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It was a brutal game, crushing and bruising as playoffs always are. Matthew spent most of his ice time getting flung about by the collar of his jersey or boarded behind the net. He’s made a career as a pest, he’s used to playing against Doms who call him an untamed brat who needs a harsh spanking and relishes in confirming their every word to make them growl and take a stupid penalty. But tonight was tough in a way that’s hard to leave on the ice.
He gets this way sometimes. Overly sensitive. His submissive side begging, begging for… Matthew can’t really tell. He keeps it confined, the pulses of need vague and hollow like someone’s voice when your ears are filled with water.
And anyways, he’s not. Good, that is. Matthew’s a horrific incorrigible brat and everyone knows that brats don’t need sweet words, gentle pets, and soft aftercare. He just gets a little weak sometimes, acting petite and gentle and eager to please, everything he’s not. He shakes it off, more or less successfully depending on the game: Wilson’s easy to ignore, a known violent asshole, but others are harder—the guys he knows are nice Doms but don’t see anything to be nice about in him. So he tries to shake it off and accepts the excessive roughness that goes uncalled.
Sometimes, though, it sits on his mind. He’s shaky in the locker room afterwards, struggling to keep his eyes from glazing over and his knees from buckling. Matthew wishes tonight wasn’t one of those nights, he feels too vulnerable like this in Edmonton.
So when the Panthers representative slips into the room and beelines for him, he can’t prevent himself from cringing away. Of course it’s him tonight; he’s one of two subs on the team and a pain in the ass, so he’s often picked for the room. Not to mention he has history with nearly every Oiler.
If Matthew was better, was good, if he took punishments well and always pleased his Dom, maybe he’d know a gentler world of dynamics than that of the winners room.
He feels foggy, but signs the usual papers when they’re presented to him, checking the boxes about uninfluenced consent and mental well-being without hesitation—he’s never stopped to think what would happen if he marked N instead of Y. It feels too much like failing so he moves on and heads to the showers to clean up. He has a routine, a procedure for nights like these, but he can’t remember and he trembles slightly as the uneasy wrongness sinks deeper.
After the lathered soap washes off, Matthew shucks on a ratty Panthers shirt and red shorts, slips his feet into sandals, and steadies himself against the wall. He takes a breath, pushes fruitlessly against the feet of water above him that bend the fluorescent light into thrumming waves.
He leaves the visitors locker room feeling shaky at best. The boys watch him go, hoot and whistle as he does, and he smirks back, fitting his carefully built persona. Sasha nods, an offer to stay and wait for him so he won’t be alone afterwards, and Matthew shakes his head. He knows he’s not a rookie and the Panthers are more independent than the Flames. So he takes hard hits and chirps every second he can and keeps his wishes of comfort and reassurance silent.
“You ready, Matthew?” the representative asks.
Forcing himself to smile casually, he nods and starts walking, “Who is it tonight?”
“Draisaitl.”
It’s always Draisaitl when it’s the Oilers.
They wind down a few hallways to a dynamic room and he’s let inside with a short “he’ll be here soon”.
The dynamics room is state of the art: on one side is a metal-framed bed with hooks for coarse ropes and opposite is a bondage bench, wooden St Andrew’s cross, and litany of other equipment that makes him shudder. He knows that inside the closed cupboards are ropes of all kinds, a spreader bar, an assortment of textured dildos of different sizes, and various paddles, canes, and whips. All designed to make him cry and sink.
He thinks too long about what will soon happen and the murkiness settles deeper into his vision. C’mon, he begs, I can’t do this tonight. Not with this stupid body and slow mind. Wake the fuck up.
Whatever god may exist pays Matthew no attention as the door behind him clicks open. Draisaitl’s shadow engulfs his as the hallway’s light filters in.
“On the bed,” Draisaitl orders as the door claps shut and his footsteps echo in the direction of the cupboards.
“Yes, sir,” Matthew mumbles instinctively, too tired to chirp and push. It doesn’t matter if he drops his persona in the room anyways, he’ll be too sore and hurt for it soon.
He senses Draisaitl start in surprise and almost regrets not saying “bitch”, but focuses on obeying and playing at being good. He scurries across the room to sink into the pillows, keeping his face down and ass up. It’s always how Doms want him, ugly acne-ridden face hidden and hole open and available for use. Everyone knows it’s good subs that get Doms who look deep into their eyes, who pepper their faces with sweet kisses as they slowly rock into them in passionate missionary. That’s for good subs and Matthew’s not good.
But Matthew wants to be good so badly and he tries really hard—he swears he does—he has a routine and everything! He couldn’t remember it, but he has one and he’s being polite—well, he wasn’t on the ice—but that’s hockey and he’s proper now—said please and sir and remembered the right position.
The world’s so out of focus, he’s lost in it, that he doesn’t notice Draisaitl cross the room and jumps when he places a proprietary hand on Matthew’s ass. Draisaitl squeezes and rubs, spreading his cheeks apart to examine his hole and hums indifferently. Not pleased but not disappointed and Matthew lets out a grateful breath. Draisaitl always spares him from the harsh beatings, preferring to slowly rock his cockhead into Matthew as he mewls. Matthew doesn’t want to break to gentleness by asking why.
“So sensitive,” Draisaitl mocks as he drags a thumb over Matthew’s fluttering hole, watching his breath hitch, “Rub yourself against me. Make yourself feel good.”
Before Matthew can register the order, his body is moving, grinding backwards on thick thighs in straight slacks and clutching at the Dom’s swelling cock. Like a needy slut, he presses his eyes shut against the burning shame as his brain sloshes, heavy and deep.
Draisaitl’s hard but Matthew knows it’s not because of him, he doesn’t deserve the credit for that. He’s nothing but a desperate submissive who can’t resist the urge to be bad bad so bad—what about that is attractive to a rich powerful Dom?
It’s Draisaitl’s steady voice that brings him back to the moment, “You’re doing so well. Feel me,” his hips press forward and the bulge of his thick cock presses into the crack of Matthew’s ass, “Feel how I want you. Good boy.”
Matthew melts at that; his body slumps, everything goes fuzzy with blobs of colour dancing across his vision, and his ears thrum lowly.
It feels good. He’s wrapped in a caress, he’s weightlessly floating on the water’s surface instead of sinking below it like a lead weight. He likes it when Draisaitl lets him taste what the good subs get.
Draisaitl’s voice can still be heard but it’s encouraging, there you go, you’re doing do well, so perfect, stay with me. And Matthew, forever a wicked brat, takes and takes and wallows in the good light feeling, however undeserving he is. When Draisaitl’s large hands begin to pet him, he nearly whites out from pleasure, no one else has held him so closely, held him like he’s worth having.
Time feels weird. It drips by like the rush of a slow-moving waterfall. It swirls around Matthew, always coming but never leaving, and he feels like he’s frozen in time and racing through 15 worlds at once.
When he blinks back into the moment, mind clearing enough to understand what’s going on, he’s been turned onto his back. Draisaitl is between his spread legs, weight heavy and pinning him down, and his rough stubbly chin is pressed atop Matthew’s forehead, tucking the sub’s head safely into his neck. It’s warm here, the hands running up and down his flank are gentle and ticklish, and Matthew hums happily.
“You’re back with me?” Draisaitl asks, pulling back to search Matthew’s eyes.
Matthew nods blissfully, still out of it enough to not beg for forgiveness for being so greedy.
“Coming back to me then,” the Dom corrects with a chuckle, “You really needed that, huh?”
Clamming up, his eyes nervously dart about the room and he hurriedly apologises, “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to. I would never think I was allowed, I just couldn’t help it—“
“Matthew, enough.”
The abrupt cut off is enough to let him know he won’t escape punishment for his actions and the dull glow from before begins to fade. He wants to curl up and protect the soft skin of his stomach, but Draisaitl’s weight holds him open, spread out and vulnerable.
“Sorry, I’m never good with my tone,” the mumbles trail off before Draisaitl brushes his hair with steady fingers and continues, “I’m happy I was able to send you down. You were perfect, so good for me. You did everything I asked for, so sweet and willing.”
Matthew blinks, Good? Sweet? That’s impossible, I’m a brat. I’m the worst brat.
“Don’t apologise, there’s no need to. And don’t call me sir, Leon is good.”
“Yes, Leon,” he answers, his anxiety spikes at the unfamiliar word that sits oddly in his mouth.
Never has a Dom told him to call them by their first name, it was always sir or ma’am. Everyone knows that first names are for good subs, subs to be collared and loved. It seems Matthew is only good when he’s with Drai—Leon.
The bedsheets feel softer with Leon here now, the pillows more dewey, the hands on his waist more sure and comforting. When Leon flips them over, he doesn’t feel ashamed of the way he clings onto his muscled chest.
I want to make him feel good, Matthew wants to repay the kindness, to show that he’s a good sub who can make a Dom feel good, instead of a brat who can’t endure what they deserve. He slides down Leon’s body and nuzzles into the warm crook of his hip, hands going to palm the bulge in his slacks. He beams at the fact that Leon’s still hard, he must be pleased despite— because of? —Matthew going into subspace, and pushes his pants down so he can get closer to his hard cock.
“Wait, babe,” Leon gets up and pulls his pants and boxers off in one go.
His cock is thick and hard, making Matthew salivate, and he desperately hopes his wantonness hasn’t turned the Dom off, hasn’t made him realise how slutty and worthless he is. After also removing his shirt, Leon slides back onto the bed, one hand stroking himself firmly a few times and the other pulling Matthew between his legs, where his cock slaps against his face.
Mouthing at the veins and swirling his tongue over the tip, he wets Leon’s cock with precum and spit. He relishes in the Leon’s soft groans, at least in this he can please a Dom despite how bad he is. And Leon is gentle: his hands securely cradle his nape and stroke the soft vulnerable skin of his neck, where his pulse hammers beneath. There’s no typical strained grip in his hair to force him down until he chokes, no large palm cutting off his airflow. There’s just gentle caresses and Matthew floats in them.
The darkness of his fluttering eye-lids— when did I close my eyes? —is complemented by the soothing weight on his tongue. He licks up the side, gives the tip a suck, and bobs his head, just letting the rhythm take him. He’s always liked giving blowjobs, his obvious oral fixation proof of that; it was the choking, gagging, the beams of pain he could never enjoy.
The weightless feeling returns and he lets himself embrace it, floating on the waves’ surface. His tongue lolls around Leon’s cock to stroke the veins as he drifts further away from shore, the waters calming. Matthew hollows his cheeks and sucks greedily, chasing the tangy taste, while he rests of the serene blue surface of the sea.
Leon’s speaking, maybe he has been for a while now, but he doesn’t want to focus on it. He doesn’t want to hear the harsh degradation Doms always throw his way, the nastily accented slut and cruel demeaning submissive. But Leon’s voice is so fluid, it feels good against his skin, like waves lapping against his cheeks to splash droplets into his eyelashes.
The words are reverently murmured German. Though he doesn’t know what it means, surely something so gentle couldn’t be barbed insults? He lets it flow over him, nuzzling the trimmed hairs at the base of Leon’s cock as it bulges in his throat.
He hums, sucks, suckles, and then swallows when Leon’s cum pours into his open mouth. It’s salty and warm, coating his throat so he tastes it when he pulls back to breathe. Matthew holds Leon’s cock for a little longer, nothing more than a completely-still welcoming warmth for a softening cock.
“Open,” Leon speaks, huffing slightly and flushed red in the face and chest.
Matthew does, catching Leon’s cock in his cheek before it falls, and sticks out his tongue, still spattered with white, out. There’s a faint clicking sound, familiar though Matthew’s too tired to place it, and then Leon’s pulling him into his lap, letting him drape uselessly over his hockey-tired thighs.
Leon mumbles, “Just for me” and Matthew answers, “‘S for you”. It’s honest, no other Dom will see him like this—makes him like this, treats him like this—and everyone knows good subs are honest.
Everyone knows good subs get good morning messages and asks for another scene. Matthew's eyebrows furrow as Leon unlocks his phone and enters Matthew’s number. Everyone knows good subs get soft pets and guiding hands. Matthew lets Leon lead him to the locker room and Sasha and Benny—odd that they’re still here—wrap him in their thick coats and strong arms. Matthew wades neck deep in the water and floats once more.