Avery/Brodeur -- Absolute Zero
Title: Absolute Zero (Is Warmer Than Our Relationship)
Pairing: Sean Avery/Martin Brodeur
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sean Avery doesn't do slow, sappy, and tender. Thankfully, neither does Martin Brodeur.
A/N: This is for galaxysong9, as part of the happyhockeydays fic exchange -- hopefully it somewhat resembles the prompt. I kind of veered a little, lol...
**************
It takes a few knocks--and a kick or two--to get Brodeur to finally answer the door. Avery's bored with waiting by then, staring at the brass numbers on the door, transfixed by the way the too-bright hallway lights reflect off the '325' secured to the polished wood. It actually startles him a little when the door swings open.
Brodeur's on the other side of the threshold, looking entirely too attractive in his slouchy jeans and dark T-shirt.
"What took so fucking long?" Avery snipes. He'd been thinking maybe Brodeur was in the shower or something, but the dry hair and lack of nakedness dispels that theory pretty neatly.
"Couldn't hear you," Brodeur tells him coolly, raising an eyebrow in challenge. It's pretty obvious he's waiting to see if Avery'll call him on it--hotel walls are generally paper thin, and it's pretty much impossible not to hear when somebody's kicking the living hell out of your door, so if he didn't hear Avery, it was because he didn't want to hear Avery.
Avery opens his mouth to say something bitchy, but thinks better of it. He can say whatever the fuck he wants once their clothes start coming off, but before then, no. Brodeur doesn't put out when he's pissed off; well, past a certain point anyway.
He strolls into the hotel room like he owns it. He glances around, taking in the empty beer cans surrounding the trash can like some kind of crooked aluminum halo, the empty pizza boxes stacked next to the TV, the clothes scattered over the floor. He wrinkles his nose but, cleanliness critiquing aside, he's relieved to find they're alone.
"Where's the roomie?" he asks, not out of any real desire for conversation. He's just covering all the bases--jumping Brodeur while his roommate's still there probably isn't the greatest idea.
"Gone," Brodeur answers curtly, elbowing the door shut with a sharp 'click'. He doesn't even get the chance to turn around before Avery's pouncing on him, smashing their lips together with deliberate harshness as he crowds closer. His hands slide greedily over the goalie's torso, and they clash for a moment, hot spit and sharp teeth and roving tongues.
A monumental battle of wills takes place, both struggling for control. Avery, of course, has no scruples against playing dirty, and bites down on the end of Brodeur's tongue. It earns him a startled jerk and a vehement, "Fuck," spoken against his lips, but he gets what he wants--the chance to devour Brodeur's mouth with reckless abandon.
They stumble backwards, further into the room. Brodeur steers them towards the bed, but Avery has something else in mind; grabbing hold of Brodeur's shoulders, he shoves the bigger man against the wall. Or tries to, at least. Brodeur's a lot bigger than him, and he's not the kind of guy that likes being pushed around. It takes some serious effort--and maybe even a little acquiescence on Brodeur's part (he's got a pretty good idea where this is going...)--to get his back flush with the wall.
Still, the fact that Brodeur's the Goliath to his David doesn't stop him from saying whatever the fuck he feels like.
"Bet this is familiar, huh?" he breaths cruelly against Brodeur's neck, sucking hard on a patch of skin just below the goalie's ear. "Then again, maybe not... pay-by-the-hours aren't exactly known for their decor, are they?"
It's a low blow, bringing that up, but getting people where it hurts is one of Avery's specialties. Even so, he can't help but wonder if he's gone a little too far this time as Brodeur's face darkens, his hands balling into fists and body going stiff. For a second it seems like he's going to shove the smaller man off and put his considerable size advantage to use--break his nose, maybe, or shove him back against the door and pummel him until he's a bloody mess--but before he can, Avery drops to his knees. He does it in one fluid motion, his hands going to the fastenings on Brodeur's jeans, and the only thing Brodeur can manage as Avery's hot mouth engulfs him is a strained, "Fuck you, Avery." Even that lacks most of its usual bite.
Avery mumbles something around Brodeur's cock. It comes out nothing like it's meant to, but Brodeur gets the general gist anyway. He briefly considers asking him whether his mother ever told him not to talk with his mouth full, but then the younger man does something wicked with his tongue, and suddenly he forgets how to talk or breath or do anything except moan like some kind of wanton whore.
The next five or so minutes continue along the same lines, with Avery putting to use every trick he knows (and probably some he's just making up as he goes). Brodeur, on the other hand, is bracing himself against the wall and drinking in the sensations, thighs rock hard with tension as he struggles to keep himself under control.
In a last ditch effort Avery starts humming, and Brodeur throws his head back, his hips bucking involuntarily. A strangled groan passes his lips, low and gravelly and quite possibly the most erotic thing Avery's ever heard (which is saying a lot).
Of course, that's when the harsh creak of swinging hinges reaches their ears, and the fantastic blow job-induced bliss he's feeling is abruptly washed away by a surge of sheer, blinding panic. He spits something in startled French and makes a desperate grab for his jeans, and Avery jerks back, mouth spit-shiny and swollen, as he tries to yank them back up his legs.
Too late.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Patrik Elias exclaims, turning away and slapping a hand over his eyes, like that's somehow going to erase the image of Avery on his knees, sucking Brodeur's cock, from his mind. He grabs for the edge of the door frame with the other, mindless towards the fate of the key card he's holding as it drops to the floor.
"What the fuck?" Brodeur yelps at him, fumble-fingered as he struggles with the simple task of getting his jeans over his hips. "Don't you know how to knock?"
"Of course I know how to knock! I knocked three fucking times," Patrik shoots back defensively.
"Like hell you did," Brodeur snaps. He glances down at Avery, realizes he's still cradling the back of the smaller man's head with his hand, and yanks it back like he's been burned. It's a little too gentle and loving for his tastes.
"Okay, maybe it was only once, but still! Fuck, Marty, you think I wanted the image of Avery sucking your cock burned in my mind for the rest of my life? Hell no!" He shudders exaggeratedly to illustrate his point. Apparently deciding he's given Brodeur enough time, he turns around, one hand still raised to cover his eyes. Avery can't hold back a snort when he sees that Patrik's looking through the gaps between his fingers.
"Fuck you, Pat. You've seen my cock plenty of times before, so quit your bitching about how you're going to need therapy." His eyes narrow suspiciously. "Where the hell did you get my room key, anyway?"
"That's not important..." he starts to say, but Brodeur shoots him a murderous look, demanding elaboration.
Patrik sighs, glancing at Avery, and admits, face burning, "I came to see if you wanted to watch Finding Nemo with us."
Brodeur opens his mouth to say something, but Avery beats him to it. "Yeah, that's real sweet of you," he says. "Now, can you get the hell out? We're kinda in the middle of something here."
Patrik holds his hands up in mock surrender, despite bristling a little at the smaller man's decidedly unfriendly tone. "Jesus, Avery. No need to get snippy," he gripes, but save for that, a narrow-eyed parting glare, and a bitingly sarcastic, "Have fun, Marty," he declines to comment. He slams the door on his way out.
"Right. Where were we?" Avery sighs, turning back to face Brodeur's crotch.
"You were about to blow me," Brodeur supplies helpfully, shooting the noticeably large bulge in the front of his still unzipped jeans a significant look.
He reaches out and twines his fingers through Avery's too-short hair. "You should grow your hair out. Y'know, give me something to pull on..." He tugs none-too-gently, a rather blunt signal that he's getting impatient.
"How about not?" Avery snorts, jerking Brodeur's jeans back down to his knees. He curls his hands around the backs of Brodeur's thighs and drags his fingernails across the skin sharply.
Brodeur tightens his grip in retaliation, drawing a wince. "Get a move on down there."
Avery flicks his tongue over a patch of skin just below the goalie's naval in response. He ghosts a breath across the saliva-wet skin, eliciting a full-body shudder.
Of course, right after that he leans back on his heels and smirks up at Brodeur, smug and completely unrepentant. Brodeur glares down at him, making a frustrated noise at the back of his throat.
The expression on Avery's face can't be called anything except wicked as he murmurs mockingly, "I know you want me, Brodie, but you don't have to be such a whore about it."
"Fuck you, Avery."
"Is that a promise?" Still with the mocking tone, and Brodeur's getting pretty sick of it. A predatory glint enters his eyes as he cups the back of Avery's head with his hand and yanks him forward, shoving that sly, viciously sarcastic mouth against his cock. Avery retaliates by nipping--hard--at the inside of his thigh, and Brodeur lets him go in a hurry, concerned for the safety of certain precious parts of his anatomy.
That concern doesn't seem to extend to the rest of him, however, as he grabs Avery by his biceps and jerks him to his feet. Avery stumbles a little with the sudden movement, and Brodeur pushes his advantage, steering him farther into the room, towards the bed. It happens with blinding swiftness--not surprising, since Brodeur's got to have some of the fastest reflexes in the league--and Avery doesn't totally realize what's going on until he feels the edge of the bed slamming into his knees and the breath-stealing force with which he's shoved onto his back.
Brodeur's on him in an instant, pressing him into the mattress, which squeaks in protest under their combined weight. Avery might not be a Zdeno Chara look-a-like, but he's far from petite, and there's a reason Brodeur's been the subject of so many fat jokes.
Brodeur's knees settle on either side of him, bracketing his hips. Avery can't help but buck up against the heavy warmth of the goalie's body, and even as he does, he knows it's useless. The only way he's getting off now is if Brodeur lets him, and after earlier--after the total lack of mercy he'd shown, even while he was on the one on his knees, submitting--he seriously doubts that's going to happen.
Brodeur flips him over onto his stomach--there's no fucking way they're doing this face-to-face--and then all of a sudden he's gone. Avery keeps his face buried in one of the pillows as he listens to Brodeur pad around somewhere off to his left, where his duffel bag is crammed into the scant space between the wall and the bed. There's the vaguely metallic hiss of a zipper, a few seconds of rummaging, and then the muted 'snick' of a cap being opened.
When he comes back, Brodeur settles himself directly behind the smaller man, between his knees. Avery can't see or feel him, with the exception of the sudden dip of the mattress, but he knows he's there, what he's about to do.
There's nothing gentle about Brodeur's grip on Avery's thighs as he spreads them. They're hockey thighs; Brodeur can feel solid, toned muscle shift under the smooth skin with every movement. Avery might be an sarcastic little bastard, but there's no denying the fact that he takes good care of his body (if you don't count the numerous beatings he provokes other players into inflicting on him, that is).
There's also nothing gentle about the the fingers that are pressed into Avery, stretching him. There's lube--a lot of it, even--but that doesn't do a damn thing for the burn, or the rough way Brodeur jams his fingers inside and scissors them, more intent on his own pleasure--the kind that can only be earned by, in Brodeur's way of thinking, payback, and in Avery's, cruelty--than that of the man underneath him.
Finally, he removes his fingers and wipes them on the sheets--which would normally gross him out, but they're in a fucking hotel, it's not like they're his own personal sheets--lines up, and the real fun begins.
Brodeur sinks into him one agonizing inch at a time. Avery has to bite down on the pillow to keep from snarling at him--"Just hurry the fuck up, I'm not gonna break." He knows that'll just make things worse. Brodeur'll go even more slowly then, if for no other reason than to torment him.
The big-bodied goalie pauses, only about halfway in, and thrusts shallowly, earning a bitten-off groan. Avery spreads his thighs a little further in an effort to get Brodeur to fucking move. It's totally ineffectual, of course, and Avery can't do anything but grit his teeth as Brodeur continues to toy with him. He can't help but think he'll go insane if Brodeur doesn't quit it with the slow, teasing thrusts.
Brodeur quickly tires of the slow approach, though, and he speeds up as pleasure overrides his desire to give Avery a dose of his own medicine. The smaller of the two grabs at the sheets, clenching his fists so tight that the blood leeches from his knuckles. The familiar, coppery tang of blood floods Avery's mouth as he bites through his lip--already bearing plenty of scars--to keep from whimpering and whining like an injured animal.
It doesn't take long for Brodeur to work himself into a frenzy, pounding into the man beneath him with reckless abandon. Even in his wild state he's hitting Avery's prostate almost every time, though, and climax hits them both hard; Brodeur first, and then Avery. They both collapse, panting harshly, as the warm, sticky sensation of release overcomes them.
Avery doesn't stick around long afterwards. He grabs his clothes off the floor--he finds everything after a bit of hunting, even the errant sock that somehow wound up underneath Roomie's bed during the I'm-going-to-tear-your-clothes-off-and-fling-them-wherever-the-fuck-I-want stage--and wanders towards the bathroom, knowing he needs to clean up before he can go out in public. He takes his time, walking with the swaggering confidence of someone entirely comfortable in his own body.
Brodeur stretches out on the bed, lounging there with a lazy, sated smugness that's only ever seen post-coital. He tugs the sheets up just high enough to cover the important bits, then watches through half-closed eyes as Avery scours the room for his clothes. He grudgingly admires the flex and give of the loud-mouthed forward's muscles, especially when Avery leans over to snatch his boxers from underneath the table on his way over to the bathroom. His sex drive isn't quite as insatiable as it'd been back in his twenties, though, and even the sight of Avery's ass, the backs of his thighs still streaked with come, can't coax any interest out of his cock.
By the time Avery exits the tiny hotel bathroom twenty minutes later, freshly showered, come-free, and with his clothes back on and in some semblance of order, Brodeur's out cold, snoring into his pillow. Avery shakes his head incredulously--he knows from previous experience that Brodeur's the kind of guy that likes to nap after sex, but this is ridiculous; he couldn't even wait until Avery's gone?--but decides against waking him up.
Instead, he grabs Brodeur's phone off the nightstand and opens up a text window, typing out a quick message. He leaves the phone open afterwards, sliding it into Brodeur's hand and curling his sleep-pliant fingers around it. Maybe if Brodeur sees his 'This weekend, my place, bring lots of booze,' he won't have to wait until the next Devils-Rangers game for another rendezvous.
He slips out into the hall and heads for the elevator. He's still feeling the burn, so stairs probably aren't a good idea right about now. Walking by one of the rooms--the door's propped open by one of the hotel-issued Do Not Disturb signs in lieu of anything better, probably so nobody gets locked out in the hallway--he swears he can hear faint strains of the "Car Wash" song, accompanied by a large number of distinctly male, adult voices.
Huh--they really are watching Finding Nemo...
Pairing: Sean Avery/Martin Brodeur
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sean Avery doesn't do slow, sappy, and tender. Thankfully, neither does Martin Brodeur.
A/N: This is for galaxysong9, as part of the happyhockeydays fic exchange -- hopefully it somewhat resembles the prompt. I kind of veered a little, lol...
**************
It takes a few knocks--and a kick or two--to get Brodeur to finally answer the door. Avery's bored with waiting by then, staring at the brass numbers on the door, transfixed by the way the too-bright hallway lights reflect off the '325' secured to the polished wood. It actually startles him a little when the door swings open.
Brodeur's on the other side of the threshold, looking entirely too attractive in his slouchy jeans and dark T-shirt.
"What took so fucking long?" Avery snipes. He'd been thinking maybe Brodeur was in the shower or something, but the dry hair and lack of nakedness dispels that theory pretty neatly.
"Couldn't hear you," Brodeur tells him coolly, raising an eyebrow in challenge. It's pretty obvious he's waiting to see if Avery'll call him on it--hotel walls are generally paper thin, and it's pretty much impossible not to hear when somebody's kicking the living hell out of your door, so if he didn't hear Avery, it was because he didn't want to hear Avery.
Avery opens his mouth to say something bitchy, but thinks better of it. He can say whatever the fuck he wants once their clothes start coming off, but before then, no. Brodeur doesn't put out when he's pissed off; well, past a certain point anyway.
He strolls into the hotel room like he owns it. He glances around, taking in the empty beer cans surrounding the trash can like some kind of crooked aluminum halo, the empty pizza boxes stacked next to the TV, the clothes scattered over the floor. He wrinkles his nose but, cleanliness critiquing aside, he's relieved to find they're alone.
"Where's the roomie?" he asks, not out of any real desire for conversation. He's just covering all the bases--jumping Brodeur while his roommate's still there probably isn't the greatest idea.
"Gone," Brodeur answers curtly, elbowing the door shut with a sharp 'click'. He doesn't even get the chance to turn around before Avery's pouncing on him, smashing their lips together with deliberate harshness as he crowds closer. His hands slide greedily over the goalie's torso, and they clash for a moment, hot spit and sharp teeth and roving tongues.
A monumental battle of wills takes place, both struggling for control. Avery, of course, has no scruples against playing dirty, and bites down on the end of Brodeur's tongue. It earns him a startled jerk and a vehement, "Fuck," spoken against his lips, but he gets what he wants--the chance to devour Brodeur's mouth with reckless abandon.
They stumble backwards, further into the room. Brodeur steers them towards the bed, but Avery has something else in mind; grabbing hold of Brodeur's shoulders, he shoves the bigger man against the wall. Or tries to, at least. Brodeur's a lot bigger than him, and he's not the kind of guy that likes being pushed around. It takes some serious effort--and maybe even a little acquiescence on Brodeur's part (he's got a pretty good idea where this is going...)--to get his back flush with the wall.
Still, the fact that Brodeur's the Goliath to his David doesn't stop him from saying whatever the fuck he feels like.
"Bet this is familiar, huh?" he breaths cruelly against Brodeur's neck, sucking hard on a patch of skin just below the goalie's ear. "Then again, maybe not... pay-by-the-hours aren't exactly known for their decor, are they?"
It's a low blow, bringing that up, but getting people where it hurts is one of Avery's specialties. Even so, he can't help but wonder if he's gone a little too far this time as Brodeur's face darkens, his hands balling into fists and body going stiff. For a second it seems like he's going to shove the smaller man off and put his considerable size advantage to use--break his nose, maybe, or shove him back against the door and pummel him until he's a bloody mess--but before he can, Avery drops to his knees. He does it in one fluid motion, his hands going to the fastenings on Brodeur's jeans, and the only thing Brodeur can manage as Avery's hot mouth engulfs him is a strained, "Fuck you, Avery." Even that lacks most of its usual bite.
Avery mumbles something around Brodeur's cock. It comes out nothing like it's meant to, but Brodeur gets the general gist anyway. He briefly considers asking him whether his mother ever told him not to talk with his mouth full, but then the younger man does something wicked with his tongue, and suddenly he forgets how to talk or breath or do anything except moan like some kind of wanton whore.
The next five or so minutes continue along the same lines, with Avery putting to use every trick he knows (and probably some he's just making up as he goes). Brodeur, on the other hand, is bracing himself against the wall and drinking in the sensations, thighs rock hard with tension as he struggles to keep himself under control.
In a last ditch effort Avery starts humming, and Brodeur throws his head back, his hips bucking involuntarily. A strangled groan passes his lips, low and gravelly and quite possibly the most erotic thing Avery's ever heard (which is saying a lot).
Of course, that's when the harsh creak of swinging hinges reaches their ears, and the fantastic blow job-induced bliss he's feeling is abruptly washed away by a surge of sheer, blinding panic. He spits something in startled French and makes a desperate grab for his jeans, and Avery jerks back, mouth spit-shiny and swollen, as he tries to yank them back up his legs.
Too late.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Patrik Elias exclaims, turning away and slapping a hand over his eyes, like that's somehow going to erase the image of Avery on his knees, sucking Brodeur's cock, from his mind. He grabs for the edge of the door frame with the other, mindless towards the fate of the key card he's holding as it drops to the floor.
"What the fuck?" Brodeur yelps at him, fumble-fingered as he struggles with the simple task of getting his jeans over his hips. "Don't you know how to knock?"
"Of course I know how to knock! I knocked three fucking times," Patrik shoots back defensively.
"Like hell you did," Brodeur snaps. He glances down at Avery, realizes he's still cradling the back of the smaller man's head with his hand, and yanks it back like he's been burned. It's a little too gentle and loving for his tastes.
"Okay, maybe it was only once, but still! Fuck, Marty, you think I wanted the image of Avery sucking your cock burned in my mind for the rest of my life? Hell no!" He shudders exaggeratedly to illustrate his point. Apparently deciding he's given Brodeur enough time, he turns around, one hand still raised to cover his eyes. Avery can't hold back a snort when he sees that Patrik's looking through the gaps between his fingers.
"Fuck you, Pat. You've seen my cock plenty of times before, so quit your bitching about how you're going to need therapy." His eyes narrow suspiciously. "Where the hell did you get my room key, anyway?"
"That's not important..." he starts to say, but Brodeur shoots him a murderous look, demanding elaboration.
Patrik sighs, glancing at Avery, and admits, face burning, "I came to see if you wanted to watch Finding Nemo with us."
Brodeur opens his mouth to say something, but Avery beats him to it. "Yeah, that's real sweet of you," he says. "Now, can you get the hell out? We're kinda in the middle of something here."
Patrik holds his hands up in mock surrender, despite bristling a little at the smaller man's decidedly unfriendly tone. "Jesus, Avery. No need to get snippy," he gripes, but save for that, a narrow-eyed parting glare, and a bitingly sarcastic, "Have fun, Marty," he declines to comment. He slams the door on his way out.
"Right. Where were we?" Avery sighs, turning back to face Brodeur's crotch.
"You were about to blow me," Brodeur supplies helpfully, shooting the noticeably large bulge in the front of his still unzipped jeans a significant look.
He reaches out and twines his fingers through Avery's too-short hair. "You should grow your hair out. Y'know, give me something to pull on..." He tugs none-too-gently, a rather blunt signal that he's getting impatient.
"How about not?" Avery snorts, jerking Brodeur's jeans back down to his knees. He curls his hands around the backs of Brodeur's thighs and drags his fingernails across the skin sharply.
Brodeur tightens his grip in retaliation, drawing a wince. "Get a move on down there."
Avery flicks his tongue over a patch of skin just below the goalie's naval in response. He ghosts a breath across the saliva-wet skin, eliciting a full-body shudder.
Of course, right after that he leans back on his heels and smirks up at Brodeur, smug and completely unrepentant. Brodeur glares down at him, making a frustrated noise at the back of his throat.
The expression on Avery's face can't be called anything except wicked as he murmurs mockingly, "I know you want me, Brodie, but you don't have to be such a whore about it."
"Fuck you, Avery."
"Is that a promise?" Still with the mocking tone, and Brodeur's getting pretty sick of it. A predatory glint enters his eyes as he cups the back of Avery's head with his hand and yanks him forward, shoving that sly, viciously sarcastic mouth against his cock. Avery retaliates by nipping--hard--at the inside of his thigh, and Brodeur lets him go in a hurry, concerned for the safety of certain precious parts of his anatomy.
That concern doesn't seem to extend to the rest of him, however, as he grabs Avery by his biceps and jerks him to his feet. Avery stumbles a little with the sudden movement, and Brodeur pushes his advantage, steering him farther into the room, towards the bed. It happens with blinding swiftness--not surprising, since Brodeur's got to have some of the fastest reflexes in the league--and Avery doesn't totally realize what's going on until he feels the edge of the bed slamming into his knees and the breath-stealing force with which he's shoved onto his back.
Brodeur's on him in an instant, pressing him into the mattress, which squeaks in protest under their combined weight. Avery might not be a Zdeno Chara look-a-like, but he's far from petite, and there's a reason Brodeur's been the subject of so many fat jokes.
Brodeur's knees settle on either side of him, bracketing his hips. Avery can't help but buck up against the heavy warmth of the goalie's body, and even as he does, he knows it's useless. The only way he's getting off now is if Brodeur lets him, and after earlier--after the total lack of mercy he'd shown, even while he was on the one on his knees, submitting--he seriously doubts that's going to happen.
Brodeur flips him over onto his stomach--there's no fucking way they're doing this face-to-face--and then all of a sudden he's gone. Avery keeps his face buried in one of the pillows as he listens to Brodeur pad around somewhere off to his left, where his duffel bag is crammed into the scant space between the wall and the bed. There's the vaguely metallic hiss of a zipper, a few seconds of rummaging, and then the muted 'snick' of a cap being opened.
When he comes back, Brodeur settles himself directly behind the smaller man, between his knees. Avery can't see or feel him, with the exception of the sudden dip of the mattress, but he knows he's there, what he's about to do.
There's nothing gentle about Brodeur's grip on Avery's thighs as he spreads them. They're hockey thighs; Brodeur can feel solid, toned muscle shift under the smooth skin with every movement. Avery might be an sarcastic little bastard, but there's no denying the fact that he takes good care of his body (if you don't count the numerous beatings he provokes other players into inflicting on him, that is).
There's also nothing gentle about the the fingers that are pressed into Avery, stretching him. There's lube--a lot of it, even--but that doesn't do a damn thing for the burn, or the rough way Brodeur jams his fingers inside and scissors them, more intent on his own pleasure--the kind that can only be earned by, in Brodeur's way of thinking, payback, and in Avery's, cruelty--than that of the man underneath him.
Finally, he removes his fingers and wipes them on the sheets--which would normally gross him out, but they're in a fucking hotel, it's not like they're his own personal sheets--lines up, and the real fun begins.
Brodeur sinks into him one agonizing inch at a time. Avery has to bite down on the pillow to keep from snarling at him--"Just hurry the fuck up, I'm not gonna break." He knows that'll just make things worse. Brodeur'll go even more slowly then, if for no other reason than to torment him.
The big-bodied goalie pauses, only about halfway in, and thrusts shallowly, earning a bitten-off groan. Avery spreads his thighs a little further in an effort to get Brodeur to fucking move. It's totally ineffectual, of course, and Avery can't do anything but grit his teeth as Brodeur continues to toy with him. He can't help but think he'll go insane if Brodeur doesn't quit it with the slow, teasing thrusts.
Brodeur quickly tires of the slow approach, though, and he speeds up as pleasure overrides his desire to give Avery a dose of his own medicine. The smaller of the two grabs at the sheets, clenching his fists so tight that the blood leeches from his knuckles. The familiar, coppery tang of blood floods Avery's mouth as he bites through his lip--already bearing plenty of scars--to keep from whimpering and whining like an injured animal.
It doesn't take long for Brodeur to work himself into a frenzy, pounding into the man beneath him with reckless abandon. Even in his wild state he's hitting Avery's prostate almost every time, though, and climax hits them both hard; Brodeur first, and then Avery. They both collapse, panting harshly, as the warm, sticky sensation of release overcomes them.
Avery doesn't stick around long afterwards. He grabs his clothes off the floor--he finds everything after a bit of hunting, even the errant sock that somehow wound up underneath Roomie's bed during the I'm-going-to-tear-your-clothes-off-and-fling-them-wherever-the-fuck-I-want stage--and wanders towards the bathroom, knowing he needs to clean up before he can go out in public. He takes his time, walking with the swaggering confidence of someone entirely comfortable in his own body.
Brodeur stretches out on the bed, lounging there with a lazy, sated smugness that's only ever seen post-coital. He tugs the sheets up just high enough to cover the important bits, then watches through half-closed eyes as Avery scours the room for his clothes. He grudgingly admires the flex and give of the loud-mouthed forward's muscles, especially when Avery leans over to snatch his boxers from underneath the table on his way over to the bathroom. His sex drive isn't quite as insatiable as it'd been back in his twenties, though, and even the sight of Avery's ass, the backs of his thighs still streaked with come, can't coax any interest out of his cock.
By the time Avery exits the tiny hotel bathroom twenty minutes later, freshly showered, come-free, and with his clothes back on and in some semblance of order, Brodeur's out cold, snoring into his pillow. Avery shakes his head incredulously--he knows from previous experience that Brodeur's the kind of guy that likes to nap after sex, but this is ridiculous; he couldn't even wait until Avery's gone?--but decides against waking him up.
Instead, he grabs Brodeur's phone off the nightstand and opens up a text window, typing out a quick message. He leaves the phone open afterwards, sliding it into Brodeur's hand and curling his sleep-pliant fingers around it. Maybe if Brodeur sees his 'This weekend, my place, bring lots of booze,' he won't have to wait until the next Devils-Rangers game for another rendezvous.
He slips out into the hall and heads for the elevator. He's still feeling the burn, so stairs probably aren't a good idea right about now. Walking by one of the rooms--the door's propped open by one of the hotel-issued Do Not Disturb signs in lieu of anything better, probably so nobody gets locked out in the hallway--he swears he can hear faint strains of the "Car Wash" song, accompanied by a large number of distinctly male, adult voices.
Huh--they really are watching Finding Nemo...