the way that word felt on his tongue and wanted to learn more.
Krejci screwed up his face, looked at Sobotka and, presumably, asked him Wheeler’s question again in Czech. Sobotka replied, grinning, and Krejci laughed.
“ ‘Click’ makes even less sense,” Krejci said, and Wheeler felt a little silly.
Still, he wanted to know. “Well, what then? We’re great together, the three of us – we fit together out on the ice. I know you know what I mean, jackass. What would you say for that?”
Krejci feigned hurt, and Sobotka snickered and repeated “Jackass,” under his breath, but the question hung between the three of them unanswered. As the silence drew on, Wheeler could swear some of those on-ice sparks were materializing around them. That’s when he noticed Sobotka’s hand sliding up Krejci’s thigh.
Wheeler’s eyes snapped back to Krejci’s face, grew wide at the lazy smile he saw there.
Krejci broke the silence. “In Czech, closest is ‘sleeping together.’”
Wheeler drew in a sharp breath, not at the audacity of the clear meaning of Krejci’s words, but at Sobotka’s free hand curling around Wheeler’s wrist, tugging him toward Krejci as well. Sobotka placed Wheeler’s hand on Krejci’s leg, just below his own. The denim was soft, worn and warm. Wheeler’s thumb moved of its own accord along the seam lining Krejci’s inner thigh and the barest hint of a gasp escaped Krejci’s lips. Wheeler’s eyes were drawn to Krejci’s mouth then, but they were almost immediately pulled away again, this time to Sobotka’s lips, moving against Krejci’s neck just under his ear, whispering in Czech. Sobotka’s eyes were locked on Wheeler’s face.
Krejci moved his hand to Wheeler’s waist, quickly sneaking under Wheeler’s un-tucked dress shirt. One finger crooked past his belt and the waist of his jeans to find warm, goose-prickled skin. Krejci’s other fingers joined that first one, and that warm touch, the slightest hint of roughness on the pads of Krejci’s calloused fingertips, spread goose-bumps all over Wheeler’s body. Unsurprisingly, his cock wanted in on the action, too. Wheeler took another sharp breath.
“Come,” said Krejci in the pause that followed, and Wheeler couldn’t imagine that the double meaning was an accident.
::
It was a blessing and a curse that the bar was just around the corner from their hotel. The walk back passed altogether too quickly for second thoughts, for “maybe I shouldn’t do this with my linemates,” and truly, before Wheeler could process what was happening, he was pressed against the wall of Krejci’s room, Sobotka was kissing him – thoroughly and hungrily and with a lot of tongue – and Krejci’s soft hands were guiding down his zipper.
It was clear from the way Sobotka and Krejci moved around each other that the pair had done this before, but it also seemed clear they’d not done it with a third. There were many hurried, slurred questions in Czech – none of them contained “pass” so Wheeler was permanently lost – but these seemed to suggest each was looking to the other for direction.
Wheeler, for his part, was content to be pressed against the wall and ravished.
Krejci started by lowering Wheeler’s zipper, then tugging down his pants. Wheeler helped toe off his own shoes and socks, and Krejci planted kisses from Wheeler’s knees up to the lower edge of Wheeler’s boxers. Krejci hissed something to Sobotka and Sobotka drew back from his kiss, tugging at Wheeler’s lower lip with his teeth as he moved to let go. Wheeler was barely able to focus on Sobotka’s devilish smile and the twinkle in his eyes before Sobotka moved back in to kiss Wheeler’s throat and his hands moved quickly to unbutton Wheeler’s shirt. Moments later the white cotton lay pooled next to where Krejci knelt – oh God – at Wheeler’s feet.
Sobotka moved to stand behind Krejci, and he placed his hands on the bare skin of Wheeler’s shoulders, pressing him against the wall again as Krejci went back to work. Wheeler watched Sobotka watch Krejci kiss along the length of Wheeler’s now-quite-hard cock. The light in Sobotka’s eyes sent shivers down Wheeler’s spine. Then Krejci dragged his tongue over Wheeler’s cotton-covered length, and the shivers changed. The rasp and slide of the damp cloth along his cock was exquisite, and the torture of having Krejci’s wet, hot mouth so close and yet not on him was new and terrible and wonderful.
But then – God – Krejci curled his fingers around the waistband of Wheeler’s boxers and tugged them down, freeing his cock to the cool air and the searing heat of Krejci’s wicked tongue.
Wheeler looked down, not quite believing this was happening. He took in both Krejci, cheeks hollowed, hands on Wheeler’s thighs, and Sobotka, hands still pinning Wheeler to the wall, eyes on Krejci’s bobbing head, Czech whispers – encouragements? – on his lips.
Then Krejci swallowed Wheeler down, and as the head of his cock hit the back of Krejci’s throat and Wheeler felt Krejci’s nose press close against him, Wheeler’s orgasm took them all by surprise, and as he came, gasping, his knees buckled so that the only things holding him upright were Sobotka’s strong hands, pinning him. Wheeler seemed much more surprised about his quick trigger than Krejci or Sobotka, both of whom just grinned at him as he slumped down the wall, finally released by Sobotka. He pulled his knees to his chest, wrapped his arms around them and said, “Oh my God.”
“Chemistry,” said Krejci, and Sobotka laughed. All Wheeler could manage over the aftereffects of his intense orgasm was a weak smile.
::
He only closed his eyes for a moment, but when he opened them again, Krejci and Sobotka had pulled off most of their own clothing, and they were kissing.
That was when Wheeler became certain they’d done this before. There was ease and grace in the way they touched each other. Wheeler knew all too well the fumblings of being with someone new – that happened each time he brought a girl back to his room and in some ways he liked the thrill of discovery that accompanied it – but what he saw when Sobotka pulled away – just for a moment – to tweak Krejci’s nipple with his thumb and to capture his earlobe with his teeth was something comfortable, something familiar, something beautiful.
Wheeler’s cock was already stirring again.
He never thought watching two guys – his friends, his linemates – like this would set his pulse racing, get his fingers itching to touch, but here he was, and Wheeler wasn’t the kind of guy who passed up an opportunity.
Tentatively, he reached out and threaded his fingers through Krejci’s sweaty hair, then Sobotka’s. When his thumb rubbed along the nape of Sobotka’s neck, Sobotka moaned, and Wheeler could feel the vibrations both with that hand and with the hand in Krejci’s hair. It was incredible.
Krejci broke the kiss, turned to face Wheeler, and smiled. Wheeler’s own cheesy grin was soon matching it, and Sobotka laughed – at them? – but he was grinning, too.
“Bed?” Sobotka asked.
“Bed,” Krejci agreed.
“Chemistry,” said Wheeler, and he followed them.
::
Wheeler had no clue what he was doing, so he followed a blend of his instincts – It feels good when someone licks me there, so I’ll try it – and instructions in various degrees of English from Krejci and Sobotka – Kiss right there, yes, and Curl your fingers, and Tighter, please, yes, there – there. Then, somehow, Wheeler found himself – sheathed, slick cock in hand – ready to press himself into Sobotka with Krejci urging him “Yes, do it, yes,” and Sobotka, presumably, echoing those sentiments in Czech. Sobotka was like nothing Wheeler had ever seen or experienced or expected to experience: he lay there on his back, looking up at Wheeler, his pale skin flushed with desire, sticky with sweat, legs spread invitingly wide. Wheeler moved his hand over the pale curve of Sobotka’s ass, trailing his fingers up the soft skin of Sobotka’s inner thigh. Sobotka hooked one foot around Wheeler’s waist and began to curse him brokenly for “Tease, fuck” – and then he began to beg. Krejci’s urging became more insistent – and less coherent – as well. Wheeler looked over and found Krejci’s hand on his own cock, long fingers drawing out longer strokes, slender wrist twisting around his shaft as Wheeler had seen so many times with his hockey stick on the ice. Wheeler was never going to be able to watch Krejci stickhandle again.
Sobotka begged again, brokenly – “Wheels – please – need – fuck – now!” and Wheeler pushed in.
That first perfect slide, the incredible new sensation gripping him, had Wheeler wanting to grab Sobotka’s hips fiercely and pound him, thrust into him savagely and pull from Sobotka more begging and more sweet whining and more heat, but Krejci, to his side, grunted and warned, “Careful – ”
– just before Sobotka said “More! ” –
– and Wheeler reigned himself in, followed Krejci’s warning rather than Sobotka’s plea, slowed down, savored the slow thrust, let Sobotka adjust to him – despite Sobotka continuing to beg that he was ready, damnit – or somesuch in Czech. When Krejci said “OK, yeah yeah, now,” Wheeler dropped the reigns, grabbed Sobotka’s hips, and fucked him.
It was hot and tight and incredible, and Wheeler knew he was recycling his descriptions, but the bliss of it made each seem newly minted and he could’ve said “Oh my God this is awesome,” over and over again and each time it would have been newly true. Krejci slid his arm around Wheeler’s waist, gripping Wheeler’s hip, and, Wheeler supposed, used the contact to time the movements of his own hand on himself to Wheeler’s thrusts, lending extra heat to the proceedings.
Krejci came first, gasping, his spunk landing on Sobotka’s chest. He recovered quickly, though, and moved his still-slick hand to Sobotka’s cock to help. Wheeler kept pace, hips moving in smooth rhythm, Sobotka still begging in counterpoint to his thrusts, which – really – was incredibly hot. Then, and Wheeler probably shouldn’t’ve been surprised at this point, Krejci moved down to swallow Sobotka’s cock.
Wheeler couldn’t take his eyes off them if he’d wanted to – Sobotka’s cock disappearing into Krejci’s mouth, that full lower lip nudging over the head of that cock as Krejci pulled back to take a breath and to tease Sobotka with his tongue. When Krejci swallowed him down again, Sobotka screamed, and bucked his hips up, and the angle between Wheeler and Sobotka changed just enough, and Sobotka came, hard, whimpering in Czech. It was that, and the intimacy of the picture in front of him – Sobotka’s fingers threaded through Krejci’s hair – that pulled Wheeler over the edge into an orgasm no less profound than his first.
They lay there, together, and it was messy and sticky but no one made a move to get up. There were words cycling through Wheeler’s mind: spent, exhausted, overwhelmed, happy.
Wheeler spoke, quietly: “So that’s how you say ‘chemistry’ in Czech.”
Krejci snickered, and Wheeler listened in unlooked–for bliss as Krejci whispered in Czech, presumably to make sure Sobotka got the joke. Sobotka began to laugh, and only a beat passed before Krejci and Wheeler joined him, and the perfection of the new line was cemented.
It was always about chemistry.
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Date: 2009-02-20 02:41 am (UTC)no problem! i hope there is more where this came from. ;)
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Date: 2009-02-20 03:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 04:17 am (UTC)well i hope they reunite sometime again (on or off ice ;).
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Date: 2009-02-20 04:35 am (UTC)