1988hc

[1988hc]

angst, negative self image

Sid's got it all, friends who stuck with him through thick and thin, a team that's a contender, another chance, another shot. Jonny got a broken back and shattered dreams and a whole lot of nothing to show for all the pain.

Jonny isn't even all that good anymore. There's reporters already doubting whether he's truly hall of fame material, his star flaming out when Kaner's and Sid's still shine bright. The only reason he hasn't been relegated to third line grunt is because the Hawks never learned the meaning of center depth, because nobody quite dared to put their own Captain where he belonged. Well he's finding his place now, on the scrapheap, unceremoniously pushed out the door because he isn't even good enough for a team that's tanking, isn't worth the couple million to ensure they hit cap floor next year. Another five years and nobody will even remember him anymore as anything but a guy with a bright future that never truly lived up to his potential. He can't even blame the failing Hawks because Kane still managed to break record after record on a revolving door of linemates, while everyone floundered to scrounge up Jonny's off ice leadership presence to gloss over an NMC binding their hands.

Nobody believes he can do it anymore. Nobody but Jonny, who's too stubborn to accept what his body has been trying to tell him for two years now.

He should bow out while he's still got a modicum of grace left.

He just doesn't know whether he can get himself to do it.

[1988hc]

I love you, but I can't

1988, 1.8k words, hurt no comfort, break up, unhealthy relationship dynamics, unhappy ending

“I can have it painted. Remodel.” “But you won’t.” Sometimes it’s really fucking inconvenient how well Jonny knows him. How stubbornly he insists on demonstrating it. How Jonny always knows better. “Then what will you have me do? Live out of the team hotel?” Pat can feel his heart beating faster, his muscles tensing, everything in him shoring up for a fight, another blow of epic proportions. It’s one of Jonny’s worst qualities, how he can be this brick wall that Pat smashes himself against again and again, grinding himself into dust.

“Don’t buy it. You can’t live there,” Jonny says, because he’s a weirdo who doesn’t know how to start a phone conversation with ‘hello’.

Patrick rolls his eyes, glad that Jonny can’t see him, and closes out their now moot text thread to pull up the real estate listing again. “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

He swipes through the pictures, even though he’s seen them all before. It’s a nice apartment. Marble countertops, floor to ceiling windows, good neighborhood…

“It’s a shoebox,” Jonny complains, sounding offended on Patrick’s behalf. Which is oddly sweet, in a very roundabout Jonny way, but also entirely misguided.

“It’s a two bedroom. I’m not gonna need a home theater and basement gym and rooftop garden, and nobody’s asking me to shelter any rookies.” It’s just gonna be Patrick living there, how much space could he possibly need? “I’ll hardly be here, anyways.”

He doesn’t specify whether he means during the season or long-term. In too many ways still, he doesn’t want to be here. But he has to be, for now.

“Travel in the east is a lot shorter, you’ll be there more than you know.”

Looks like Jonny is still as loath to talk about the future as Pat is thinking about it. At least they still have something in common.

“I can’t afford a bigger place. Prices in New York are crazy, man.”

Jonny laughs. It’s not mean, per se, but something about it still stings. “Like fuck you can’t. I’ve seen your accounts.”

Pat doesn’t really want a bigger place. It’s not like Jonny will be there, taking up space with his clutter and his presence and his dreams of buying a dog. It’s just gonna be Pat rattling around in there, and he doesn’t want to get lost wandering aimlessly from empty room to empty room, thinking what could’ve been. He doesn’t know how to say any of that to Jonny, though, doesn’t want this to end in another fight.

“What about this one instead?” He sends Jonny another link.

It’s slightly bigger, and consequently a lot more expensive. Fucking New York, man. Pat’s not really relishing the idea of dropping so much money on a place he has no idea how long he’s even gonna be in. The team had offered to board him in a hotel for the remainder of the season, but that prospect is even more unappealing than buying something short term. ‘New York is a hot market, you can always flip it,’ Steve, his finance guy, had said, and Pat didn’t have any retort to that, so he’d started to make some calls.

“No,” Jonny says, quick enough that he can’t have done much more than pull up the site and glance at the listing.

Pat pinches the bridge of his nose. He only had a question about the energy rating and thermal insulation methods because he remembered vaguely reading something about long term health effects, but he really should’ve known better than to ask Jonny. It’s a hard habit to kill, still his first instinct whenever he turns around, to ensure Jonny’s on board with any major decision because for the longest time it used to be imperative he was. That’s what you do when you’re together. Jonny’s always been his go-to person.

And Pat misses that. More than the team, and the UC, and playing for a franchise he grew up in, that’s been so good to him, in a city that felt like home. He misses having Jonny there, a steady presence by his side, misses having someone to talk to, someone who’ll give Pat his honest opinion. Jonny used to be his sounding board and his reality check and his rock. But Pat’s in New York now, chasing a long buried dream, and Jonny is playing what’s gonna be his last games in Chicago, even if neither of them is willing to admit it yet.

Just another giant elephant in the room. There’s so many nowadays Pat feels like he’s barely got space left to breathe, skirting from one conversational land mine to another, always on tiptoes, braced for the next explosion. It’s why he went, and Jonny stayed.

“Too small?” He asks, and fails to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Jonny scoffs, but doesn’t rise to the bait. “It’s ugly.”

It’s true, the walls are a putrid yellow color that made Pat flinch the first time he saw it, and the all black kitchen isn’t exactly his style.

“I can have it painted. Remodel.”

“But you won’t.”

Sometimes it’s really fucking inconvenient how well Jonny knows him. How stubbornly he insists on demonstrating it. How Jonny always knows better.

“Then what will you have me do? Live out of the team hotel?” Pat can feel his heart beating faster, his muscles tensing, everything in him shoring up for a fight, another blow of epic proportions.

It’s one of Jonny’s worst qualities, how he can be this brick wall that Pat smashes himself against again and again, grinding himself into dust. Jonny can be so goddamn absolute, hard and unforgiving, managing to make Pat feel dumb and small and stupid for trying. Pat bites his lip, using the pain as a focal point to push the tears threatening to spill over back down, tries to breathe even though his chest feels tight. He can’t even tell whether it’s frustration or hurt that’s making him feel this way, emotions he’s not willing to examine bubbling inside him, vulnerable and raw.

Maybe he’d know if he’d gone to therapy like Jonny wanted him to, but Pat didn’t particularly feel like letting a stranger tell him all the things he was doing wrong in their relationship. He got enough from Jonny on that.

Jonny’s breathing on the other end of the line, so Pat knows the call hasn’t disconnected. Jonny’s quiet, though, probably clenching his jaw and staring off into the distance, drawn inward and fucking impenetrable, alone with his thoughts, leaving Pat like a stranger standing outside, banging against the door begging to be let inside.

This is why they stopped working together, why Pat had to go away, break free.

A tiny part of Pat had hoped that with distance, not seeing each other every day fighting over unopened mail and dirty dishes and stinky socks on a wet bathroom floor, it would get better. That maybe having some time away from each other would allow them both to find their equilibrium again. Instead Pat’s never felt more off-kilter, trying to acclimate to a new team and new city, everything suddenly blue and loud and big, and even winning had felt strange somehow, like Pat didn’t really deserve it.

“What about this one,” Jonny says, because when shit gets tough he’s always liked to retreat to the task at hand, as if everything would somehow magically fix itself if Jonny could just ignore it long enough. Pat’s phone plings with another link. He swipes the notification away.

Nothing’s really changed. It’s been a couple weeks now, and Pat thought that maybe— but Jonny’s still barely talking to him, and when he does it’s about inane stuff, or this. No matter how hard Pat tries, somehow they always end up fighting. They used to be on the same side, but now there’s a rift between them, and Pat doesn’t know which one of them switched sides, or when, or how.

It would be easier if it were something tangible. If someone had cheated, or said something stupid, or whatever. Then they could’ve fought about it, and it would’ve been ugly and a shitshow, but they could’ve moved past it eventually. Or at least Pat would’ve known why they stopped working. Instead it’s been this, a slow death that Pat hadn’t recognized before he’d woken up one morning and suddenly found himself on the outside of Jonny’s fortifications, a wall impossible to scale.

He’s so fucking tired.

The link is an olive branch of sorts, a chance for them to keep talking.

But Pat’s been down this road too many times before.

Jonny’s gonna send him links of condos that Pat is gonna hate, if not for the condos themselves then for that fact that Jonny picked them, Pat resenting that he let Jonny have a say in this and yet unable to tell him to back off. So he’s gonna end up giving in to one of Jonny’s choices just to keep the peace, and resent Jonny even more for it, and himself for being a pushover, and Jonny will be annoyed that Pat’s crabby, and he won’t understand what the problem is when Pat tries to talk about it, because Pat agreed to the condo didn’t he, and if he doesn’t like the condo why did he buy it, when it isn’t even about the goddamn condo. It’s never been about the condo, or money, or their last summer vacation, or Pat spending Christmas with his family, or Jonny’s kooky nutritionist and faith crystal healer, or the right AC setting at night.

It’s always been about them. And Pat can’t do it anymore.

He tried, he tried so goddamn fucking hard. But nothing Pat tries ever makes a difference, nothing he does will ever be good enough, nothing he says manages to get through to Jonny anymore.

He’s been shut out, with no way in.

The rift between them is yawning, a gaping abyss, and Pat can feel it swallow him whole.

“Sorry, Jonny, I don’t think this—” Pat chokes halfway through the sentence, all the old hurt and anger flooding through him anew, an unhealed wound someone’s picked off the scab bleeding fresh and scarlet red. “I have to go.”

He hits disconnect, not giving Jonny a chance to reply.

A drop hits the black screen of his cell phone, and Pat pushes it away, buries his head in his arms folded on the table, and cries. Ugly, wracking sobs that shake his whole body, and once he’s let go is like an avalanche, the dam breaking, the flood sweeping every last, flimsy defense away, leaving Pat floating and unmoored.

It hurts worse than anything Pat’s ever felt before. His chest is the epicenter of it all, pain radiating outwards to his limbs, like someone drove an ice pick straight through his sternum. He tries to curl up, but it’s no use. The pain is inside him, there’s no refuge. It’s cold and cruel, a gaping hole where he used to be whole, like someone’s gone and ripped away a piece of Patrick.

Gone gone gone. Should’ve known better, should’ve tried harder. I hate you, I miss you, I need you. Fucking why, I’m so fucking tired, why did it have to end like this. I can’t I can’t I can’t, oh God.

Why do I fucking love you. Why does it have to hurt like this.

No matter how tight he screws his eyes shut, the truth is right there, staring him in the face, hammering behind his temples to the beat of the ice pick getting hammered into his chest, a steady drum ripping Pat apart.

Pat needs to get out. He needs to breathe. He can’t do this anymore.

Him and Jonny are over.

#1988

[1988hc]

Kaner doesn't understand how someone who loves hockey - arguably the coolest sport on earth - so much they went pro in it can also love curling, the lamest sport on earth where nothing ever happens.

"It's relaxing, and the precision and strategy required is really cool," Jonny says with his patented 'you just don't get it but I don't care because I'm a lame loser with bad opinions' shrug.

"It's because you're Canadian, isn't it," Pat says. "They genetically engineered you that way."

Jonny barks out a laugh, surprised, and Pat's heart does a little flutter inside his chest. It's embarrassing, the way his body will react every time he gets Jonny to crack up, but it's a secret Kaner will take to his grave.

"Yeah, Kaner, they all make us in a lab up there," Jonny drawls, dry as bone, shaking his head a little but the corner of his mouth is quirked up, quietly amused. Kaner hates how good it looks on him.

He nods sagely. "Explains why you're such a freak."

Jonny looks at him with an expression that clearly means he thinks Kaner is an idiot.

"Shut up and come here," he growls, and Kaner lets himself be pulled on top of Jonny, barely playing hard to get with Jonny's pecks for like three seconds before he breaks and gives in, opening up and kissing Jonny properly.

At least they are each other's idiots. Kaner hums happily into the kiss, wriggling until he can slide a hand between Jonny and the mattress, moving it down until he can cop of a feel of Jonny's magnificent ass.

At some point Kaner's gonna have to have a word with whoever runs the breeding program up there in Canada that if they continue to imbue their hockey babies with lame opinions they really need to make them less hot. It's too late for Kaner, but at least he can try to save future generations of suffering the same fate and falling for a lame ass Canadian. Millions of Americans are gonna thank him.

#1988

[1988hc]

trade angst, unrequited love, unhappy ending, mental health

Being out for a year with depression was hard. It had been only part of the diagnosis, the one part they'd never made official, because Jonny didn't need everyone to think he was even more of a basketcase than people already took him for. His doctors still weren't sure how much of it all was physical and which parts were psychosomatic. It hadn't really mattered in the end. Jonny couldn't play, couldn't drag himself out of bed, feeling drained and horrible and alone and numb, everything a big black hole, an endless slog. Who cared if it was his body or his brain that was giving out?

Pat had told Jonny he was expecting a child and Jonny had fucking imploded, the unexpected news the last straw that broke the camel's back. It had stung, sharp and vicious like a splinter, and in the span of four months Jonny had lost everything he'd known about himself; suddenly the only guy without a girl by his side, a plan for his future, a family on the horizon, a life after hockey. Splitting from Lindsay had been hard, but there'd been that glimmer of hope, irrational and fickle but there, a tiny flicker, a maybe. But Pat had gone and fucking gotten Amanda pregnant and well, Jonny guesses that's really his answer.

The flame had winked out in the blink of an eye and with it Jonny's will to do anything but lie in bed all day and feel sorry for himself.

Depression, his therapist had said. Unresolved issues. Long COVID, and whatever whacky immunoresponses his body could come up with.

His medical file was three manila folders thick by now, filled with endless gibberish, Jonny's eyes glazing over after only a few words.

Viral. Mental. Bacterial. Chronic.

There were no easy answers. Jonny learned that lesson the hard way.

But he'd fought his way back to hockey because no matter what, he wasn't ready yet to give up his career just because his love life never worked out the way he'd wanted it to. He and Pat had been exes for years now, they were cordial, he could deal. So he came back and put his head down and worked hard and grit his teeth.

Welcomed new guys to the locker room. Saw another future crumble and used all his newfound skills to breathe, to relax, to take it one day at a time.

And then Pat tells him he's decided to leave, on the phone, the fucking coward, talking about "opportunities" and "Brisson thinks" and "Amanda loves New York" and "I might eat a lot pizza", Jonny's brain a static buzz. Pat's going to the Rangers. If they want him. He sounds excited, even, and Jonny hums, cell phone slipping in his number fingers.

One phone call.

One phone call and all the carefully constructed walls Jonny had built come crumbling down like a house of cards, collapsing into a messy pile, not even making a sound besides a faint rustle.

One phone call and he's right back where he was one and a half years ago, unable to scrape himself out of bed and make his body obey, no gas left in the tank to force his body through a future without Pat by his side.

He thought he was over Pat.

He really isn't.

"Jonny," his therapist says, and Jonny knows that tone of voice. Compassionate, but stern. Calling his bullshit, making him face the truth.

They talked about so many things that year he was out. Boundaries. Self-care. Healing. Taking time to process, seeking help when he needs it. Stop pushing through, learn to listen to the pain. A couple other hard lessons.

Pat is leaving.

Breathe.

Jonny thought he was prepared.

It stings, sharp and vicious like a splinter.

He really isn't.

"I know."

One phone call later he's officially on IR again.

#1988

[1988hc]

"I, uh, had a really great time," Jonny drawls on the flight back home, voice so flat it takes Pat a moment to parse the compliment.

He grins, stuffing Divergent into his seat pocket even though he really wants to know what faction Tris is going to end up in. "Told ya Kanes win at Christmas."

The instant scowl on Jonny's face is nothing short of amazing. Jonny has like an infinite amount of scowls. This one is definitely of the 'whatever you said deeply offended my Canadian pride' variety. Pat loves it a lot.

"You did not win at Christmas."

"Nu uh," Pat waggles his finger. "No takesies backsies!"

"It wasn't even a competition!"

"You're just saying that because you lost."

"We only went to Buffalo because my parents are on that France trip!"

Kaner's has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling so hard he's gonna pull a muscle. Jonny looks enraged, shout-whispering at Pat in business class, the vein on his forehead threatening to pop out any second. "So you're saying Christmas in Winterpeg would've topped epic snowball fights and Christmas carols around my grandpa's fireplace and my Mom's world famous gingersnaps."

Jonny juts his jaw out, making him look particularly mulish. "Yes."

"People have landed in the hospital angling for a tin of her gingersnaps!" Sure, it had largely been an accident that Uncle Bob's fork ended up in Miss Stevenson's arm, but the point stands.

"They were okay."

Kaner should break up with Jonny right this instant. Any person who fails to appreciate a perfect gingersnap when it's presented to them cannot hold love in their heart. Good thing Kaner knows Jonny's just fronting here. He personally caught Jonny sneaking an extra cookie on four separate occasions.

"Okay." Kaner heaves a long-suffering sigh.

"Okay?"

"Yes," Pat says, smiling for real now, because Jonny is an idiot and Pat loves him so damn much. "We can go to your family's next year and have a totally lame Christmas decorating moose antlers and guzzling maple syrup and freezing our balls off. Although that will be a tragedy because I happen to have excellent balls, you said so yourself last night."

"Jesus!" Jonny hisses, slapping a hand over Kaner's mouth even though Kaner said the last part extra low.

Pat licks his palm. "Keep it down, will ya?"

"That's not what you said las--mpfpfffpf"

~

"Fine," Jonny says once the ensuing tickle-slapfight-wrestling has been settled, Kaner securely wrapped up in Jonny's arms. He snuggles closer with a happy hum. "I'll show you. Next year."

"Yeah?" Pat asks, looking up at Jonny even though he's mostly seeing his own hair and Jonny's chin. There's a mole on the underside of it. Kaner manfully resists the urge to lean in and run his tongue over it.

"Yeah," Jonny says, all stoic and Canadian. "It's gonna be the best Christmas ever."

Kaner really, really doubts that, but he's willing to give Jonny a fighting chance here. Next year.

[1988hc]

They're facing each other, Thom's arms over Nick's shoulders because he's just that half inch taller, smirking at Nick while Nick looks up at him, happy and excited and his tits on full display in that grey shirt driving Thom wild the whole game, hell yeah they're gonna have some fun.

"I missed you," Nick confesses, voice low even though there's nobody else around, and Thom laughs, wrapping his legs around Nick's middle and lets Nick carry him.

"Yeah baby," he says, carding his hands through Nick's hair, squeezing the nape of his neck, Nick's hands under Thom's ass holding him up, pressed so tight against Nick he can feel Nick's full body shudder as he asks, "You gonna be a good boy for me tonight?"

~

Nick's a good boy indeed, licking up and down Thom's abs, tongue wet and raspy, until Thom can't take it anymore, burying both hands in Nick's hair and finally guiding him to where Thom's wanted him since he first got out of the car and spotted Nick in the crowd.

"Fuck, I missed you," Thom mutters, his own confession a lot more stuttery as Nick curls his tongue around the head of Thom's cock. He can feel Nick smile around him, lips stretching wide, which is nice but also not what Thom needs right now. "Show me how much you've missed me," he demands, and then doesn't give Nick the chance to prepare, shoving him down on Thom's cock.

Nick chokes as expected, throat working, the muffled sounds shooting straight to Thom's cock. Fuck yeah he's missed this. He counts out one second, two, savoring Nick's struggles before relenting and letting him up again, Nick wheezing out a cough.

"Fuck, Thom." Nick sounds rough, and Thom can't wait to fuck him up for real, make him so hoarse he won't have recovered by breakfast yet, let all the boys know what he's been doing. It's been too long since they done this, and it seems like Nick needs the reminder, too.

"What did I tell you to call me?" Thom asks, voice dangerous, hand fisted painfully tight in Nick's hair.

Nick makes a tiny pained sound, head jerking back to ease the strain.

"Sorry, Sir," he murmurs, eyes downcast, and Thom eases his grip, rubs across Nick's scalp in forgiveness.

"That's right."

~

He makes Nick suck his balls because he absolutely won't last with Nick shredding his throat with Thom's cock and it's been so long Thom's determined to savor every last moment of this, drag it out as much as he can. Nick's enthusiastic as always, slobbering up Thom's balls like there's a prize to win at the end, which is ridiculous and endearing at the same time. It doesn't do much for Thom, truth be told, which is exactly he he'd told Nick to do it, but now that Nick's down there Thom's wondering...

"Where else are you willing to put your mouth?"

Nick draws off at that, emerging from between Thom's spread legs, hair mussed and his whole lower face glistening with spit. Thom reaches out, wipes his thumb through the mess, and Nick turns his head, captures Thom's thumb in his mouth, sucking it like he would a cock. Fuck, Thom loves him so much. Nick's always so needy for something in his mouth, cock or balls or fingers, even let Thom face fuck him with a carrot that one time, which probably hadn't been all that safe but super fucking hot.

"Answer me, Nick."

Nick makes a sound, chasing after Thom's finger, but Thom grips his chin, forces Nick to focus. He gets lost in it when they play, like he's having trouble understanding Thom sometimes, too focused on the task at hand.

"You mean, like--" Nick stares at Thom, eyes wide and unfocused, and fuck, Thom wants to eat him. Press him into the mattress and fucking ravage him until Nick's a blubbering mess, until they're both exhausted and achy and then turn Nick around and do it all over again.

"You tell me," Thom says, unwilling to make this a straight out command because Nick would do it if he asked, would never tell Thom 'no'. He's such a good boy. Thom hooks his hands behind his knees, draws his legs up and open. "Mouth wherever you want, make me feel good."

Nick nods, "yeah, of course, fuck Bords," bordering on a whine, and Thom allows himself a small smile, would reach out right now and card a hand through Nick's hair, give him a couple pets if he had a hand free.

"Go."

Nick's a good boy, such a good boy, he doesn't waste any time, barely pressing a fleeting kiss to the base of Thom's dick on his way past and then goes straight for it, mouth hot and wet where Thom didn't dare order him to go.

"Fuck," Thom nearly shouts, legs shaking, struggling to keep himself open as Nick dives right in, "fuck, Nick, baby, yeah, just like that. C'mon, give it to me."

Nick makes a sound like he's dying, tiny dolphin whine, and doubles his efforts, tongue swirling around the pucker of Thom's hole, setting Thom ablaze.

#bordsblanks #thom #blanks #umich

[1988hc]

Trevor's thigh is so smooth, the skin soft and tan and hairless, still warm from their afternoon out on the deck, conked out in the shade.

"Get away from me," Trevor laughs, batting Jack's hand away.

"Why?" Jack blinks, innocent.

"You ticklish, Z?" Cole smirks, sunglasses sliding down his nose, propped up on a lounger next to them, smelling blood in the water.

Trevor looks a little pink across the nose, too much sun maybe. He only arrived yesterday. "Pfft, no."

"Your skin's so smooth," Jack says, hand right back where it was before, addicted, skimming over the hem of Trevor's shorts, stretched tight across Trevor's thighs. They're not tree trunks yet, but they're not slim, either. "Like a baby's face."

"Oh yeah?" Cole asks, leaning in closer.

"Yeah, come feel," Jack invites. Trevor has two thighs, after all.

Cole hums, pressing himself against Trevor's side, grinning a shit-eating grin as he trails his fingertips up the inside of Trevor's leg, starting at the knee. Daring Trevor to smack his hand away, call it quits.

Trevor's breathing is more pronounced now, but he's doesn't jerk away, doesn't protest, his eyes sliding half-shut like he can't help it. Jack knows that expression well. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Cole answers for Trevor, easy and confident. He's always been able to read Trevor the best. He leans down, then, replacing his fingers with his lips.

Trevor groans, a soft one, thighs falling open wider. Cole hums in answer, sucking on the delicate skin of Trevor's inner thigh.

"Think he's hairless everywhere?" Jack muses. He hasn't seen enough of Trevor yet to know, didn't catch him change when they all went for a dip earlier.

Cole doesn't answer right away, too busy working Trevor's skin between his teeth, leaving a trail of blooming red patches in his wake.

It's Trevor who picks up Jack's challenge, too impatient as always to wait for Cole, voice strained and head thrown back, clearly enjoying whatever Cole is doing down there. "Why don't you find out?"

Jack laughs, and goes for his zipper. If Trevor's balls are shaved Jack is calling fucking dibs.

#usntdp #trevor #cole #j'accuse

[1988hc]

Blanks on his back on the floor, Thom putting his foot on Blanks' chest, dressed like that, looking down at him, all impeccable lines and that double breasted jacket and his perfect shiny shoes and he isn't a tall guy, isn't imposing, but when he wears his outfits he has this confidence that drives Blanks nuts, and he fully blames those 'step on you' tiktoks but Blanks can't help it, and Bords is nice enough to oblige.

He comes with Thom sitting on his chest, dick still hanging out spit-wet from his pants where he fed it to Blanks earlier, fisted a hand in Blanks' hair and fed his hard dick past Blanks' lips inch by inch, dark lines of his tattoo so close they were all blurry on the back of his hand, only the slit of his pants opened enough for his dick to stick out, telling Blanks he's gonna kill him, send him the dry cleaning bill if he so much as gets a spot on Bords' suit so he has to swallow it all like a champ and then make sure he only shoots into his fist, catches every last drop on himself while Thom pats his cheek, giving him a quick kiss before getting off and tucking himself back in.

"You good?" Thom asks, looking at Blanks all sprawled out on the floor and technically Blanks should be able to breathe again but all he manages is a wobbly thumbs up and a goofy smile, floating high while Bords shoots him a wink, adjusts his hat, and slips back to the party.

The memory becomes instant favorite spank bank material. Well, maybe together with that time Thom made him take that pic in the bathroom at the house party while everyone else was at the Olympics, wearing that black and red leather number. It had be the first time they'd done this, Blanks whimpering, whispering please while Thom stood above him, looking down as he stroked his dick, right there above Blanks' face, close and yet untouchable, hovering over Nick.

"Close your eyes," Thom had told him, voice low and soft, and Nick had done it. It didn't take long for the first drop to hit him, slightly off to his nose, Thom's soft grunt as Nick had kept his eyes closed but opened his mouth, the next spurt landing across his lips and on his tongue.

He'd waited that time for Bords to clean up and leave, desperately hard in his pants. Thom had told him "you get two minutes, then I'm gone" as he stepped outside to guard the door and Nick had shoved a hand in his pants so fast, lying on the cold bathroom tile, fist in his mouth and Bords' taste still on his tongue.

#bordsblanks #umich #thom #blanks

[1988hc]

It started out with Cole sitting on the back of the couch, a sturdy leather number, all dark brown and classy. Cole wonders whether the couch makers thought of this when they made it, if they wondered how it'd feel for someone to be bent over the back of it, the couch's back digging into his stomach. How the armrests lend themselves to hook a leg over them, helping him keep them spread. It's a good couch.

Today he's barely on it at all, using only his hands for balance on the backrest, propped back with his legs hooked firmly over Jeff's arms, ass in the air as Jeff fucks him so good Cole's about to see stars any second now. He needs both hands though, legs wrapped around Jeff, which means his cock is slapping against his belly all by itself with no way to get more friction on it. It makes Cole squirm, bouncing harder on Jeff's dick for that slap slap slap driving him higher, not unlike that one time Shea tied his hands and made Cole come with nothing but a riding crop on his cock.

Cole always homie hopping

#cole

[1988hc]

Kaner: i think we broke Reichel

Jonny: what?! What did you do to my rookie??!

Kaner, rolling his eyes: I didn't do anything, Jonny, calm down.

Jonny: is he hurt?

Kaner: nah, he'll get over it

Jonny: well what happened?

Kaner, looking at Jonny for a long moment: you're too big of a softie

Jonny, choking on his drink: fuck you, am not

Kaner just raises an eyebrow, waiting Jonny out

Jonny makes an undignified noise, finally putting it together: when he watched us?

Kaner, quiet: yeah. Kiddo thinks that's what you get when you play together long enough, but with Kirby...

Jonny: I'm gonna talk to him

Kaner: don't bother, I already did

Jonny: so then what do you want me to do?

Kaner: you need to stop wearing your heart on your goddamn sleeve, Jonny. You're giving all these rookies wrong ideas about love

Jonny, slightly breathless: love, eh?

Kaner just shrugs, he's long since come to terms with the fact that yeah, they were in fact in love back then, that there's still something between them no other word quite describes

Jonny: maybe I'll stop once you do

Kaner takes a swig of his drink, looking out over the rooftops of Chicago, the vines Jonny's got growing on up the sides of his sun roof, some of his gardening equipment shoved to the side where Kaner interrupted him earlier stopping by unannounced: maybe we need to stop fucking in front of the rookies, then

Jonny makes a noise, a soft hum, his knee knocking into Kaner's, staying pressed against him when Kaner presses back: just in front of the vets, then

Kaner snorts, but when he chances a glance over at Jonny, Jonny is grinning, and yeah, they'll be alright

#1988 #jonny #kaner #lookühe #hawks

[1988hc]

It's late morning in LA, the sun streaming in through the window bright and ferocious cause it's like almost noon. But they were up late last night, had a bit of fun at the beach and the pool. Someone had broken out the tequila and it'd all been downhill from there, so the house is still quiet, barely a soul stirring.

Briss is in the kitchen, up because he always has a problem sleeping past double digits no matter how hard he tries. He'd blinked his eyes open at ten thirty, squinting at his cell with a groan, and then tried going back to sleep for an hour before finally giving up and rolling his ass out of bed. He's currently fighting with the espresso machine, cursing his dad for getting the stupid fancy italian model that requires an engineering degree to operate instead of an Nespresso machine like a normal person.

"Fucking useless stupid piece of shit," Briss spits under his breath, cause there's an insistent throbbing at his temples that he knows caffeine can cure, if only he could get the damn thing to work.

"Hey, what's that beautiful lady ever done to you?" A voice asks, rough like it's been shot and dragged by the back of a pickup three miles up a gravel road.

Briss turns to find Bords walking in, wearing nothing but a burgundy silk robe with some complicated pattern at the trim, one he didn't even bother tying, which means it does nothing to hide the very obvious morning wood tenting his boxers, almost strong enough to make the waistband peek a little gap where it wraps around Thom's stomach.

Briss swallows and squints, cause the sun is high but the house is quiet and Thom looks like a fucking Saudi prince, shuffling into the kitchen in that stupid robe and his hair all rumpled, perfect abs and treasure trail on display, hips swaggering as he takes the few steps down into the kitchen. It's hard at the best of times to shove those feelings away, the ones that made Briss ask "you wanna come play in the tourney with me?" before his brain had a chance to kick in, and by the time it had started screaming at him what a bad fucking idea it was to invite his stupid unrequited crush to a summer of shirtlessness and hockey Thom had already broken out into a smile, sunny and wide as you please, nodding his head, breathing, "yeah man, if you got a spot for me" and Briss had swallowed and looked at Thom and headfirst thrown himself into his doom. "I'll ask. I'm sure they'll have you."

Of course they wanted Thom. On Briss' team, even. So now he's stuck, stuck in his dad's house in LA with no one around but Thom and a constant revolving door of boys, all of them laughing, throwing arms over shoulders, throwing shades on and cranking the music, throwing Briss' last fucking threads of sanity out the window of his dad's convertible doing seventy on the highway. Cause Thom is here and perfect and barely ever clothed, and he's sticking to Briss' side like he's made it his personal mission to ensure Briss won't survive this summer, and if he keeps it up Briss is pretty sure he's gonna crack before the week is out. The pounding in his temples intensifies, the one that says those last three tequila shots had been a bad idea, just like everything else in Briss' life is a Bad Idea lately, capital letters, but he's just a moth drawn in to the flame that is Bords' mouth quirking up in a lopsided grin, his lips pink and chapped, white teeth glinting as they set against his bottom lip. Briss is overcome by a momentary wave of jealousy, those teeth getting what he wants so desperately: a taste of Bords' mouth, slick and rank, probably still tasting like alcohol and 2am tacos. Problem is, Briss wouldn't even mind.

"Coffee," he croaks, because Thom has drawn dangerously close and if Briss doesn't make his exit soon he's gonna burst into flames, or melt into a whimpering pile at Bords' feet, begging for someone to just kill him already, put him out of his misery.

"Here, let me," Bords says, bodily shouldering Briss out of the way, taking the stamped down espresso holder from Briss' slack grip. "She's a lady, they like it when you're nice to them," Bords goes on, fingers dancing over the polished chrome of the machine like he's caressing someone's skin, and Briss has to turn away before he starts screaming. It's too much, too much, the sun shining through the window sending a stab of pain all the way from his eyes straight into his brain and Briss groans. He should've just gone and raided the medicine cabinets for some pain killers instead. And then locked himself in the bathroom and refused to come out until the tourney was over and Bords a safe three thousand miles away again.

There's some sputtering and gurgling and Thom turns just as the sound of espresso running through the machine into a cup starts, putting his full attention back on Briss again. He scratches his balls, unselfconscious, and Briss presses his eyes closed before he can look, find out whether Bords is still hard, check whether he can see the top hairs of Bords' pubes peeking out because Thom never found a pair of pants he couldn't sling lower on his hips than decency demanded and still have them stay up somehow.

"There anything to eat around here?"

Eat me, Briss wants to answer but clamps his mouth shut just in time, swallowing those words. "There's uh. There should be some leftover pizza?"

"Nah, Drake polished that off last night," Thom replies, sucking in a breath, stretching in a way that makes the robe flutter and his pants dip even lower, his stomach drawn in, and Briss wants to fling himself off a fucking cliff.

"You up for a MacD run?" Thom presses a tiny white espresso cup filled with beautiful, dark liquid into Briss hands. "I could kill for an egg mcmuffin right now."

"Yeah," Briss breathes, clutching his espresso like a life line, the pounding in his head loud enough by now to have become a constant background noise. "Sure. But you might uh, might wanna put on some pants first."

It's California, but still. Briss isn't vying to get arrested for public indecency in a MacDonald's drive through.

Thom laughs, clapping Briss on the back. His hand is impossibly warm, Briss' shoulder tingling from the brief contact, a buzzing all the way down to his toes. Just like every time Bords touches him. And just like every time it takes Briss a second to get his brain back online, reel back from the fluttering feeling of where all those touches might lead someday, grounding his feet firmly back in reality. Thom isn't interested in Briss he reminds himself, or Thom would've made his move ages ago. It's getting harder to remember every time.

"What, my outfit not stylish enough for you? I got this robe in Mexico," Thom says, doing a little sashaying dance that makes it spin, shooting Briss a smile over his shoulder and fluttering his lashes.

Briss burns his tongue on the espresso. "Get outta here, asshole," he gripes, but Thom just laughs, blowing him a kiss like they do in the old black and white movies his mom loves so much.

"Be right down, babe. Don't go anywhere without me!"

Bords sprints up the stairs, bare feet slapping against the marble, and then he's gone in a flutter of burgundy and tantalizing silhouettes and Briss lets himself slump back against the counter with a groan. Two and a half more weeks of this. He's gonna fucking die.

#bordsbriss #thom #briss #umich

[1988hc]

"Nate."

"What?"

Sid's stilled again, holding himself up, carefully poised above Nate, his big frame boxing Nate in, his cock sheathed in Nate's ass, big and snug and okay, maybe a little much after Nate's just come but fuck, he wants it.

He nudges Sid with his knee, knocking into Sid's hips. "C'mon."

"No."

"Why?"

"Cause I'm hurting you."

There's a furrow between Sid's eyebrows, the one he always gets when things don't go the way he envisioned them to go. He's worried, but he also hasn't pulled out yet, which tells Nate all he needs to know.

"I'm a big boy, I can take it."

It doesn't land, Sid brows furrowing even further. "Nate."

So Nate tries again.

"Please."

For a moment they're locked in a staring match, Sid's worried gaze tracking over Nate's face, Nate's raised eyebrows doing most of the talking for him. Let me. I promise I'm fine. I want it. He knows Sid wants it too, can see it in the way his eyes are dark and heavy-lidded, the tiny twitches of his hips, the sweat beading on Sid's upper lip.

"C'mon," Nate breathes, soft, and lets himself melt into the mattress, all his limbs gooey and loose, one heavy hand on the nape of Sid's neck drawing him down. "C'mon, fuck me," Nate murmurs against Sid's mouth before he kisses that sweat from Sid's lips, opening wide.

Sid makes a punched out sound, lurching forward, the movement rocking him deeper into Nate.

"Yeah, yeah, c'mon, Sid, give it to me."

Sid's like a steam train rolling out of the station, the first thrust almost excruciatingly slow, halting. Nate makes a show of it, moans extra loud and throws his head back, one leg hooked around Sid, drawing him in. The second is a little more forceful, gathering steam, dragging over nerve-endings that are entirely too sensitive, Nate's own spent dick twitching feebly where it's nestled against his belly. Sid huffs, arms straining, and Nate wants to lick the curves of his biceps, the dip between his pecs, the highest corner of his hairline where the sweat glistens at the temple turning Sid's hair dark and wet.

One thrust, another, and then they're rolling, Nate's overt moans like the whistle of it, Sid's quiet huffs the white billowing steam, the two of them moving in rhythm, Sid's cock dragging over Nate's prostate and Nate bites his lip because it's a lot, it's always a lot taking Sid after he's already come, but he wants it more than it hurts.

"I love you," Nate blurts, inappropriate and unguarded, watching Sid's own face screw up in a grimace.

"Nate," Sid pants, but his hips are pistoning, forcing Nate into the mattress with every forceful shove, "fuck, Nate, you can't just--"

The rest of the sentence gets drowned in a groan, Sid's dick swelling and twitching in Nate's ass, and Nate makes sure to clamp down, milk Sid for all he's worth as Sid empties himself into Nate's ass. "Fuuuuuck."

Nate hums, fingers carding through Sid's sweaty hair, Sid's forehead pressing against Nate's collarbone in a way that isn't really comfortable, but Nate doesn't bother shifting.

He's right where he wants to be, Sid huffing with silent, incredulous laughter above Nate, his dick buried in Nate's ass, the two of them fucked out and oversensitive and slick with sweat. Nate grins, giving Sid's dick another affectionate squeeze.

It makes Sid lift his head, but his eyes are so incredibly fond when they find Nate's that Nate can't find it in himself to be repentant. Sid shakes his head, grinning. "I love you too, you hair-trigger asshole."

Nate laughs, voice going high and pitchy in the middle when Sid pulls out, watching Sid roll off the bed and pad into the en-suite. There's some rustling and then the sounds of the shower starting. Nate gives himself another moment, three more breaths of staying in bed, feeling fucked out and languid, Sid's come a tiny trickle running down his ass cheeks and staining the sheets, before he gets up and goes to find Sid.

He nearly trips over his suitcase on the way to the bathroom, not even opened yet from when he arrived yesterday, ignoring his own house to make a beeline straight for Sid's, hasn't needed any clothes since Sid opened the door, eyes widening in surprise, and dragged Nate inside, out of view of the neighbors.

If it's up to Nate, he won't need clothes for another three days at least.

#sidnate

[1988hc]

Trevor would be the sluttiest, brattiest sub. Like totally down to let you tie him up, wears those fishnet stockings and eyeliner to the club no problem, but he's not gonna take anything seriously.

Treats it all like a game.

"Oh, you want me on my knees? Yeah, sure. Sorry, I mean... Yes, sir."

"Does this turn you on? Seeing me and pretty and dolled up for you? C'mon you know I'm the hottest thing you've ever seen."

"Sure I can walk in three inch heels." (spoilers: he really can't. fuck him, Cole always makes it look so easy. how.)

Drinks nothing but champagne because it's the most expensive drink on the menu and "you said i could have anything i wanted". But champagne just turns him into a giggly mess, clingy like a koala, totally useless for anything but opening his mouth wide, letting you ruin his lipgloss with your dick until his lips are pink and shiny all on their own.

Lounges utterly shameless in your lap, constantly playing with the o-ring on his collar, loudly musing about getting a tongue piercing, or maybe his nipples, or "what do you think of a tattoo right here?" pulling down his pants in full view of the public to show off the tender skin right above his crotch, fabric low enough to show his pubes and just a hint of cock. Of course he went commando. Laughs it off when you tell him to stop, batting his eyes at you. "You can mark me up later," and maybe this means draw on him with a sharpie or maybe it means tie him up in ropes that leave the most delicious, beautiful marks on his skin, red lines crisscrossing his torso while he squirms against the hold, breathing harshly, hair a mess from the pillow because you tied his arms to his back and he can't hold himself up, face smushed into the mattress, begging helplessly as you dribble cold lube down his crack and yeah, where's his cockiness now?

Being a sub is hard. Hard like Trevor after you teased him for twenty minutes, a babbling mess because the boy got no patience, no impulse control, no sense of delayed gratification. He wants it all now, your fingers or your cock or even that prostate massager shoved back inside so he can rock back and forth, whimpering pathetically while you tug on his nipples. He's always so easy for it, eager like an overgrown puppy, grateful when you let him come the first time not knowing that the real fun is only starting now when he's keyed up and oversensitive and it's not your fault if he can't remember the safe word he tossed out at the beginning of the night.

[1988hc]

ahh these are so lovely!! 🥰 just found this blog today and I am so excited to sit down with a coffee and read. What a delight!

Aw, thank you so much 🥺🥰🙏

Fair warning, though, especially the further back you go, this really is just a place for me to stick my random snippets and thoughts so they might not always make the most sense 😅🙈

#asks

[1988hc]

The thing about Jonny is, he cares.

He cares so damn much, about everything, from the big picture right down to the tiny details. Cares about his own performance, about the team's, about the season and games and every shift, cares what the coaching staff and management and the media is saying. Jonny isn't an asshole or a control-freak or a power-hungry maniac, isn't malicious or mean or arrogant. He just cares about other people's performance as much as his own, and not everyone knows how to take it, the incessant need for you to do better all the time. Step up your game, take this seriously, show the effort, do your best. Play like it matters. Every shift, every play, ever breath. It's hard to hear for some, especially when it comes from Jonny. Not everyone likes being told what they need to improve. That's a them problem, though.

Jonny's a good captain because he cares. Cares how people are doing and what he can do to make it better, make them better. Worse yet, he seems to think it's his responsibility too, as captain or as friend or even just as Jonny, as a guy, doing whatever he can to help. Management saw and stuck that letter on his chest and it's been his responsibility to deal with ever since. "Nobody should be made captain at 20," Jonny says, and laughs, and Patrick's heart aches.

Jonny cares more than anyone else Patrick knows. And even if he's mellowed, learned to unclench, to maybe let things take their flow and trust that it will all come out right in the end, he still cares. He just hides it better, now. Patrick knows because he can see it, in the tight lines around Jonny's eyes and mouth, the way he'll sit in his stall sometimes, head bowed like the weight of the world is physically bearing him down. Jonny cares so much he burnt himself right out, and maybe it was physical but maybe it was mental too, Patrick doesn't know, all he knows as an athlete is that body and mind are more connected than most people like to pretend they are. It isn't his place to judge, to diagnose, but he can't help wonder sometimes.

Jonny cares and Jonny wears his heart on his sleeve and that means it's there for everyone to see, the good times and the bad; Jonny's never learned how to shelter himself from the blows that keep on coming. Jonny just always feels so damn much and Patrick doesn't know what he'd do with it, if he were like Jonny, feeling everything all the time. It must be fucking exhausting, no wonder Jonny looks tired so often. He's a hothead, quick to explode, but if you know how to step around his triggers he's pretty quick to come down, too. It just always takes a few days for him to stew in it, muddle through his feelings until he's sorted them into buckets, good and bad, appropriate and to-be-ignored, until his heart has quieted down enough that his head can get a word in edgewise. Patrick always thought it was weirdly sweet.

"I don't know," Jonny says and looks so forlorn, staring at the sea of microphones, rolling his shoulder in a shrug that makes his lapel mic scratch, something for the sound guy to edit out later. "I always thought it'd be Chicago, but now I just don't know."

If they all cared a little less it'd be easier, maybe, to think about this rationally, about what's best for them and the team and the city, but every time Patrick tries the strings attached to his heart start to ache, too many of them already cut, loose ends dangling down, other ones still too new and fragile to hold much weight. Stan cared in his own way, not always in a way that overlapped with how Patrick cared or Jonny, but Stan had built strings too, ones that hurt to lose. Kyle is new, and fresh, and comes with no strings attached at all.

Patrick doesn't care as widely as Jonny does, but he cares just as deeply. About hockey, how he's playing and how the team is doing. About his family, his friends, on the team and off it. About winning another cup, about being able to look into the mirror at the end of the day and be content with his effort, his contributions, all the things big and small he did to help out. He's carried the team when Jonny was gone, when Jonny's head was splitting in two and every turn of it made him nauseous, when Jonny's body was heavy like lead so all his movements became small and economic, quietly shuffling through the hallways like a ghost of himself, an empty shell, when Jonny's was retching his guts out over another porcelain bowl, tossing and turning in his bed all night, when Jonny's was too angry to get a word out, his head so red it wouldn't have surprised Patrick to see steam come out his ears any second. Patrick has carried the team, knows he can, will step up and do it when he's called upon. And every time he's felt nothing but a rushing sense of relief when Jonny came back, stepped up, and took back over.

Patrick will never care the same way Jonny does, isn't built that way, wouldn't know how to sustain it. Lately, he's starting to think that maybe Jonny doesn't know, either. Patrick just hopes Jonny finds it in himself to care a little longer.

[1988hc]

They were young and had the expectations of Chicago on their shoulders, a whole city filled with hopes and dreams.

They were young and strong, naive and hopeful, filled with endless energy and the knowledge that anything was possible.

If only they dared, and dreamed, and made their dreams come true.

These days, Jonny barely dreams, and when he does he wakes in sweat, heart beating in his throat, his palms hurting where he dug his fingers in, four little half-moon indents on either side.

He thought it was heavy, the way things begun, the slow dredge to the top, no guarantee they'd ever make it there, plant their flag, leave a mark, enjoy the view.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown. To know thyself is to love thyself. Play the full sixty minutes, get pucks deep, 200 foot game.

He never knew the weight of a crumbling empire, hoisted on his shoulders, the ruins of their glory days.

What weighs more, a million shattered dreams or your own crushed expectations?

He looks around and there's no one there.

These days, Jonny stands alone.

These days, a contract that once seemed team friendly, a no-brainer deal, is burning a hole in Chicago's pocket, money they desperately need elsewhere. Younger guys. Prospects. Picks.

Jonny never thought he'd have to choose, between himself and the city. Never thought he'd have to give something up when he's already given this team, this city his all.

What can you live without, your heart or your brain? Would you like us to gift wrap that for you?

Chicago hadn't cared who he was when he arrived here, 19 and determined. He'd made them look, in the Center, on their screens, stood on a bus and lifted the cup over a sea of red, all eyes on him.

His city, his town, his team.

His knee hurts. He sees the trainer. His leg cramps. He sees the trainer. His hip isn't what it used to be, his back, his head. His heart-- well, it's still beating.

Like a drum, like a drum, bum bum bum. The sounds of their beat echoing through the street. Time to go, let it go, boy you're done. Bum bum bum.

He doesn't know when, or where, the city stopped dreaming.

Chicago used to love him.

It would hurt less, maybe, if Jonny didn't still love it back.

[1988hc]

"Nate."

Cale never knows when to expect it. Sometimes, rarely, he'll get a hint of a warning, a glint in Nate's eyes or catch in his voice. Most days, Cale's surprised by it. One minute he'll be loading the dishwasher, or texting his mom, or laughing in the locker room and the next he's suddenly shoved into a closet, bent over the back of the sofa, on his knees with Nate's cock down his throat and only a fuzzy recollection of how he got there.

Most of his thoughts tend to go flying out the window when Nate gets his hands on Cale, his big hands, possessive but gentle, like Cale is something precious that needs to be exactly where Nate wants him to be, right this second. Most days, Nate prefers Cale on his knees. Some days, like today, he'll shove Cale around and yank down Cale's pants, giving him barely any warning before shoving inside.

"Take it, we both know how much you've been gagging for it," Nate grunts, hips working, and Cale doesn't know how to respond beyond some desperate gasps and a whine, Nate's cock driving into him so perfectly. He feels so much bigger, pressed up against Cale like this, one heavy hand on Cale's hip like a brand, the other wrapped around Cale's throat, making it hard to breathe, to think through the fog that descends upon his brain whenever Nate gets like this, like he'll die if he can't possess Cale right his second, grabbing at Cale, putting him where Nate wants it, taking his pleasure in Cale's body in whichever way he pleases.

"You drive me absolutely crazy, you know that?" Nate asks and bats away the hand Cale's been sneaking down to palm himself, his own cock throbbing, bouncing between his legs with every rough shove of Nate's hips. "You've been such a tease, making eyes at me all day, you'll fucking wait your turn."

Cale knows that Nate prefers to come first, gets so overwhelmed he can't focus on anything but his own immediate release, that he likes lying back afterwards, languidly sprawled on the bed, watching Cale frantically jerk himself off, too blissed out to help but his eyes tracking every movement, his gaze raking across Cale's body.

Sometimes he'll make Cale stop before he comes because he likes the way it'll make Cale desperate for it when Nate rolls on top of him in the middle of the night, barely awake but hard anyways, hard for Cale, fucking him a second, a third, a fourth time that day. It always leaves Cale a special kind of wrung out, the nights where everything seems far away but Nate's breath in his ears, Cale's pulse fluttering in his throat, Nate's cock and hands taking him apart. Nights like these always make Cale feel a little insane with it.

Nobody fucks him like Nate.

"Nate, please."

"Yeah, I got you, baby, c'mon, clench for me, milk my cock, that's it. God, Cale, yeah, fuck, like that. So desperate for my cock, little greedy slut. Don't worry, baby, daddy's gonna give it to you."

Nobody makes Cale feel owned quite like that, Nate's hand on his throat like a brand, a collar, Cales own fingers scrambling for purchase, for something to hold on to, wrapping tight around Nate's wrist, his balls so full he can't help but cry out. "Nate, Nate please."

"Say it right," Nate demands, fucking him so good Cale feels ready to forget his own name, pushing into Cale over and over again, each drag lighting Cale up inside.

"Please," he gasps and feels wild with it, trapped in Nate's iron hold, the words dragged out of him by Nate's iron will. "Daddy. Daddy, Nate, fuck me, please."

"I will," Nate promises, and does.

🤡