Variations on a theme.
Title: Variations on a theme.
Author: pr_scatterbrain/Professional Scatterbrain.
Pairing: Evgeni Malkin/Steven Stamkos, (unrequited!Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin)
Rating: R
Summary: What’s the difference between a pity and a proxy fuck? Steven doesn't know.
n.b.: I have to thank masterpenguin82 for beta'ing this. I owe you one.
Las Vegas is all bright lights and half-hearted regret. But for being made a footnote by Malkin, Steven doesn’t particularly feel any of it. He applauds with everyone else when Malkin’s name is announced as the newest Hart Trophy winner and then again for the Ted Lindsay Award, and accepts Steve Downie's commiserations later. If Steven’s disappointed, it’s a muted reaction that has settled into acceptance by the time the final award of the night is given.
One out of three isn’t bad. In fact, the Maurice Richard Trophy isn’t bad at all.
“Next year,” Steve says when they get up.
Steven nods. “You too.”
It isn’t original, but it’s neutral enough that Steven uses variations of it more than a few times over the course of the night. When Michael Del Zotto and Alex Pietrangelo pull him aside, Steven knows they deserve more that over used lines from a script everyone knows. Steven’s been friends with them long enough for them to know him better than most, but it’s a kindness that they allow him to use it with them.
On various red carpets for various after parties he tries to do his best with the press. They aren’t as easily appeased as his friends, but for the most part, they don’t push. Steven isn’t known for being particularly interesting even at the best of times. For the most he ends up blinking from the flashes. He’s been in the NHL for a while, but general no one really gives a shit about hockey players in Las Vegas, not even with most of the league running up tabs at the bar of first after party of the night. He tries nevertheless not to do anything stupid. The bartender that half a dozen players are trying to make laugh might not care about a few awful photographs and misjudged quotes, but the hockey media will. The last thing Steven needs is to be labelled a sore loser or something equally as unpleasant.
As a rule he tries to keep his nose down. The idea of being a role model still doesn’t rest easily on his shoulders, nor does the idea of being a face of the Lightning franchise. He doesn’t know how guys like Sidney Crosby do it.
Earlier in the night he saw Crosby awkwardly clap Malkin on the back and offer his congratulations and watched Malkin duck his head down to hear him over the hum of the auditorium.
Steven remembers that, the curve of Malkin’s neck and the hand he had placed on Crosby’s back when the crowd jostled them.
The three of them end up on the same red carpet partway through the night, Crosby looks flushed and Malkin is surrounded by his teammates and an assortment of the league's Russians. The Russians always seem to end up on the same table at the same bar no matter what colours they wear during the season. When Malkin separates from them to get the next round of drinks, Steven takes his chance to congratulate him.
Malkin deserved to win. Steven knows this. He wanted to win too, but Malkin deserved it too.
“Thank you,” Malkin says.
Steven nods and when the bartender returns with their drinks, Steven raises his glass. Malkin does the same and when he clinks his glass with Steven’s, vodka stills over the edges.
Maybe that should be enough. Steven is smart enough to know that, but not smart enough to do anything good with the knowledge. His friends and his team are there, somewhere in the crowd, but instead of going to find them he ends up following Malkin back to his friends.
“No. Geno,” Malkin says. “Call me Geno.”
At the table everyone raises their glass to him, even Crosby. Pressed between Geno and Ilya, his face is flushed and the top few buttons of his dress shirt is undone. He looks good, but the glass in front of him is filled with water. But as soon as Steven has notices that, Geno shifts his shoulder, blocking Steven’s view. Steven doesn’t really know Crosby, but he knows loyalty. Geno’s a good guy. Everyone knows this.
(Later, when Crosby is collected by his assistant coach and agent, Steven is careful to look away when Crosby needs a moment to get to his feet.
Yes, Steven knows loyalty. Even as a footnote, he respects it, so he waves down a waitress and takes it upon himself to order the next round).
Without a memorised script, Geno’s English is disjointed at times. Good enough to talk to press, but his brow furrows when Steven tries to tell a joke. Steven’s sense of humour is sly. He’s been told often enough by his agent that he should curb his use of it especially while drinking. Alcohol perhaps makes him too clever for his own good. Liquor loosens his control, makes him twists words, adding and implying meaning. Geno struggles to keeps up.
At the end of the night it doesn’t matter. But at the end of the night Steven is in Geno’s hotel room and Geno is unbuckling his pants.
Flushed and sweaty, Steven squirms but Geno pins his hips against the door and doesn’t let him move. Doesn’t let him do anything except swear and beg in turn.
Sex is a strange thing sometimes. Steven doesn’t know Geno - they’ve played against each other a few times, but the NHL awards ceremony is the first time they’ve ever really talked. Now Geno is on his knees and Steven is gasping his name. Maybe it’s intimacy that is weird.
Steven comes too quickly; he’s never felt particularly young, but he does when Geno laughs at him.
“It’s okay,” Geno tells him, but Steven doesn’t feel like it is not even when Geno pushes him onto the bed.
Crowding him against the pillows, Steven feels over saturated with colour and flesh. He runs his hands up Geno’s spine and twists his fingers into Geno’s hair and pulls. Geno groans. Left over endorphins flare in Steven’s bloodstream and Steven can’t say he doesn’t want this. He kisses the taste of his come out of Geno’s mouth and whimpers when Geno works him hard again.
“Shh,” Geno says, even though Steven is mostly drunk and feeling of Geno’s hand on Steven’s dick hurts more than it feels good.
It takes a while, but Geno doesn’t seem to mind. Geno touches and kisses easily, like he has all the time in the world. Like his entire night has more or less gone his way and he expects this will too. Steven thinks he should mind in some way or another, but he doesn’t. Not when Geno traces his ribs and presses down on old bruises, pinching his nipples and biting the corner of Steven’s jaw when Steven’s cock starts to fill.
“Good boy,” Geno praises.
“Shut the fuck up,” Steven tells him.
Geno laughs; bright and happy and when he reaches for lube and condoms, Steven’s the one to shut up. He knows what this is. He remembers of the curve of Geno’s neck, and the shift of his shoulders. Steven is young but not too young to misunderstand that.
What’s the difference between a pity and a proxy fuck? Steven doesn't know.
His mouth dries when Geno squeezes lube on his fingers and works one, then two inside himself. With dark eyes, Geno arches his back and exhales slowly. He’s - Steven doesn’t really have words for what Geno looks like. He moves with ease, like he knows perfectly well what he’s doing to Steven.
“Can I help?” Steven asks, touching Geno’s wrist.
Geno grins. “No.”
Geno isn’t particular handsome, Steven thinks, but there is something about his confidence, the way he knows exactly what he wants and how he wants it that takes Steven aback. And Steven - he leans up and kisses the base of Geno’s throat and holds him as close as Geno will allow, gripping his fingers into the ridges of his shoulder blades and the hollow of his back and it isn’t quite okay to be second best again but it’s close enough.
“Ready?” Geno asks, breathless.
Steven nods and tries not to come when Geno climbs onto of him and slides down on his cock. Geno isn’t especially self-conscious; maybe it’s because he’s still riding the elation of the night or maybe he isn’t especially self-conscious in general. In the low light of the hotel room he groans and swears and laughs freely when Steven tells him to slow down.
“No,” Geno tells Steven, speeding up. “Like this.”
And Steven tries to hold on, tries not to reveal his age for the second time that night.
He holds on as Geno rides his dick, hold on when Geno slaps Steven’s thigh and laughs, but only just. When Geno touches his own cock, Steven has to close his eyes. It’s too much. He feels his orgasm building, sharp and insistent. He bites his bottom lip but it doesn’t take long after that. Geno comes first, loud and uninhibited. Steven follows, his fingers digging into Geno’s hips, mid thrust.
Afterwards, it takes a while for Steven to catch his breath. His heart races in his chest, pounding loud in his ears. Geno’s a dead weight on top of him and it isn’t until Steven mumbles something, that Geno moves. Rolling off him, Geno whines a little when Steven’s dick slips out of him. It’s a small animal sound that makes Steven’s dick twitch. Inhaling shakily, Steven makes himself move. Pulling off the condom, he ties it in a knot and tosses it into the bin. Collapsing back onto the bed, he allows himself to doze for a while before he turns to Geno. Geno grins at him.
Geno’s a good guy, everyone knows that and Steven can’t help himself.
“One for the road,” he says before he leaves, pressing his lips against Geno’s.
“One for the road,” Geno agrees, kissing him back.
.
Author: pr_scatterbrain/Professional Scatterbrain.
Pairing: Evgeni Malkin/Steven Stamkos, (unrequited!Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin)
Rating: R
Summary: What’s the difference between a pity and a proxy fuck? Steven doesn't know.
n.b.: I have to thank masterpenguin82 for beta'ing this. I owe you one.
Las Vegas is all bright lights and half-hearted regret. But for being made a footnote by Malkin, Steven doesn’t particularly feel any of it. He applauds with everyone else when Malkin’s name is announced as the newest Hart Trophy winner and then again for the Ted Lindsay Award, and accepts Steve Downie's commiserations later. If Steven’s disappointed, it’s a muted reaction that has settled into acceptance by the time the final award of the night is given.
One out of three isn’t bad. In fact, the Maurice Richard Trophy isn’t bad at all.
“Next year,” Steve says when they get up.
Steven nods. “You too.”
It isn’t original, but it’s neutral enough that Steven uses variations of it more than a few times over the course of the night. When Michael Del Zotto and Alex Pietrangelo pull him aside, Steven knows they deserve more that over used lines from a script everyone knows. Steven’s been friends with them long enough for them to know him better than most, but it’s a kindness that they allow him to use it with them.
On various red carpets for various after parties he tries to do his best with the press. They aren’t as easily appeased as his friends, but for the most part, they don’t push. Steven isn’t known for being particularly interesting even at the best of times. For the most he ends up blinking from the flashes. He’s been in the NHL for a while, but general no one really gives a shit about hockey players in Las Vegas, not even with most of the league running up tabs at the bar of first after party of the night. He tries nevertheless not to do anything stupid. The bartender that half a dozen players are trying to make laugh might not care about a few awful photographs and misjudged quotes, but the hockey media will. The last thing Steven needs is to be labelled a sore loser or something equally as unpleasant.
As a rule he tries to keep his nose down. The idea of being a role model still doesn’t rest easily on his shoulders, nor does the idea of being a face of the Lightning franchise. He doesn’t know how guys like Sidney Crosby do it.
Earlier in the night he saw Crosby awkwardly clap Malkin on the back and offer his congratulations and watched Malkin duck his head down to hear him over the hum of the auditorium.
Steven remembers that, the curve of Malkin’s neck and the hand he had placed on Crosby’s back when the crowd jostled them.
The three of them end up on the same red carpet partway through the night, Crosby looks flushed and Malkin is surrounded by his teammates and an assortment of the league's Russians. The Russians always seem to end up on the same table at the same bar no matter what colours they wear during the season. When Malkin separates from them to get the next round of drinks, Steven takes his chance to congratulate him.
Malkin deserved to win. Steven knows this. He wanted to win too, but Malkin deserved it too.
“Thank you,” Malkin says.
Steven nods and when the bartender returns with their drinks, Steven raises his glass. Malkin does the same and when he clinks his glass with Steven’s, vodka stills over the edges.
Maybe that should be enough. Steven is smart enough to know that, but not smart enough to do anything good with the knowledge. His friends and his team are there, somewhere in the crowd, but instead of going to find them he ends up following Malkin back to his friends.
“No. Geno,” Malkin says. “Call me Geno.”
At the table everyone raises their glass to him, even Crosby. Pressed between Geno and Ilya, his face is flushed and the top few buttons of his dress shirt is undone. He looks good, but the glass in front of him is filled with water. But as soon as Steven has notices that, Geno shifts his shoulder, blocking Steven’s view. Steven doesn’t really know Crosby, but he knows loyalty. Geno’s a good guy. Everyone knows this.
(Later, when Crosby is collected by his assistant coach and agent, Steven is careful to look away when Crosby needs a moment to get to his feet.
Yes, Steven knows loyalty. Even as a footnote, he respects it, so he waves down a waitress and takes it upon himself to order the next round).
Without a memorised script, Geno’s English is disjointed at times. Good enough to talk to press, but his brow furrows when Steven tries to tell a joke. Steven’s sense of humour is sly. He’s been told often enough by his agent that he should curb his use of it especially while drinking. Alcohol perhaps makes him too clever for his own good. Liquor loosens his control, makes him twists words, adding and implying meaning. Geno struggles to keeps up.
At the end of the night it doesn’t matter. But at the end of the night Steven is in Geno’s hotel room and Geno is unbuckling his pants.
Flushed and sweaty, Steven squirms but Geno pins his hips against the door and doesn’t let him move. Doesn’t let him do anything except swear and beg in turn.
Sex is a strange thing sometimes. Steven doesn’t know Geno - they’ve played against each other a few times, but the NHL awards ceremony is the first time they’ve ever really talked. Now Geno is on his knees and Steven is gasping his name. Maybe it’s intimacy that is weird.
Steven comes too quickly; he’s never felt particularly young, but he does when Geno laughs at him.
“It’s okay,” Geno tells him, but Steven doesn’t feel like it is not even when Geno pushes him onto the bed.
Crowding him against the pillows, Steven feels over saturated with colour and flesh. He runs his hands up Geno’s spine and twists his fingers into Geno’s hair and pulls. Geno groans. Left over endorphins flare in Steven’s bloodstream and Steven can’t say he doesn’t want this. He kisses the taste of his come out of Geno’s mouth and whimpers when Geno works him hard again.
“Shh,” Geno says, even though Steven is mostly drunk and feeling of Geno’s hand on Steven’s dick hurts more than it feels good.
It takes a while, but Geno doesn’t seem to mind. Geno touches and kisses easily, like he has all the time in the world. Like his entire night has more or less gone his way and he expects this will too. Steven thinks he should mind in some way or another, but he doesn’t. Not when Geno traces his ribs and presses down on old bruises, pinching his nipples and biting the corner of Steven’s jaw when Steven’s cock starts to fill.
“Good boy,” Geno praises.
“Shut the fuck up,” Steven tells him.
Geno laughs; bright and happy and when he reaches for lube and condoms, Steven’s the one to shut up. He knows what this is. He remembers of the curve of Geno’s neck, and the shift of his shoulders. Steven is young but not too young to misunderstand that.
What’s the difference between a pity and a proxy fuck? Steven doesn't know.
His mouth dries when Geno squeezes lube on his fingers and works one, then two inside himself. With dark eyes, Geno arches his back and exhales slowly. He’s - Steven doesn’t really have words for what Geno looks like. He moves with ease, like he knows perfectly well what he’s doing to Steven.
“Can I help?” Steven asks, touching Geno’s wrist.
Geno grins. “No.”
Geno isn’t particular handsome, Steven thinks, but there is something about his confidence, the way he knows exactly what he wants and how he wants it that takes Steven aback. And Steven - he leans up and kisses the base of Geno’s throat and holds him as close as Geno will allow, gripping his fingers into the ridges of his shoulder blades and the hollow of his back and it isn’t quite okay to be second best again but it’s close enough.
“Ready?” Geno asks, breathless.
Steven nods and tries not to come when Geno climbs onto of him and slides down on his cock. Geno isn’t especially self-conscious; maybe it’s because he’s still riding the elation of the night or maybe he isn’t especially self-conscious in general. In the low light of the hotel room he groans and swears and laughs freely when Steven tells him to slow down.
“No,” Geno tells Steven, speeding up. “Like this.”
And Steven tries to hold on, tries not to reveal his age for the second time that night.
He holds on as Geno rides his dick, hold on when Geno slaps Steven’s thigh and laughs, but only just. When Geno touches his own cock, Steven has to close his eyes. It’s too much. He feels his orgasm building, sharp and insistent. He bites his bottom lip but it doesn’t take long after that. Geno comes first, loud and uninhibited. Steven follows, his fingers digging into Geno’s hips, mid thrust.
Afterwards, it takes a while for Steven to catch his breath. His heart races in his chest, pounding loud in his ears. Geno’s a dead weight on top of him and it isn’t until Steven mumbles something, that Geno moves. Rolling off him, Geno whines a little when Steven’s dick slips out of him. It’s a small animal sound that makes Steven’s dick twitch. Inhaling shakily, Steven makes himself move. Pulling off the condom, he ties it in a knot and tosses it into the bin. Collapsing back onto the bed, he allows himself to doze for a while before he turns to Geno. Geno grins at him.
Geno’s a good guy, everyone knows that and Steven can’t help himself.
“One for the road,” he says before he leaves, pressing his lips against Geno’s.
“One for the road,” Geno agrees, kissing him back.
.