I was hiding under your porch because I love you.

You know what I've been thinking about lately? How Carey Price went with the Habs to Nashville even though he wasn't ready to play yet, and then immediately afterward posted a shut out and won five games in a row with a ridiculous save percentage.

I'm not saying PK's dick healed Carey Price, but the timing is suspicious.

(What I am saying: Carey Price is a succubus and having sex with PK healed him.)

“I want to go on the road trip,” Carey says.

Stephane gives him a deeply skeptical look.

“I'm almost ready,” Carey says. "I could probably start the Nashville game."

Depending on when he can convince PK to see him.

Stephane's skeptical expression gets deeper. Carey tries to look like someone who can do a full butterfly without pain.

(He shouldn't have played hungry, that's how he got hurt, and he shouldn't have tried to play through the injury. Now he's slow and sore and playing like shit, like a human, and he's tired of it. He wants -- he wants a lot of things, but mostly right now, he wants to go to Nashville.)

Stephane sighs. "All right," he says. "I'll talk to Julien about it."

*

coming on the Nashville trip, he texts PK. can I see you?

PK takes a long time to answer. you starting?

maybe, Carey says.

mmmmHMMMM, PK says. after the game

Which is fair enough, Carey supposes.

Carey watches the game from the press box. Niemi keeps them in it, but the Preds win in the shootout.

PK is first off the bench, and something sharp and sour twists in Carey's gut as he watches PK throw his arms around Rinne, his face lit up and laughing.

He exhales and looks away. The Habs are filing off the ice. Carey goes down to the locker room.

Just like the Bell Centre, the Nashville Arena is a maze of tunnels and storage space. If he closes his eyes and concentrates, he can feel where PK is, but it's not exactly a road map.

PK meets him halfway, though, grabs his hand and pulls him into an empty office.

PK is still grinning, amped up from the win. He's taken his pads off, but he hasn't changed or showered since the game. Carey can almost feel the energy pouring off of him. He opens his mouth like he can breathe it in.

But of course that's not how this works.

"So, you wanted something?" PK asks, all fake-innocent.

Carey moves closer, into PK's space, until he can feel the heat of PK's body against his skin, until PK has to lift his chin to meet Carey's eyes.

"Yeah," Carey says, low and soft.

"Ask nice," PK says.

"Please," Carey says. He breathes in and PK's scent fills his nose, sweat and skin and the last traces of cologne. He's so hungry. "Let me suck your dick."

PK's smile slips and his eyes widen. "Yeah, okay, yes," he says, not teasing anymore.

Carey drops to his knees.

PK is already half-hard, his cock pressing against the tightness of his Under Armour. Carey pulls the fabric down and gets his hand on PK's dick.

As soon as he touches PK's skin, PK's desire spills through him. Carey takes a quick, sharp breath at the prickle of energy that comes with it, a taste of what he's starving for.

He gives PK a couple of strokes and PK's cock gets thicker and harder in his hand. PK's thighs tense and shiver and his breathing speeds up. Carey smooths PK's foreskin back, revealing the head of his cock, already wet.

Carey leans in and slides the tip of PK's cock into his mouth.

PK groans.

Carey takes him in deeper, swallowing him down until it's enough to choke him. He sucks PK's cock with an almost vicious intensity.

"Carey--" PK gasps.

Carey pulls back and looks up at PK, and PK comes.

The feel of PK's orgasm pours into him like a river, like water into parched dirt, and Carey soaks it up. The constant, low-level pain of his injury washes away, his exhaustion disappears in a surge of energy. There is enough to wipe away even the memory of his injury, if he just reaches for it. Carey breaks the connection off instead.

"Fuck," PK says on a long exhale. His knees fold up and he slides down the wall.

The adrenaline rush of victory that had PK bouncing on his toes is gone, drained away to feed Carey. Carey took a little of PK's own life force with it, not enough to hurt him, just enough to make him sleepy and fucked out.

Carey smiles and he knows it's smug, satisfied. PK shakes his head. He reaches out and rubs his thumb over Carey's chin and jaw, wiping at the mess of spit and come on Carey's face.

Carey leans into the touch. PK huffs out a laugh and kisses him.

Carey leans into that, too, kissing him back.

"Feeling better?" PK says when he pulls back.

"Yeah," Carey says. He stretches, pushing one leg out like he's dropping into the butterfly, and it feels good, easy, in a way that it hasn't in a long time.

PK watches him. "Even if you don't want to hook up with strangers, there's other people who'd help you with this. Chucky, or, hell, Shea--"

Carey makes a face. "It's not the same," he says, and it's true, but he's not exactly sure why. The rush of energy from PK is stronger, brighter. It comes easier and it takes less to make Carey feel whole and satisfied.

PK's face is soft, fond. "Okay," he says. He blows out a deep breath. "You probably gotta--"

"We're staying over," Carey says, too quickly. This is different, too. He doesn't want to sleep with the other people he feeds on. But wants to spend the night in PK's bed, wants to press his bare skin against the smooth, warm expanse of PK's body and fall asleep to the sound of him snoring.

"Yeah?" PK says.

"Yeah," Carey says. For a moment he thinks that PK is going to make him ask outright.

But after a long moment, PK finally says, "So come over, spend the night at my place. You got my address, right?"

Carey nods.

"Give me an hour," PK says. "I gotta finish up here."

"Sounds good," Carey says. It's harder than it should be to stand up, to turn around and walk out the door, and leave PK behind.

But at least he'll be getting a lot of practice at it.