Work Text:
He's in front of that door again. And, once again, Larkin isn't sure why. In fact, he doesn't even remember getting here. He snorts out a laugh and smacks his palm on the door. He's drunk. They won! He's so drunk. They carried Jack throughout the village; they got fucked up. Immediately after the game they were drinking, in the locker room.
Crosby opens the door. Last time, he seemed surprised. Tonight, however, he looks annoyed. Larkin sways and stumbles forward. Crosby hasn't lost any reaction time; he's quick to catch Larkin before he falls, scooping him up by the armpits. Larkin bursts into a fit of giggles.
"Okay, okay," Crosby murmurs, "You're gonna have to help me here. On your feet, bud."
Larkin digs his fingers into Crosby's shirt as he gets his feet back under him. They both struggle a few steps into the hotel room. The door swings shut behind Larkin. His shoes are still on. Awkwardly, Larkin presses his weight forward, into Crosby, to kick off his shoes.
"H-hey — hic — fuck," Larkin hiccups. He stands up straight. "Missed, missed you on the ice."
Crosby adjusts his grip and settles one hand on Larkin's hip. He runs the other through his own hair, mussing it up. Larkin squints for a second before trying to fix Crosby's hair for him. He earns a small smile for that before Crosby removes his hand.
"You're drunk, Larks," Crosby says flatly.
Larkin snorts, "Yeah."
"What are you doing here?"
"What um what…" Larkin trails off. Crosby leads him further into the room as he fumbles with his words. Crosby gets him on the couch and grabs him a bottle of water. "The couch."
"We're on the couch," Crosby nods, sitting next to him. He cracks open the water, handing it to Larkin.
"No, no, no. The thing with the couch last time," Larkin shakes his head. He takes a sip of the water.
"What about it?"
"What was it? You said, you said it — hic — it helps."
Crosby hums. He chuckles softly. Larkin's flush from the alcohol, the butterflies, and maybe still from the cold. He reaches for Crosby's hand.
"I like, I like hearing you laugh, Sid," he mumbles.
Crosby threads his fingers with Larkin's. Larkin takes another, deeper, swig of the water. He tries to shake off the intoxication. Fucking stupid idea to get so fucked up. A hand tips his face to the side. Crosby leads him into a slow, controlled kiss. He runs his tongue over Larkin's lips, but, as they part, Crosby pulls away.
"It's calming," he says quietly, running a hand through Larkin's hair. "Grounding."
Larkin nods. A few nights ago, that had been a weirdly relaxing night, despite everything. The TV had faded into a soft buzz; all he had to focus on were Crosby's fingers in his hair and breathing. They sit there, quietly, on the couch together. Crosby shifts. He still has a brace on, but it's one of those pull-on sleeve ones. Larkin leans back and breathes deeply. His brain is starting to come back online; he can feel a headache building already.
"Yeah," he agrees, finally, swallowing, "It was for me, um, for me too." Crosby hums again. Larkin takes another drink before continuing, "Like my brain shut off."
"You won," Crosby murmurs. His breath is hot on Larkin's skin. Between wet kisses along his neck, Crosby purrs, "But I still think you need help."
Larkin gasps, "Yeah, fuck. Fuck, I need help, Sid."
Crosby's hand trails down Larkin's chest and grinds the heel of his palm into his crotch. Larkin groans and twists around. His eyes flick down; Crosby's tenting in his underwear. Larkin bites his lip and tries climbing into Crosby's lap, only to be stopped by a tight grip in his hair. He lets out a sharp whine.
"Sid," he pleads.
"There's only one way I'm helping you tonight," Crosby says. He stands, pulling Larkin with him.
"Yeah?"
"You're gonna be good and listen to me, aren't you Dylan?"
Larkin nods, "I'll be so good, Sid."
"'Cause I'm gonna help you," Crosby purrs. He slides his hands up Larkin's shirt, pulling it off.
Larkin tugs on the waistband of Crosby's boxers. He whines, "Please, Sid."
Crosby shucks them off with a grin, cock bobbing out stiff and proud. He discards his shirt, digs out a few things from his bag, settles against the headboard, then beckons Larkin forward. Larkin isn't exactly sure what he's missing, but he removes his pants and crawls toward Crosby.
"No underwear again, hmm? Is this like a recurring thing?" Crosby laughs.
"Just when you're involved," Larkin says; his cheeks are pink again.
"Need my help that bad?"
Crosby pulls him close, forcing his tongue into Larkin's mouth. Larkin moans and drags his rough hands down Crosby's chest. He rolls his hips, rubbing their cocks together, eliciting groans from both of them. Crosby grabs his hip, slowing him down. He keeps a tight grip on Larkin. With devastating control, Crosby takes both of their dicks in the other hand and takes his time with steady, even strokes.
"Faster," Larkin pants, "C'mon, please?"
"Wasn't the deal," Crosby mumbles. "Sit back. You've got two good knees."
Larkin whines and buries his face in Crosby's neck. He licks and drags his teeth along the skin but sits up after a moment. He wants to be good; he's gonna be so good. Under Crosby's instruction, they rearrange things. Pillows are stacked under Crosby's hips, he keeps his knee bent, a condom's rolled down Larkin's length.
"I uh thought um." He fumbles and goes bright again. The implication was that he'd be getting fucked, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't looking forward to it.
"Change of plans," Crosby says simply.
"You need two knees to — oh, yeah. I guess." Larkin looks down at himself. He's kneeling. "I could probably uh well, I could be on top. Of you."
Crosby raises an eyebrow at him. His eyes narrow as he grins. It's that predatory look Larkin's gotten out of him a few times before already. Larkin swallows as he runs his hands up and down Crosby's calves.
"Next time," Crosby promises. He sits up and runs his hands through Larkin's hair again. His mouth ghosts over Larkin's. When Larkin chases, desperate for a kiss, Crosby tightens his grip, firmly holding Larkin's head still. Voice low, Crosby continues, "Tonight, you're gonna be good, right?"
With a wince, Larkin promises, "I'll be so good. Every time."
Crosby pats his face. "I know you will be. Now, sit back. Hands on your thighs and don't move."
His tone is getting syrupy again. Larkin isn't sure why he has to sit the way he does, or why he isn't supposed to move, until it's too late. Crosby slicks up two of his own fingers and plunges them into himself. He tips his head back and moans, loud. Wide eyed, Larkin's nails scrape up his own thighs. He bites his lip to force himself to stay still. Crosby occasionally stops to add more lube or move his leg. And Larkin? He stays rooted to his spot in the bed; his eyes transfixed on Crosby. There are still too many places to look. The flush across his face, his plush kiss‐bitten lips, half closed eyes, his fingers disappearing into a hole that Larkin is dying to get into.
It feels like an eternity until Larkin finally finds his voice. "Sid, please. I need —"
"Yeah?" Crosby grunts.
"Help. Fuck, Sid. I need you."
Crosby spreads his legs and motions for Larkin to come closer. "Show me how good you are."
Almost too eager, Larkin closes the distance between them. He pushes against a thigh, making more room for himself. Hurriedly, he sinks his teeth into Crosby's lip. A calloused hand, Crosby's, gets between them, gripping Larkin and guiding him until his head pops in past Crosby's rim.
"Fuck," Larkin gasps.
"Christ," Crosby sighs.
Larkin licks along his jaw as he rocks his hips back and forth. One of Crosby's heels presses harshly into his back; fingers dig into his hip, pulling him closer. There'll be bruises tomorrow. Larkin plunges his own fingers through Crosby's hair. It's soft; he kind of expected that though. He keeps his touch gentle. Crosby's already injured.
"Faster," Crosby orders. Larkin complies. He rests on his elbows, boxing Crosby's head in. They share the same wet air as they pant against each other's skin. Crosby moves his hips. With the next thrust, his nails rake down Larkin's back and he practically howls. "Fuck, right there. Good boy."
"Shit," Larkin pants.
He pistons his hips, hitting that same spot. Larkin pushes himself up to get a hand between them and around Crosby's dick. It had been left, leaking and unattended, for too long. Larkin wants to hold on until Crosby finishes first, but everything is hot, tight, and fuzzy. It's too much and not enough all at the same time. He's trying to be good; he really is. But it isn't long before he fills up the condom.
"Fuck, Christ. Sid," he mutters, dropping his forehead to Crosby's chest. "I'm sorry."
A gentle hand runs through his sweaty hair as Crosby cooes, "Why? You did so well."
Larkin doesn't feel like he's done well. That's the problem. Ten or twenty minutes ago, he was on top of the world. Gold medal Olympian. Thirty seconds ago, he was buried balls deep in Sidney Crosby. Now? Now, he's still a gold medalist. But he's finished and Crosby isn't.
Larkin's sweaty. They're both sweaty. He licks at some of the sweat on Crosby's chest. That elicits a sigh from him. Enthused, Larkin starts kissing down. He takes Crosby's dick back in hand and strokes slowly. Larkin runs his tongue around his mouth, over his teeth, and licks his lips. He hasn't done this before. Well, not that he can remember anyway. He inhales sharply and swirls his tongue around the head of Crosby's cock.
"Mmm, Dylan," Crosby hums, "Good. Good boy."
Larkin heart flutters, and he moans in response. Crosby's a mouthful; Larkin isn't sure how much he can fit. He doesn't really have much of a choice as the hand in his hair tightens, and Crosby starts to move his head up and down.
"Relax your jaw for me. Just like that. Good job, honey."
Spit drips down his chin. Larkin strokes Crosby's thigh with a hum. He relaxes, content to be used as Crosby's hips carefully shift. Larkin's nostrils flare; he gags. But he doesn't move. He really wants to be good. That's what he focuses on until Crosby pulls him off. Larkin coughs and sputters as warm spend drips down his face and down his throat.
The same gentle hand from earlier runs through his hair. "Good boy," Crosby praises. "So good for me."