Pronfest 2008; Day Six: Come On, Baby...Light My Fire
Title: Come On, Baby...Light My Fire
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Thomas Vanek/Ryan Miller (Buffalo Sabres)
Disclaimer: Real? Ha. Mine? Ha-ha.
Day Six: Come On, Baby…Light My Fire
You watch him seated on the bench, chatting away in rapid-fire German with Jochen, a bright grin on his face. It’s one of those things you’ll never share with him, no matter how close you two get. You may share his videogames and his taste in cars and his bed at night, but you will never share that native tongue, that tongue he thinks in, curses in, mumbles in his sleep.
German feels thick and heavy in your ears, and you wonder how it feels in his mouth. Is it harsh and hard, all jutting angles and stabbing ends (like when he’s mad at himself)? Or is it smooth and soft, stroking and caressing (like when he’s making love to you)? Does it taste like home? Or is it starting to feel strange, feel odd, changing beneath his feet?
Watching them speak, you wonder what it would feel like to kiss him right now. Could you feel the German on his lips? Could you taste the rasping, biting consonants on his tongue? Would the words he speaks curl around you like his hands, strong and possessive, determined and controlling?
Oh, you do hope so.
Before you know what you’re doing, you stand up, cross the room, and stop directly in front of your Austrian lover. He stops in the middle of a word-Mannschaft-something-and looks up at you, so trusting and beautiful. Curling your fingers in that long hair, you bring your lips together, kissing him hungrily.
The Mannschaft-whatever drifts to your tongue, tasting of Thomas and spaetzle and some cold country far away. Then his hands are cupping your face, warm as the fires that burn in his heart, holding you to him as he kisses you hungrily.
Distantly, you hear Jochen leaving. Good, good. Whatever. As long as Thomas keeps his hands on you, his lips on yours, his tongue in your mouth. As long as you can feel his soft, messy curls on your face, and the warmth of his skin against yours. As long as Thomas is here, now.
“Lass uns nach Hause gehen,” Thomas murmurs against your mouth, German thick and rich like chocolate.
You shiver in delight. “Home sounds good,” you reply, answering with the only word of the question that you successfully caught. You’re much better at curses and endearments. It’s not as if Thomas speaks of home in the midst of orgasm. He calls you pet-names, calls you beautiful, praises your charms.
It’s why you love him. Thomas does more for your ego than any NHL contract, more than any phonecall from your mother ever could. In just a few minutes, he has you convinced that you hung the stars and the moon, that it’s because of you the world turns. Some days (most days, really) it is the one thing in life you need.
“Liebe dich, liebe dich, liebe dich, mein Schatzi, mein Süβer,” Thomas coos in your ear, holding you tight as you both move-slowly, oh-so-slowly-towards the parking lot. “Du bist die groβe Liebe meines Lebens.”
You lean into his embrace as he kisses the place where your shoulder and neck become one, nudging your shirt aside with his nose. His arms are wrapped around your hips, holding you close against him, long fingers stroking over your abs.
Oh, those abs, the visible sign of your insecurity! Only someone like Thomas (with those thick German words and those dreamy bedroom eyes and that soft Thomas smile) would notice them, would force you off the treadmill and the bike and the stairmaster. Only he could tempt you away from the crunches and the squats and the push-ups and all those little things that used to be a major part of your day.
“Küss mich, Süβer,” he murmurs against your throat, pushing you back against your beloved car.
Willingly, oh-so-willingly, you do as he’s requested. There, another German phrase you know, one you’ve memorized and made a part of you. Küss mich. Umarm mich. Lieb mich. Things you’re more than willing to do, to make a part of your new routine-the one that includes sleeping late, having sex instead of doing crunches for hours, cuddling on the couch instead of running laps, and eating ice cream as he feeds it to you.
He breaks the kiss, brushing your hair out of your eyes, tucking it behind one ear, smiling that mysterious Mona-Lisa-smile. “Ich liebe dich, Süβer,” he whispers to you.
You shiver again, breath coming faster and faster. Good god, but you never thought you’d find German this big a turn-on. You can feel yourself growing hard beneath his close-pressed body, your own body rejoicing in your revelation. His secret language (but not secret from Jochen, oh, no, only secret from you) curls around you, dominating and soothing in one.
“Willst du mich?” he asks, eyes dancing, one hand sweeping down to cup you through your jeans. “Hmmm?”
“God, Thomas,” you moan, eyes falling shut, body arching into his touch. Forget understanding his language. Let him keep his secrets. Just let him keep those hands on you, that smile in his eyes, that smooth caress of a voice curling around you!
“Du willst mich,” he murmurs, smarmy and damn but you don’t care. “Und ich will dich…mmmm…ich liebe dich, ich liebe dich.”
“Thomas…” you plead, clinging to his shoulders, opening your eyes to meet his. “Please, love…”
“Shhh,” he whispers, pressing a finger to your lips. Quickly, he leans in and kisses you, then draws the keys out from your pocket. “Lass uns gehen.”
Whatever he’s saying, it sounds good. Somewhere other than this parking lot. Somewhere private. Somewhere warm. Your bedroom. Your bed. With his pillows and your sheets and the teddy bear he gave you as a joke and the stuffed dog he got in return.
Somewhere where you can both take your time, like you deserve.
The drive to your house takes no time whatsoever, except that it seems to take an eternity. Thomas turns on the radio, and you try to resist the urge to sing along with Justin Timberlake. It’s not hard, all told, considering that you are. And he’s right beside you, looking as good as ever, serene and calm and fucking hard as a rock.
Fuck, you knew Thomas could be a cock-tease, but Christ…
“Home!” you breathe as he pulls in to your driveway. Oh, gods be thanked… In seconds, you’re out of the car, racing him for the front door. He’s got the keys still, of course, but he’s got you both in the house in a matter of seconds. And then he’s pushing you towards the bedroom, one hand on your ass, the other planted firmly on your chest, your lips locked.
The bedroom door flies open with a crash. Breathlessly breaking the kiss, Thomas wiggles his eyebrows at you. You would laugh, were you not so desperate to feel him against you right fucking now.
“Shh, shh, Liebe,” he chuckles, working on your belt as he speaks. As soon as he’s got it undone, he starts yanking it out of its loops with one hand, the other pushing your shirt up. He pays no attention to what he’s doing as he starts working on your fly, too busy kissing the trail of hair leading down into your boxers.
Groaning, you bury your hands in his soft hair. His messy curls tangle around your fingers, keeping them there, the same way his hands are keeping your hips still as he traces random patterns on your skin with his tongue. You’re whimpering, pleading, crying out needily.
Thomas merely smiles beatifically (well, as beatifically as he can, mouth rather occupied at the moment, now sucking on your hip bones) and starts to tug your pants down. Then they’re down, and your boxers with them, and he drops completely to his knees, bracing your hips with his hands, and taking you into his mouth.
His mouth is hot and wet, and his tongue must have trained with the devil himself. You tighten your fingers in his hair, distantly recalling that he doesn’t mind, that he likes it. He’s teasing you, kissing your cock slowly, then mapping it out slowly with his tongue, taking his time. Tasting you, feeling you, understanding you.
And when he’s got you so close to the edge that you’re crying, that tears are literally starting to leak from your eyes, to drip down your cheeks, every muscle in your body trembling violently, he pulls back slowly. Settling on his haunches, he looks up at you, eyes dark and trusting, hands still bracing your hips.
When he’s got your attention fixed squarely on him, he smiles softly and says, “I love you, Ryan Miller.”
And your mind explodes in a burst of fire.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Thomas Vanek/Ryan Miller (Buffalo Sabres)
Disclaimer: Real? Ha. Mine? Ha-ha.
Day Six: Come On, Baby…Light My Fire
You watch him seated on the bench, chatting away in rapid-fire German with Jochen, a bright grin on his face. It’s one of those things you’ll never share with him, no matter how close you two get. You may share his videogames and his taste in cars and his bed at night, but you will never share that native tongue, that tongue he thinks in, curses in, mumbles in his sleep.
German feels thick and heavy in your ears, and you wonder how it feels in his mouth. Is it harsh and hard, all jutting angles and stabbing ends (like when he’s mad at himself)? Or is it smooth and soft, stroking and caressing (like when he’s making love to you)? Does it taste like home? Or is it starting to feel strange, feel odd, changing beneath his feet?
Watching them speak, you wonder what it would feel like to kiss him right now. Could you feel the German on his lips? Could you taste the rasping, biting consonants on his tongue? Would the words he speaks curl around you like his hands, strong and possessive, determined and controlling?
Oh, you do hope so.
Before you know what you’re doing, you stand up, cross the room, and stop directly in front of your Austrian lover. He stops in the middle of a word-Mannschaft-something-and looks up at you, so trusting and beautiful. Curling your fingers in that long hair, you bring your lips together, kissing him hungrily.
The Mannschaft-whatever drifts to your tongue, tasting of Thomas and spaetzle and some cold country far away. Then his hands are cupping your face, warm as the fires that burn in his heart, holding you to him as he kisses you hungrily.
Distantly, you hear Jochen leaving. Good, good. Whatever. As long as Thomas keeps his hands on you, his lips on yours, his tongue in your mouth. As long as you can feel his soft, messy curls on your face, and the warmth of his skin against yours. As long as Thomas is here, now.
“Lass uns nach Hause gehen,” Thomas murmurs against your mouth, German thick and rich like chocolate.
You shiver in delight. “Home sounds good,” you reply, answering with the only word of the question that you successfully caught. You’re much better at curses and endearments. It’s not as if Thomas speaks of home in the midst of orgasm. He calls you pet-names, calls you beautiful, praises your charms.
It’s why you love him. Thomas does more for your ego than any NHL contract, more than any phonecall from your mother ever could. In just a few minutes, he has you convinced that you hung the stars and the moon, that it’s because of you the world turns. Some days (most days, really) it is the one thing in life you need.
“Liebe dich, liebe dich, liebe dich, mein Schatzi, mein Süβer,” Thomas coos in your ear, holding you tight as you both move-slowly, oh-so-slowly-towards the parking lot. “Du bist die groβe Liebe meines Lebens.”
You lean into his embrace as he kisses the place where your shoulder and neck become one, nudging your shirt aside with his nose. His arms are wrapped around your hips, holding you close against him, long fingers stroking over your abs.
Oh, those abs, the visible sign of your insecurity! Only someone like Thomas (with those thick German words and those dreamy bedroom eyes and that soft Thomas smile) would notice them, would force you off the treadmill and the bike and the stairmaster. Only he could tempt you away from the crunches and the squats and the push-ups and all those little things that used to be a major part of your day.
“Küss mich, Süβer,” he murmurs against your throat, pushing you back against your beloved car.
Willingly, oh-so-willingly, you do as he’s requested. There, another German phrase you know, one you’ve memorized and made a part of you. Küss mich. Umarm mich. Lieb mich. Things you’re more than willing to do, to make a part of your new routine-the one that includes sleeping late, having sex instead of doing crunches for hours, cuddling on the couch instead of running laps, and eating ice cream as he feeds it to you.
He breaks the kiss, brushing your hair out of your eyes, tucking it behind one ear, smiling that mysterious Mona-Lisa-smile. “Ich liebe dich, Süβer,” he whispers to you.
You shiver again, breath coming faster and faster. Good god, but you never thought you’d find German this big a turn-on. You can feel yourself growing hard beneath his close-pressed body, your own body rejoicing in your revelation. His secret language (but not secret from Jochen, oh, no, only secret from you) curls around you, dominating and soothing in one.
“Willst du mich?” he asks, eyes dancing, one hand sweeping down to cup you through your jeans. “Hmmm?”
“God, Thomas,” you moan, eyes falling shut, body arching into his touch. Forget understanding his language. Let him keep his secrets. Just let him keep those hands on you, that smile in his eyes, that smooth caress of a voice curling around you!
“Du willst mich,” he murmurs, smarmy and damn but you don’t care. “Und ich will dich…mmmm…ich liebe dich, ich liebe dich.”
“Thomas…” you plead, clinging to his shoulders, opening your eyes to meet his. “Please, love…”
“Shhh,” he whispers, pressing a finger to your lips. Quickly, he leans in and kisses you, then draws the keys out from your pocket. “Lass uns gehen.”
Whatever he’s saying, it sounds good. Somewhere other than this parking lot. Somewhere private. Somewhere warm. Your bedroom. Your bed. With his pillows and your sheets and the teddy bear he gave you as a joke and the stuffed dog he got in return.
Somewhere where you can both take your time, like you deserve.
The drive to your house takes no time whatsoever, except that it seems to take an eternity. Thomas turns on the radio, and you try to resist the urge to sing along with Justin Timberlake. It’s not hard, all told, considering that you are. And he’s right beside you, looking as good as ever, serene and calm and fucking hard as a rock.
Fuck, you knew Thomas could be a cock-tease, but Christ…
“Home!” you breathe as he pulls in to your driveway. Oh, gods be thanked… In seconds, you’re out of the car, racing him for the front door. He’s got the keys still, of course, but he’s got you both in the house in a matter of seconds. And then he’s pushing you towards the bedroom, one hand on your ass, the other planted firmly on your chest, your lips locked.
The bedroom door flies open with a crash. Breathlessly breaking the kiss, Thomas wiggles his eyebrows at you. You would laugh, were you not so desperate to feel him against you right fucking now.
“Shh, shh, Liebe,” he chuckles, working on your belt as he speaks. As soon as he’s got it undone, he starts yanking it out of its loops with one hand, the other pushing your shirt up. He pays no attention to what he’s doing as he starts working on your fly, too busy kissing the trail of hair leading down into your boxers.
Groaning, you bury your hands in his soft hair. His messy curls tangle around your fingers, keeping them there, the same way his hands are keeping your hips still as he traces random patterns on your skin with his tongue. You’re whimpering, pleading, crying out needily.
Thomas merely smiles beatifically (well, as beatifically as he can, mouth rather occupied at the moment, now sucking on your hip bones) and starts to tug your pants down. Then they’re down, and your boxers with them, and he drops completely to his knees, bracing your hips with his hands, and taking you into his mouth.
His mouth is hot and wet, and his tongue must have trained with the devil himself. You tighten your fingers in his hair, distantly recalling that he doesn’t mind, that he likes it. He’s teasing you, kissing your cock slowly, then mapping it out slowly with his tongue, taking his time. Tasting you, feeling you, understanding you.
And when he’s got you so close to the edge that you’re crying, that tears are literally starting to leak from your eyes, to drip down your cheeks, every muscle in your body trembling violently, he pulls back slowly. Settling on his haunches, he looks up at you, eyes dark and trusting, hands still bracing your hips.
When he’s got your attention fixed squarely on him, he smiles softly and says, “I love you, Ryan Miller.”
And your mind explodes in a burst of fire.