✧ hockey player!chris, dom!chris, bigdick!chris, size kink, rough, unprotected, creampie
✧ summary: in which you wear chris's jersey and he fucks you senseless in it
✧ authors note: wrote this while watching off campus...iykyk this stayed in my drafts too long i need to post it..
the apartment had been freezing when you got out of the shower, and chris's jersey was right there on the chair where he'd tossed it last night after his game. it smells like him.
like cedar and sweat and that specific cologne he wears, and you'd pulled it over your bare shoulders without thinking. the jersey stops mid thigh. the sleeves go past your fingertips.
you're standing in front of the mirror adjusting the collar when you hear the key in the lock.
"baby?" his voice echoes through the apartment, tired but warm. "you home?"
"bedroom," you call back.
you hear his bag hit the floor, the rustle of him kicking off his shoes, and then his footsteps making their way toward you.
he appears in the doorway and stops dead.
he's still in his practice gear, hair damp and curling at the nape of his neck, cheeks pink from the cold outside. he's holding his phone in one hand and a coffee in the other and he just… stares.
his eyes go dark almost immediately, pupils blowing wide as they drag down your body, taking in the way his number stretches across your chest.
"hi," you say, and your voice comes out quieter than you meant.
he doesn't say anything. he sets the coffee down on the dresser. slowly, like he's trying to control his movements, and then he's crossing the room.
"is that mine?" he asks, and his voice is deep already, rumbling in a way that makes heat pool low in your stomach.
he reaches out and runs his hand down your arm, tracing the number on the sleeve. "you look so fucking good in this."
"yeah." his hand slides down to your hip, thumb hooking under the hem, finding bare skin. he makes a sound in the back of his throat. "shit, baby, tell me you're not wearing anything under this."
you bite your lip. "maybe."
he groans, and then his mouth is on yours. his hands are everywhere, under the jersey, on the curve of your waist, your ribs, the curve of your chest, and you can feel how hard he is already, thick and straining against his pants, grinding against your hip.
"feel what you do to me?" he breathes against your lips, rocking into you.
"feel how fucking hard i am? been thinking about you all day, baby, thinking about coming home and being with you, and now you're wearing my fucking jersey and i can't—shit, i can't think straight."
"then don't think," you whisper, and you reach down to palm him through his pants.
he hisses, head falling back, and then he's walking you backward until your knees hit the bed. "gonna ruin you," he says, and his voice sends a shiver down your body. "gonna fuck you so good in this."
he lifts you up, hands under your thighs, and you wrap your legs around his waist as he lays you down. the jersey rides up and his eyes follow it, darkening when he sees your skin underneath. the only thing between you and him is his own name stretched across your chest.
"look at you," he says, his hand sliding up your thigh. "look at how wet you are already. all that for me, baby?"
"yes," you whimper, arching into his touch. "yes, all for you,"
"shit." he presses two fingers against you, just teasing. "you're dripping. fucking dripping for me. want me to taste you? want me to eat this pretty pussy until you're screaming my name?"
you nod frantically, already desperate, and he rewards you by pushing the jersey up to expose you fully. "keep this on," he orders, his voice ragged. "wanna see my number on you while i devour you."
he settles between your thighs and drags his tongue on you in one long stroke that has you crying out, your hands tightening in his hair. he groans against you, the vibration making you squirm and hes licking and fucking you with his tongue like he's starving.
"so fucking sweet," he murmurs, you can feel his breath hot against you. "taste so good, baby. could eat you for hours. could live between your thighs."
"chris," you gasp, as he sucks your clit between his lips until your hips are bucking against his mouth and he's having to hold you down.
"that's it," he encourages, looking up at you with dark, blown out pupiled eyes, his mouth swollen. "come on my tongue like a good girl."
he doesn't stop, keeps working you through it, lapping at you until you're oversensitive and shaking, until you're pushing at his shoulders because it's too much.
he crawls up your body, kissing his way up your stomach, your ribs, your neck, and you can taste yourself on his lips when he kisses you. you can feel how hard he still is against your hip. "good girl," he praises. "such a good girl for me."
"please," you whimper, already needy again, already wanting. "want you inside. need to feel you."
he's tearing his shirt over his head, shoving his pants down, and then he's there, thick and heavy in his hand, dragging the tip through your folds to soak himself in you. "want me to fill you up? want me to stretch you out and fuck you full?"
he pushes in slowly, inch by inch, making you gasp and claw at his shoulders. he groans, his forehead dropping to yours. "shit, you're so tight. so fucking tight and wet and warm. feel like heaven, baby. feel like you were made for me."
he starts moving, his hips snapping against yours. the bed creaks beneath you, the headboard knocking against the wall. you're wrapped around him, legs around his back, and every time he thrusts into you the jersey shifts, the fabric rubbing between you.
"look at you," he pants, and he's sweating now, hair falling into his eyes. "look at you taking me. taking every inch. you like that? like feeling me deep inside you?"
"yes, yes, right there, please don't stop—"
"not stopping," he promises, thrusting into you until you're babbling, until you're incoherent, nails digging deep into his back. "gonna make you come again, yeah? gonna make you come on my cock while you're wearing my jersey. gonna feel you squeeze me, take me. fuck, baby, you close? you gonna come for me?"
"yes," you gasp, "yes, i'm, chris, i'm gonna—"
"do it," he growls. "come for me. come on my cock, let me feel you,"
the pleasure is overwhelming, and you feel yourself clamping down on him, and he groans, his head falling back.
"shit, shit, that's it, that's my girl," he's fucking you through it now, finding his own release, his movements getting sloppy and desperate. "gonna fill you up, baby. gonna come so deep inside you. want that?"
"yes," you whimper, still shaking, "yes, please, want it,"
he thrusts one last time and groans long and low, spilling into you with a shudder that rocks through his whole body. you can feel him, and he keeps his hips pressed tight against yours.
for a long moment neither of you move. he's heavy on top of you, still inside you, and you can feel his heartbeat against your chest.
the jersey is twisted between you, bunched up around your ribs, his number half visible in the dim light.
"hi," you whisper, smiling against his hair.
he laughs, breathless and warm, and presses a kiss to your shoulder. "hi."
"amazing practice," he corrects, lifting his head to look at you with tired, but loving eyes. "best thing to come home to in my life, actually."
you grin, feeling smug and soft and thoroughly fucked out. "might have to wear this more often."
"don't you dare take it off," he says, suddenly serious, and then he's rolling to his side and pulling you with him, pressing you against his chest. the jersey is still on, tangled between you, and he traces the number on your back with lazy fingers.
outside the window the sun is setting, and chris hums contentedly against your hair, his hand sliding down to rest on your hip.
you smile into the warmth of him.
"love you too," you whisper back.
you keep the jersey on all night.
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