“Have you ever done a jimrob ?” Jamie blurts, before his brain can catch up with his mouth and he can talk himself out of asking. He can feel his face heat; if he wasn’t pink before, he certainly is now.
Tyler’s eyebrows tick down into a frown, and he takes another sip of his beer. The foamy head clings to his moustache; he licks it clean with his bottom lip as Jamie watches, unable to tear his eyes away. God, fuck, and if that isn’t what’s gotten Jamie in trouble in the first place.
It takes Tyler a moment to respond, and Jamie can practically hear the gears turning in his head as he tries to think through the haze of two beers and the unique exhaustion that comes with a night of well-played hockey.
“I don’t know a Jim Rob,” Tyler finally says, still frowning, and it’s amazing that Jamie can stop his forehead from hitting the table. “At least, not anyone in the NHL, not sure about the AHL besides the Texas St-”
“Oh my god,” Jamie does let go of his beer, then, to put his hands on his face. His cheeks are blood-hot against his palms; even Tyler is going to notice how much he’s blushing, there’s no way he can get away with saying it’s just from the alcohol. He hasn’t even had enough to drink to explain that a jim rob is neither a hockey thing like a hat trick nor a person related to hockey in any way, and he’d gotten himself drunk enough to be able to ask in the first place.
At some point Tyler breaks off in his babbling about minor-league hockey, having probably noticed Jamie’s aggressively manifesting embarrassment. When Jamie drops his hands Tyler’s got that half-smirk, half-smile on his face that he’s come to love and hate in equal measure. It’s the expression he gets when he’s resolved to wait Jamie out, to worm whatever it is out of him, and damn him if it doesn’t work too well.
It’s also a miracle that their teammates haven’t returned to their booth, which means if Jamie has any intention of surviving tonight without enough chirps to last a lifetime, he’d better just get it over with.
“Do you ever- do you like to- give jim robs?” Jamie stutters, but manages to get it out without choking himself on the words. He deliberately emphasizes the last two - it might actually kill him to have to ask a third time, if the meaning isn’t getting through Tyler’s thick skull. Somehow, he’s able to hold eye contact with Tyler the whole time. Jamie can just feel the warmth of his blush move down from his face into his neck.
Still, it’s nothing compared to the oddly searing heat of where their knees are pressed together underneath the table. Jamie probably couldn’t be more aware of that point of contact if he tried, and his spatial awareness when it comes to Tyler is off the charts. Chalk one up for hockey chemistry.
(Or - as Jamie suspects - straight-up Chemistry with a capital C.)
Tyler tilts his head to the side and blinks slowly at him, but it only takes a second for the corner of his lips to quirk up and his smirk to widen, sharp and sly.
“Jameson,” he says, scooting closer until they’re pressed together shoulder to thigh. “Are you asking me if I’ve ever engaged in analingus? ”
Jamie’s not sure if it’s barely-restrained glee or genuine drunken delight in Tyler’s voice, but either way, his volume control leaves something to be desired. “Christ, Seggy, could you keep it down? Yes, I-”
“Eaten ass?” Tyler steamrolls him, leaning impossibly closer as he rattles off what must be every obscene euphemism he can think of off the top of his head. “Whitewashed the back 40? Told a French joke? Tossed a salad? Tongue-punched a far-”
“Tyler, oh my god,” Jamie groans, and Tyler gives in and fucking cackles.
Jamie shoots a glare in his direction and swallows down the rest of his beer so he won’t keep looking at the stupidly attractive way Tyler’s eyes crinkle at the edges when he grins. And to give Tyler a moment to compose himself, honestly.
When his giggles have subsided Tyler turns back to his own beer, catching Jamie’s eyes again over the rim of the glass as he sips. He’s pleasantly flushed from the muggy heat of the bar and the booze - not like Jamie, who knows he looks more closely related to a fire truck than Jordie at this point - and his brown eyes are warm and dark. Jamie imagines he can see the little flecks of bronze-gold in his irises, from this close, but maybe that’s the IPA talking.
“I have, in fact, as you say- ” Tyler begins with some modicum of seriousness before his face breaks into a grin again, and Jamie’s ready to cringe at whatever horrible slang is about to come out of his mouth, “ -given a jim rob. ”
He’s already giggling again. Jamie’s never going to live this down.
“I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you,” Jamie complains, which only sets Tyler off giggling harder, scrunched face pressed into his knuckles and breathing hard. He keeps hiccup-laughing, calming down only to start back up again when he glances at Jamie’s face.
Jamie’s usually the one to get Tyler to laugh uncontrollably, but not like this. The last time he’d turned so pinch-faced giggly was with calling his mom on Dude Perfect last summer. He’s starting to hold his ribs now, though, having laughed himself into pain, and he’s finally winding down.
Jamie studiously doesn’t pat his shoulder as he calms, like he normally would.
“Okay, okay,” Tyler exhales, managing to resist the giggles but not stopping the broad smile dimpling his cheeks. “Serious face. I can talk about rimming with a serious face.”
“Your face really isn’t serious,” Jamie points out, and Tyler nudges him in the shoulder with his own.
“Dude, your face isn’t serious. What planet are you even from, Chubbs, asking about jim robs,” he shakes his head admonishingly, taking another drink from his beer. “You’re lucky I’m here to save you from yourself.”
Jamie snorts, rolling his eyes. He can’t help but be achingly aware that while Tyler had laughed at him - had laughed at him plenty - he hadn’t been laughed off. He clamps down on the ember of nervous hope in his chest, swallowing thickly as he looks for his next words.
There’s a beat of silence between them as they both look out towards the thronging crowd at the bar, Jamie picking at the peeling label of his beer bottle with his nails and Tyler tapping his fingers lightly against the sticky tabletop. For all that they’ve just spent forty minutes on the ice between them and are several beers in, neither of them seem to be able to sit still. There’s no sign of anyone returning to their table, no one sitting there besides the two of them, and they’re still crushed together.
This is probably where a normal human would stop themselves from continuing to ask their crush about ass-related sexual experiences.
“So what’s it like?” Jamie asks.
“What, giving a rim job?” Tyler wrinkles his nose but doesn’t laugh - probably because he doesn’t remember to call it a jim rob instead. “You know, just because I’m bi doesn’t mean I’m your personal google, dude.”
“I know that,” Jamie replies, relaxing a little now that they’ve settled into the Inside Voices volume range, rather than Tyler’s buzzed and enthusiastic Excited Shouting. “I’m asking you because you’re my best friend, and because with your supposed sexual experience, you’ve probably done it.”
“Aww, bro,” Tyler’s smile is nearly blindingly bright, even in the dimness of their back-corner booth. The rest of the sentence catches up to him, though, and his eyes widen comically. “Supposed sexual experience? Probably? I’m offended, Jamie, honestly.”
Jamie raises an eyebrow at him, and Tyler elbows him playfully in the side. He rests his forearms on the table in front of them; the yellow light of the bar does all kinds of flattering things to the bulge of his biceps, the pale skin and sharp, dark contrast of his tattoos.
“Probably,” Tyler repeats, shaking his head, “Oh ye of little faith. Just for that maybe I won’t impart my ass wisdom upon you.”
To his credit, Jamie knows exactly what buttons to push for the answers he wants. All’s fair in hockey and l- er, and, well, what’s the point of knowing someone better than you know yourself if you can’t chirp them about it?
So he half-shrugs, pushes his bottle towards the center of the table with the flock of empties that’s already there, and shoots Tyler a smirk that’s more confident than he feels. “I figured if you’d done it, and knew what you were doing, you’d be bragging about it if I brought it up. No shame in admitting there’s something you’re not good at.”
Tyler splutters, nearly spilling his beer in his haste to jab Jamie in ribs in retaliation, grinning even as he says, “Fuck you, man, you’re the one that asked- if you’ve been trying to pick up by insulting people, no wonder you’re in a dry spell and need to ask advice about getting all up in someone’s business rather than just getting it on-”
“Dude,” Jamie laughs, catching Tyler’s hands to keep them away from poking him repeatedly in the kidney, vaguely aware that his ears are burning. “Says someone who calls it tossing a salad -”
“Hey, even Nicki calls it tossing a salad, don’t blame me for your lack of butt knowledge-” Tyler doesn’t stop trying to worm out of his grip as he talks, managing to get one wrist away from Jamie and flicking him in the ear. Jamie’s got an inch and about ten pounds on Tyler, which isn’t much of an advantage when Tyler’s writhing against him and trying to mess up his sweat-damp hair and give him a purple nurple through his t-shirt or some shit.
It’s by virtue of the fact that Jamie’s trying to bat Tyler’s hands away that his mind isn’t completely derailed by the hot press of Tyler’s chest against him, or the mischievous glimmer in his eyes as they play-fight. He keeps muscling Jamie with his shoulders, and they’re progressively sliding further and further into the booth, at this point devolving from topical, butt-related insults to fifth-grade your mom -level chirping, the kind that always has the rest of the team rolling their eyes.
Which is, of course, when Jordie clears his throat at the end of the table, raising an eyebrow as he sets down the three very full glasses of beer that he has balanced in his hands.
“I don’t want to know who started it, children,” he says, holding up a hand before, thankfully, Tyler can blurt anything about the conversation they’d been having. “In fact, I have no interest in reffing any Seguin-Benn arguments tonight, so I’m leaving you two to your own devices.”
“Thanks, Jordie,” Jamie says at the same time Tyler quips, “Good choice,” dragging out the o , and Jordie rolls his eyes at the both of them. He does nudge two of the beers closer to them, though, grabbing the third and taking a gulp of it and making a vague I’m-watching-you-shoo motion with his empty hand.
“This beer and I are going very, very far away from - this,” Jordie gestures at the two of them, tucked into each other’s sides and pink-faced as they are, Tyler biting his lip to keep his grin in check and hopelessly failing. S’cute, Jamie’s traitorous brain supplies helpfully. “Don’t make me regret it, or those’ll be the last two beers I ever bring you assholes.”
It’s an empty threat - they’re not even that drunk and Jordie knows they’ve gotten into more trouble in bars, he’s been a part of getting into more trouble, but Jamie gives him a short nod. Jordie winks back at him, and Jamie’s face burns.
His brother has no idea what conversation he’d almost walked into.
“We’ll be the picture of good behavior,” Tyler holds up two fingers on the hand that’s barely peeking out from between Jamie’s bicep and chest, where he’d pinned it to stop Tyler from trying to go for a tickle. He can feel the muscles of Tyler’s arm flex against his, warm and strong and fuck. “Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a scout,” Jordie points out with a chuckle, “and as for your honor, didn’t you leave it somewhere on the floor, on that roadie when you-”
“Bye, Jordie,” Tyler interrupts loudly, waving him off with his free hand that quickly turns into a middle finger, and Jordie laughs the entire way back to the knot of Stars players by the bar, wedging himself between Val and Daddy.
Tyler huffs when he’s gone, reaching for the beers Jordie had left across the table - with his right hand, the one that’s pinned. He makes dramatic, pained whines and exaggerated grabby hands until Jamie laughs. He lets Tyler’s hand out of the vise of his arm to reach out and slide the beers closer. His liney is a whore for attention, and it should be far more unattractive than it is.
Jamie could stop encouraging him, but, well.
Tyler untangles their arms to grab his beer and clinks their glasses together, and a little bit of foam splashes out of Jamie’s and onto his hand. He doesn’t think anything of it, bringing his fingers up to lick the sticky beer off. What Jamie doesn’t expect, though, is to glance at Tyler and find his eyes locked on his mouth, the tips of Tyler’s too-big ears starting to turn a pink that matches his flushed cheeks, and oh. Uh.
“So you want to jim rob,” Tyler says conversationally, managing to sip at his beer despite the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It’s amazing he doesn’t get beer up his nose from giggling. “You’ve come to the right man for answers.”
“Jim rob isn’t a verb, and I asked what it’s like, not that I-” Jamie starts to correct him, but Tyler shushes him, gesturing with one finger and all the majesty he can summon after two- two and a half lagers.
“Hush, Bennie, there’s no shame in wanting to bite the brown,” he says, which, what. “And I am a man of many tastes - if you want me to brag, I’ll brag.” Tyler accompanies his words with a waggle of his eyebrows, and god damn it, the blush is rising in Jamie’s cheeks again. He bops the bill of Tyler’s backwards snapback for good measure, smirking when Tyler yelps as the cap pops off his head and he scrabbles to right it again.
“This is not, like, a thing to get off,” Jamie says, which makes Tyler roll his eyes as he fixes his hat because duh, sex is a thing to get off, Jamie. “I mean- getting off on you saying this shit-”
(Not that he doesn’t get off to this shit , because Tyler running his mouth off is one of the well-worn fantasies Jamie goes to when it’s just him and his right hand, but potato pot ah to.)
“Nah, man, I get it,” Tyler waves vaguely and pats Jamie’s thigh. “You can’t help your curiosity, eh? I’m an ass man, myself, I can respect that. I’m not going to kinkshame you.”
Sometimes, Jamie thinks Tyler just makes up half the things he says. “Kink-what?”
Tyler, predictably, bowls forward without him. “If anyone deserves kinkshaming it’s this entire fuckin’ team, though - for calling a grown man Daddy. To the press. On the ice.” It’s clearly the last one Tyler seems most incensed about.
“Jason came with that nickname,” Jamie smiles and shrugs, but, okay. “Kink- uh. Kinkshame the Sharks, then?”
“Damn right,” Tyler nods, and takes another gulp of his beer. He leaves his warm hand on Jamie’s thigh. “But also the Stars.”
Jamie chuckles. “Okay, Tyler,” he says, placatingly, and when Tyler looks up from his beer to Jamie, his eyes are glittering with amusement.
“Okay, Jamie,” Tyler cups his chin with his left hand, elbow on the table and bicep bulging in a way that looks effortlessly hot, but the crooked smirk on his face belies the fact that Tyler knows how good this looks, so he’s probably practiced it for maximum effect. Either way, there’s no way he doesn’t catch Jamie’s appreciative glance at his tattoo-patterned skin. “Why the sudden interest?”
Jamie can only shrug one shoulder, busying his mouth with taking another drink of his beer so that he can think of an answer that isn’t I keep seeing you coming out of the showers without pants on and I think I’m turning into Tina Belcher because your ass is grass and I want to mow it. “It’s just something I’ve never done? I might want to try it? I- like butts?”
Tyler snickers at the last one, which is half the point of saying it, but it’s true. “If you’ve never tried it, I can’t guarantee my glowing recommendation on the virtues of butt-munching is going to make you like it.”
“Won’t know until I try it,” Jamie shoots back, and his stomach flips at the devious grin Tyler sends in his direction. There should be nothing sexy about the way his cheek dimples when he smirks, but Jamie’s learned when to pick his battles. Controlling his brain vis-à-vis Tyler Seguin and his attractiveness is one he’s not going to win anytime soon.
The hand on Jamie’s thigh squeezes once, briefly, and Tyler gives him a wink. “That’s the spirit,” he says, and goes back for another long pull of his beer. He licks his lips when he puts the glass down, tongue darting out wet and pink, and Jamie’s thigh feels oddly cool without the weight and heat of Tyler’s palm.
“It’s like-” Tyler starts, then smooths his fingers down his moustache and beard to his chin as he thinks, a stroking motion that Jamie follows with his eyes. “Have you ever licked a 9-volt battery?”
“What does that have to do with- fine, yes,” Jamie answers, because Tyler’s pinning him with a Look. “When Jordie and I were in, like, grade school?”
“And what, Seggy?”
“You get a shock, right? From the battery,” and of course to demonstrate, Tyler sticks out and then points at his own tongue. Jamie’s probably sweating through his shirt more right now than he does at bag skate. “It’s a weird feeling. Not everyone likes it.”
Jamie stares for maybe a moment too long. Tyler stares back. They’re still pressed close together, their thighs inches apart on the booth’s bench seat. “Your metaphor for whether or not I’ll like putting my tongue in someone’s ass is licking a battery.”
Tyler flushes, rubbing at the back of his neck, but a slow smile breaks across his face. “Well, when you put it like that...”
It’s easy to nudge Tyler in the side with his elbow, egging him on until he jabs back and they’re grinning at each other like loons, just the two of them snickering in the back booth, heads bowed together, thick as thieves. Jamie doesn’t realize quite how close they are until Tyler’s ear brushes his temple, Tyler’s bearded chin and the corner of his wide smile all that Jamie can see of him. But Tyler’s heat is leeching into his side where their shoulders touch, a constant presence that he’s come to appreciate more and more as the months have passed.
Jamie swallows thickly. This isn’t very different from how they usually end up after a home game victory - in various states of warm, pleasant drunkenness, pressed together side-by-side in a booth that probably isn’t meant to hold as many hockey players as they try to fit, chirping and laughing and breathing the same air. But somehow, it is different. Just the two of them, a growing tension in the air that isn’t usually there in the moments of comfortable, companionable silence.
“But besides the metaphor,” he hesitates, “what’s it like?”
Tyler shrugs, eyebrows raised and mouth pursed as he thinks, his fingers leaving wet trails on the table and across the coaster where it peeks out from under his glass. His cheeks are still a flattering pink.
“It’s - hot,” he starts, and immediately rolls his eyes and nudges Jamie in the side for the oh, really raised eyebrows he sends Tyler’s way. “Shut up, like - it’s hot because it’s dirty, for a lot of people it’s still a little taboo, a little forbidden, a little depraved. And it’s really intimate.”
Jamie quirks an eyebrow, hoping his expression is enough to distract Tyler from the way he has to clench the muscles of his thighs, trying not to think about how his jeans feel tighter at Tyler’s words. “More intimate than just- other kinds of sex?”
“Yes,” Tyler replies without hesitation, and Jamie shivers despite the heat of his blush. “In terms of intimacy, between the sheets has nothing on between the cheeks.”
It startles a laugh out of Jamie, which going by Tyler’s smug and delighted expression, is exactly what he was going for.
“Dude,” Jamie shakes his head, cheeks tight and sore from grinning, but he can’t come up with another response.
“You asked,” Tyler says, grinning and biting his lip as he watches Jamie blushes himself up a storm. “That enough to convince you to try it?”
Yes. “Maybe,” Jamie admits, trying to keep his hands from fidgeting, running the tips of his fingers up and down his half-empty pint glass. It’s still cool against his fingers - it would feel good against any part of his skin, considering how over-warm he is. It always seems to happen around Tyler. “Not sure that’s enough to go on for me to be good at it, whether or not I like it.”
Tyler shrugs, trying and failing to subdue a grin that pulls at the corners of his mouth. “Too bad for you, if you want more details,” he says, pausing to sip at his beer and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. “I don’t kiss and tell.”
Jamie snorts, because the last word he’d use to describe Tyler is demure, especially when it comes to sex. He flirts like he moves: constantly, comfortably, as fluid off the ice as he is skating. He exudes a confidence that Jamie finds enviable and arousing in equal measure - irritating, too, if he’s one too many beers in and can admit that it’s jealousy more than anything else. Tyler knows what he looks like, knows how to use that to his advantage when picking up. That, plus the fact he’s probably an exhibitionist - his ass sees more press than fucking Sidney Crosby’s, and not undeservingly - is a recipe for kissing and telling. His picture is probably on the back cover of that particular cookbook.
Jamie catches Tyler’s gaze and raises his eyebrows pointedly.
“I don’t give jim robs and tell,” Tyler amends with a smirk. “As for being good at it - which I am, thank you - practice makes perfect, man. And enthusiasm goes a long way, eh?”
“Enthusiasm? So you like it sloppy?” Jamie should not have a license to control his own mouth, in these circumstances. It’s like those warnings they give you after having surgery - no driving, no operating heavy machinery, no talking about sex in the presence of one T. Seguin.
Tyler just rolls with it, waggles his eyebrows some more in Jamie’s direction.
“Everyone likes it sloppy,” he says, and he’s not wrong. Not that Jamie would know about that in relation to eating ass, but that’s kind of entirely the point.
“There’s something to be said for finesse, but I guess that would be lost on you,” Jamie chirps back, grinning over the lip of his glass when Tyler widens his eyes and presses hand to his chest, miming wounded. But he slaps Jamie’s bicep lightly with the back of his hand, shaking his head.
“Dick. You’ve seen me skate. Finesse is my middle name,” he drawls, scooting closer to get in Jamie’s face, probably to meet his quota of being charmingly obnoxious for the evening. God forbid there’s more than five inches of personal space between them. “Get back to me when you’ve actually given or gotten a rimjob, and we can talk about enthusiasm.”
“Well, you can’t expect finesse on the first time.” Jamie says, because apparently this is a subject his brain has given his mouth a fucking free pass on. He would have ignored that third beer if he’d known that he would word-vom all over this bizarre conversation.
Tyler looks smug, for his part, his smile wide and just on this side of coy. “Said it once and I’ll say it again, Chubbs - practice makes perfect.”
It’s a phrase he’s heard Jamie repeat countless times at countless practices, which is probably why Tyler gets so much delight in parroting it back at him. And it is true, Jamie knows that. It’s just -
“It would help if I had a little bit of a game plan, uh, going in,” Jamie rubs the back of his neck and manages only a half-hearted glare at Tyler’s muttered going in, eh? and accompanying snickering.
“We aren’t drunk enough for me to be able to give you rimming tips with a straight face,” Tyler finally says, gesturing by tipping his nearly-empty glass in Jamie’s direction before draining the foamy dregs. He has to tip the glass high, and Jamie watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, barely managing to tear his gaze away before Tyler meets his eyes again.
“Uh, yeah- point,” Jamie concedes. His tongue feels thick in his mouth, his pulse beginning to pick up, like the adrenaline rush before another shift on the ice. “But what about, like- “
“Dude, no - I can’t be, like, the Patrick to your Spongebob, with a walkie-talkie in your head and me telling you how to pass the Ass-Eating test,” Tyler says, and oh my god, he won’t stop talking. “Even if we could get you some kind of ear-thing where I could talk you through it, I don’t think a chick would-”
“Tyler,” Jamie hisses, torn between mortification and laughter, because what even goes on in Tyler’s brain. Tyler cracks, his grin nearly too big for his face, the corner of his eyes creased as he squints. He laughs that big guffawing laugh, the one that comes from deep in his chest and is usually reserved for Cash and Marshall’s spontaneous doggy antics, or the times Jamie’s able to surprise him with a soft-spoken joke only Tyler manages to hear.
“Oh my god, Jamie, if you turn any redder the Devils are gonna recruit you to be their fucking mascot,” he wheezes, sounding a little out of breath, and as much as Jamie’s heart is on its way to beating itself out of his chest, there’s soft fondness around the edges of his arousal, something he can’t put his finger on at the sight of Tyler’s stupid face-splitting smile.
God, he’s so fucked.
“Fuck off, oh my god,” Jamie groans, pressing his damp fingers to his cheeks and finding them, mortifyingly, still flushed hot. As if his blush would have calmed down while talking about oral sex with Tyler, who is he kidding. Tyler laughs, bright and breathless; Jamie has to swat at him to maintain some semblance of dignity, but Tyler wiggles out of the way when he sees Jamie going for his hat again. He ends up skimming his hand down Tyler’s clothed shoulder, the expanse of his tattoo-covered bicep that’s more than a little warm against his fingertips.
Tyler meets his gaze, glancing down to Jamie’s fingers against his skin and up again. His smile fades from his cheeks but lingers in his eyes, a glint of impishness that Jamie’s come to know and love. It’s daring, dangerous, and there’s a little surge of adrenaline in Jamie’s veins as he lifts his hand a second time. He traces his fingers down the same path, smooths along the planes of Tyler’s tattoo-patterned triceps with the tips of his fingers. He doesn’t miss the little hitch in Tyler’s breath as drags his fingers across the words imprinted on his skin, the twitch of the muscle underneath at the gentle touch. Jamie cups Tyler’s elbow when he reaches the bend of his arm, the bony knob of it and the round curl of muscle in Tyler’s forearm fitting perfectly into his palm.
“I’m more of a hands-on learner anyways,” he murmurs, and his heartbeat spikes at the low, rough tone of his own voice.
Tyler blinks at him, inhales a short breath; in the space between one blink and the next his eyes have gone wide, dark. He’s close enough that Jamie knows it’s not the booth’s shitty dim lighting or the beers they’ve both had - it’s Tyler reacting to him, reacting to the touch, skin-on-skin. That’s headier than any drink they serve at this bar.
He sucks his lower lip into his mouth, glancing away from Jamie to the empty side of the booth before looking back, exhaling a breath that Jamie feels against his burning cheeks.
“Are you- are you propositioning me, Jamie Benn?” Tyler says, and shifts closer. The leather booth seat squeaks in complaint when he moves, and their thighs press together, a warm and seamless line. “Was that a come-on?”
Jamie licks his lips, hyper-aware of the way Tyler’s eyes flick down to watch the movement of his tongue. “Do you want it to be?”
The smile’s back, twitching at the corner of Tyler’s mouth - and hey, that wasn’t an awful play, Jamie’s seen Tyler attempt worse pick-up lines firsthand. But his stomach still flips at the curl of Tyler’s lips, the undeniable shift in his expression as he dials up his flirt setting from- from whatever absurdly high number it’s usually at to fucking twelve on a scale of ten. He tips his chin down so that he can look up at Jamie through his eyelashes, and Christ, maybe Jamie hasn’t quite planned for what he’s gotten himself into.
“Yeah,” Tyler murmurs, practically in his ear. A hot weight settles in Jamie’s stomach, an ache that’s sudden but- not, because there’s always something simmering underneath his skin, a want for Tyler that never quite goes away. Jamie flexes his fingers against Tyler’s elbow, and with a smirk Tyler catches his wrist with his other hand. He presses a thumb to Jamie’s pulse-point - not hard enough to hurt, but firm, undeniable. The elevated pulse of Jamie’s heart echoes in his blood, thrums against the pads of Tyler’s fingers.
There’s no way he can’t feel the way Jamie’s heart is pounding out a crazy, hopeful tempo against his ribs.
“But you gotta know what you’re offering, dude,” Tyler continues, voice low. Jamie blinks, tearing his eyes away from watching Tyler trace circles into the sensitive skin of his wrist with his thumb. He’s not even sure if Tyler realizes that he’s doing it.
“I wouldn’t have-” Jamie swallows, “if I didn’t want to, I mean. I wouldn’t have offered.”
It’s by virtue of the fact that Tyler’s hand is wrapped around the meat of his wrist that Jamie feels Tyler’s forearms flex in time with his fingers tightening, the hot exhale against his neck.
Tyler’s smirk quirks, going a little sharper, and it’s possible the look he’s giving Jamie could be classified as leering. It’s a good thing Jamie’s into it; the hot, shivery feeling cascades down his spine, again, and he’d lean in if he could get any closer than they already are, breathing each other’s air.
“I mean it,” Tyler says, tone low and charged with a growing heat. His eyes are mostly black, the dark of his pupil blown bigger than Jamie’s ever seen. “Because if we’re doing this, it’ll be like- we’re not doing this by halves. I’m going to talk you through rimming me until you’re a pro, until your tongue is sore - until you make me come just from the feel of your mouth.”
“Fuck,” Jamie breathes, “Tyler, I- fuck, yes.”
Tyler’s nostrils flare when Jamie says his name, eyes locked on Jamie’s with a focus he knows is usually reserved for the puck. It’s a single-minded intensity that’s all of Tyler’s sun-bright attention narrowed down to one thing.
Right now that thing is Jamie, and he can barely breathe for the force of it.
He’s not sure who leans in, who narrows the centimeters between them until their lips touch. But it’s perfect, electric, and Jamie can’t get enough of the hot, wet slide of their mouths together. Tyler opens underneath him beautifully, parting his lips so that Jamie can tease inwards, lick at the inside of his mouth until Tyler whines. He lets go of Jamie’s wrist to clutch a hand around the meat of Jamie’s shoulder, squeezing his fingers against the taut muscle in a way that feels like a fucking brand even through the cotton of his T-shirt. Tyler’s grip is so strong, possessive; even when his hand slides up to cup the back of Jamie’s neck, to curl into the longer strands of his hair, the heady, hot feel of his touch lingers.
Jamie gives as good as he gets, though; he's thought about doing this enough that it's nearly muscle memory to cup Tyler's jaw just so, press his thumb gently into the soft place behind the hinge of it so that he opens wider with a groan. Tyler's tongue slides against his, the wiry hairs of his beard scraping against Jamie's chin and cheeks and damn, he's going to look as thoroughly kissed as he feels, lips swollen and skin red with beard-burn.
Jamie honestly can't bring himself to care about the chirping he'll get, because this is exactly where he wants to be - exactly what he wants to be doing, with Tyler.
Well. Maybe it's not all that he wants to be doing with Tyler.
He tastes a little like the beer they've been drinking, the tang of hops lingering in his mouth, but Jamie doesn't mind. Tyler nips at his bottom lip and, grinning into the kiss at the groan that bubbles up in Jamie's throat, pulls away to nibble at his ear. Jamie has to bite his lip to stop the really fucking indecent noises that threaten to come out of him at the sensation of Tyler's mouth, blunt teeth and slick lips moving down from his ear to the side of his throat.
"Christ," Jamie breathes, "Ty - your mouth."
Tyler smirks against his skin, taking a moment to stop his impression of a teething vampire to mumble, "The dirty talk? Or-"
"Both," Jamie admits, gasping a little when Tyler sucks, worries the pulse-point of his neck with his teeth and then soothes over what's going to be a really obvious hickey with his tongue. Tyler's responding chuckle is a little dark and a lot sexy; Jamie can feel it rumble in Tyler's chest where they're pressed together. At the rate they're going, getting out of this booth without either of them sporting obvious boners - or coming in their pants, Jamie can concede that this is doing a lot for him, in the privacy of his own mind - is going to be hard. Er, difficult. Yeah.
But Tyler’s lips find his again and that thought gets thoroughly, completely derailed. Jamie's world shrinks down to the little noises Tyler makes deep in his throat, the contrast between the rasp of his beard and the softness of his lips, the way Tyler's hands - one buried his hair and the other petting high on Jamie's denim-covered thigh - clench at the same time when Jamie curls their tongues together.
"Knew it," Tyler exhales between kisses. Jamie's not sure how he's still verbal, but if anyone would be talking between dizzying, heart-pounding makeouts, it would be Tyler. "Knew you liked me mouthy."
Something curls in Jamie's gut, heavy and warm with want. He does like Tyler, and he does like him mouthy. Maybe he's been a little more obvious than he'd thought he'd been, if Tyler had a feeling- if he knew-
Jamie loses the thread of his thoughts again when Tyler sucks his lower lip into his mouth, and he's powerless to control the low groan that escapes him, especially when Tyler tangles his fingers a little tighter in the hair at the nape of his neck, tugs gently to change the angle of their kisses and presses deeper.
"I'll show you mouthy," Jamie says - growls, fuck, he's never even heard his own voice get to that level of gravely low before - the next time they part for air, and Tyler hitches a breathless laugh against his lips.
"Fuckin' filthy," he murmurs, the same way he does when Jamie nets a gorgeous goal, overlaid with a heat that makes Jamie's heart-rate spike and his jeans grow tighter and okay, maybe it's time to move this party somewhere less public and more horizontal.
It's not easy to slow the tenor of their kissing - especially when Jamie doesn't want to stop making out, not really - but Tyler seems to sense the growing urgency even as they trade the open-mouthed, R-rated tongue-sucking for lingering, undeniably charged kisses. When he pulls away it isn't far, only to press their foreheads together and look at Jamie through his lashes, his mouth a distractingly kiss-swollen red to match the pink of his cheeks.
"Wanna make good on that offer?" Tyler asks, one corner of his mouth canted upwards and eyebrows drawn in a smirk that is, undeniably, a show of typical Tylerian cockiness. Because god forbid there be something that isn’t a challenge, or that he refuses to rise to the bait. “If you think you’re ready.”
It probably says something about Jamie that he’s competitive in the same way; he grins as he leans in, leaves Tyler with a final wet, dirty kiss that nearly has them panting again before he pulls back to enjoy the dazed arousal in Tyler’s eyes.
“Are you?” Jamie asks, smirking a little, and he’s rewarded with the sight of Tyler’s blush intensifying even as he quirks an incredulous are you kidding me, Jamie, I was born ready eyebrow.
Tyler starts to scoot away, down the length of booth - how’d they get pressed all the way into the back corner, anyways? - and he snags Jamie’s wrist in a strong grip, tugging him along before he can miss Tyler’s heat pressed against his side. Jamie nearly stumbles out of the booth in his excitement, catching his foot on something under the long table, but Tyler just glances over his shoulder and grins, looking nearly as eager as Jamie feels. It’s encouraging, to say the least - not to mention Tyler’s smile is, as always, hot as hell - and Jamie grins back.
They’ve been making out for- god knows how long, actually, and chirping-cum-flirting for even longer, but it’s still a bit of a surprise when Tyler knits their fingers together and doesn’t let go. Jamie’s more than happy to be pulled along, following Tyler to the side-hallway that leads to the bathrooms and the back door and the alley beyond. It’s like Tyler has read his mind; he’d prefer to forgo parading through the group of Stars to get out the front rather than suffering their invariable chirps and catcalls. This isn’t the first time or the last time the two of them have left together, but the blossoming hickey on Jamie’s neck probably doesn’t leave much to the imagination in terms of why they’re heading out early.
They’re also still hand-in-hand, and Jamie doesn’t want to let go even if his palms feel a little sweaty against Tyler’s.
Thank fuck Jordie is still fully distracted by Daddy, not to mention the rest of the team.
The back door - hah, back door - bangs open and a cool rush of air hits Jamie's face as they step out into the narrow alley, Tyler towing him forward with an eager insistence that reminds Jamie, quite fondly, of Cash and Marshall. They do say like dog, like owner, and - okay, this isn't nearly the first time that Jamie's seen the similarities. It's not his fault that Tyler's overall demeanor can be rather puppyish; he'd thought so even before seeing Tyler literally rolling on the floor playing tug-of-war with his energetic labs. As far as comparisons go, it's pretty apt.
Jamie's surprised out of his thoughts when Tyler's hand in his shifts; he pulls again and takes advantage of Jamie's forward momentum to spin him and pin him against the cool brick of the alley wall. It's a pretty good move that ends with their clasped hands pressed to the wall at Jamie's shoulder and Tyler pressed up the length of his front, eyes hungry and dark when he tips his chin to meet Jamie's eyes. Jamie’s heart skips in his chest like- like a puck tumbling, freefall, across the ice.
The thing is, this isn’t remotely the first time he’s been in a situation sort of like this - between a wall and a Tyler Seguin. Tyler checks him into the boards at practice at least once a week, if not once a practice , and it never quite has the effect on Jamie that- that this does. There’s no pads between them, no outer shell of hard plastic or veneer of bro to brush this off. There’s just Tyler’s warm breath against his neck, Jamie’s sweaty palm against his, the rise and fall of their chests together as they stare, look their fill.
Maybe Jamie just knows to look for it, or maybe it’s easier to notice when there are only inches separating them, but there’s a crack in Tyler’s confidence, a vulnerability in his wide, dark eyes that Jamie has to kiss away as soon as he spots it. Something tugs deep in his chest but their lips meet and it feels so breathlessly right, so seamless and natural to kiss, and kiss, and kiss. Tyler melts into the hand Jamie curves around his jaw, wriggles himself closer - as if they can get any closer, Christ, laws against public indecency were probably created to stop the kinds of activities they're heading towards. But then Tyler tilts his head, slants their mouths together with a little more insistence, and when his knee nudges between Jamie’s thighs they part like water before he can even think about it.
"Cab," Jamie gasps when their lips part with a wet sound that's so dirty he can feel his own cock twitch. "We have to- to call a cab."
Tyler hums, smirking as he rocks his hips into Jamie’s. The drag of- fuck, what's undoubtedly Tyler's denim-clad hard-on against his own pulls a groan from Jamie’s chest that’s loud. God, they need to get to a bed before Jamie comes in his own pants, before he misses his chance to get his mouth on Tyler any more than he already has.
Jamie untangles his fingers from Tyler's grip to clutch at his hips, careful to actually keep them from wandering up Tyler's shirt or down to his ass lest they literally never leave this alley. It takes as much willpower as Jamie can muster; Shakira would be proud of Tyler for the sensuous, torturously slow grind of his hips that is, in fact, driving Jamie crazy.
"Already did," Tyler mumbles, smearing his mouth down the unmarked side of Jamie's neck, which - unfair distraction technique, Jamie needs to use words right now, penalty and two minutes in the box for Tyler.
Jamie swallows his next groan, determined. “When- ”
“Uber,” Tyler says, and Jamie can hear his eyes roll even as he tugs the collar of Jamie’s shirt to the side and works at making another hickey. “There’s an app.”
Tyler pops the p like he does when he thinks he’s being particularly funny, and for that Jamie has to tug him closer, thrust up a little against the hot line of Tyler’s cock. It’s fortunate that with his head bent to mouth at Jamie’s neck, Tyler’s ears are at a perfect height for Jamie’s lips; he bites at the shell of it, then the softer lobe, smiling at the wrecked groan that Tyler hums into his skin.
With both hands free, Tyler doesn't exhibit the restraint that Jamie does. His hands snake up the loose hem of Jamie's shirt, pawing at the damp curve of his lower back, fingers dragging up and down his spine. A shiver breaks out across his skin at the sensation, the contrast between the cooling sweat clinging to his shirt and Tyler’s furnace-like heat, the hot touch of his fingertips. Soft hands, Jamie thinks a little dizzily, but despite their wandering Tyler's hands finally settle on a target.
“Aren’t I supposed to be the one getting some- some butt action?” Jamie quips when they break again to pant into each other’s open mouths.
Tyler chuckles, and Jamie gasps against his lips when Tyler squeezes the twin handfuls of Jamie’s ass that he’s got cupped in his large hands, firm and unrelenting. “You wouldn’t know butt action if it bit you, apparently,” he says, nuzzling Jamie’s cheek with his own. By the end of the night, the level of beard burn that Jamie has is going escalate from Category 2: I’ve Been Moderately Sunburned to Category 4: I’ve Been Necking With An Extremely Amorous Sanding Belt.
And that’s just on his face.
“Don’t worry,” Tyler continues, peppering Jamie’s jaw with kisses, which lights up his sensitive nerves with a heat that goes straight to his groin, “we’ll be fixing that soon enough.”
Jamie’s heart thuds in time with Tyler’s, nearly vibrating out of his skin as Tyler presses into him, keeps him pinned to the brick by his hips. We’ll be fixing that soon enough isn’t even as heavy-handed of an innuendo as Tyler’s been chirping with all night, but the implication sits heavy in his belly, dark and molasses-thick with want and the promise of what’s to come. There’s the low, simmering bubbles of nerves as well, underneath the potent lust, but between the beer and Tyler’s tongue in his mouth, Jamie can push nervousness to the side. He’s good under pressure like that, even off the ice.
Time must pass, because Jamie blinks and there’s a dark car pulled up along the sidewalk, and Tyler’s phone is whining that awful Beiber song that he set as his ringtone two weeks ago and still hasn’t changed to something more humane. Apparently making out with your best friend-slash-liney-slash-the object of your frequent sexual fantasies makes the seconds fly by faster than a third-period shift. Kissing doesn’t transfer Tyler’s horrible taste in pop music, though, so Jamie’s the one who squirms under Tyler’s grip, uses his hold on the fabric of Tyler’s T-shirt to pull him back by the shoulders.
"Your phone's singing," he says, tugging a little more insistently when Tyler tests his hold and leans in for more. Pretty soon Jamie's iron-clad will is going to buckle under the stress test Tyler's putting it through, the handsy fucker. "Shut it off, eh? That's our ride."
"Fine," Tyler sighs like he's put-upon, to take his hands off Jamie and fish his iPhone out of his pocket to answer it, putting an end to Justin’s constant needy questioning of what do you mean? with a grin and a lingering look up and down the length of Jamie’s body. “Wow, Rogelio was fast, that couldn’t have been more than eight minutes, man.”
“Maybe you were distracted,” Jamie grins, and sticks out his tongue when Tyler gives him a dirty look as he pecks something out on his phone and slides it back into his jeans. Tyler still hasn't vacated the ten-inch radius that Jamie would usually call personal space, but then again there's never really been that, between them. This time, it's just that Jamie's hands are still anchoring Tyler's hips, his heart pounding from the proximity and- oh, the beat of it echoing in the sweet sting of hickeys Tyler's left across his skin like a string of merit badges: one for Flirting, one for Aggressively Testing the Structural Integrity of Alleyway Walls, one for Decidedly Unplatonic Mouth-to-Mouth.
But it is their ride loitering on the curb, and thankfully it's dark enough in the dim streetlight that the obvious hard-ons tenting their jeans go completely unnoticed. Not only that, but Rogelio either doesn't know who they are, doesn't notice, or doesn't care. It's a mixed blessing, because it means that they can get a little touchy-feely in the back of the cab (Tyler) but really it's a better idea to maybe keep their hands to themselves, even if it means stewing in their sexual tension a little longer (Jamie). They find a middle ground in Jamie's arm slung across the back of the seat, loosely draped around Tyler's shoulders, and Tyler's hand on Jamie's thigh.
If their quiet ride keeps getting interrupted by fits of giggling when Jamie has to try to glare at Tyler whenever he inches his fingers further towards Jamie's inseam or fly, well - Rogelio's not complaining.
"You know - I am, though," Tyler says, and Jamie raises his eyebrows at him in the dim light. He can make out Tyler's smile, small and soft when his features are illuminated by the passing street lamps, something private and just for Jamie.
“Are what?” Jamie asks, even though he already knows Tyler is, no matter what he’s going to say.
Tyler squeezes Jamie’s thigh, and leans a little closer into his side as he says, “The Patrick to your Spongebob.”
Jamie’s heart trips over itself in his chest, and he’s sure that his smile reveals how more-than-platonic his feelings are for Tyler, warm and shining out of his face like a beacon. Admittedly, a pretty gay and probably obvious beacon. But he keeps smiling anyways, toying with the edge of Tyler’s shirt sleeve where he can reach, fingertips brushing Tyler’s exposed skin. He can feel the subtle tremor that runs across his arm at the touch.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, letting his touch linger a little more. “Yeah, you are.”
Tyler pets up and down Jamie’s thigh, down to his knee and up as high as he dares before Jamie gives him a Look, and they grin like Cheshire cats at each other in the muted half-darkness.
“Does that make me - are you calling me a square, then?” Jamie cocks an eyebrow, and is rewarded with another one of Tyler’s bright, infectious laughs. But then Tyler hesitates, biting back his face-splitting smile to give Jamie another look from through his thick, dark eyelashes.
“Don’t worry,” he says breezily, snuggling closer and running his nose up the side of Jamie’s neck, careful to bypass the sensitive, reddened skin of the hickey he’d made only minutes before. It’s maddening, and it’s totally on purpose. “I’m sure you’re round in all the right places.”
“Dude,” Jamie chokes on a laugh, breath hitching as Tyler begins a studious application of his tongue to Jamie’s neck.
“Dude,” Tyler agrees, scattering open-mouthed kisses as he mumbles, and between the sensation of hot, wet, Tyler against his skin and Tyler’s hand clenched on his thigh, Jamie gets so distracted that time smears indeterminately, and he barely blinks before they’re pulling into their neighborhood.
Getting out of the car means detaching the limpet known as Tyler from the oversensitive skin of his collar, which is difficult until it suddenly isn’t - somewhere in the process of Jamie nudging him in the kidney and mumbling ineffectively that bro, Tyler, come on, we’re at your place- Tyler realizes that yeah, this will be heading in the direction he wants it to if they make a timely exit. It’s a good thing Tyler thought to use Uber, since neither of them have the presence of mind right now to do money math, with all their blood pooling in southerly extremities that can barely count let alone calculate a tip. (A tip, just a tip! Hah, if Jamie wasn’t so distracted by Tyler’s ass as he ducks out of the sedan in front of him, he’d remember to make that joke later. Jamie barely remembers to close the car door behind him as it is, shouting a vague thanks over his shoulder at Rogelio the driver, who may or may not be rolling his eyes.)
Tyler’s single-minded in getting to his door, turning only briefly to give Jamie a toothy smirk over his shoulder and tangle their fingers together as he marches them up the front walk. If it’s so good that the thought of it makes Tyler fumble twice to get his key in the lock in - admittedly a little drunken - anticipation, Jamie’s going to have to take him up on the offer of getting his own ass eaten, because Tyler’s usually far cooler than this. He’s seen Tyler flirt with Las Vegas showgirls without batting an eye, cool as a cucumber despite the fact that they were some of the most attractive women they’d ever seen, and towered over them in man-spearing high heels.
Not that Jamie’s not nervous. They’re still holding hands, and it’s night but it’s Dallas so his hand is getting a little sweaty, and he’s about to enact a literal fantasy with his literal crush and his heart won’t stop its excited thundering in his chest.
The door swings open before Jamie can turn that thought over in his mind too many times - a good thing, the last thing he wants is performance anxiety now - and Tyler tugs him inside the dark entryway, only bothering to flick on the lights when he hears the tell-tale skittering of claws on hardwood. Cash bounds around the corner towards them, Marshall in tow, paws sliding and ears flopping in that way dogs do best, especially when overjoyed by the fact that their dad is back home.
“Hey boys,” Tyler croons, dropping to his knees, getting his fingers into the thick fur around Marshall and Cash’s collars and giving them much-deserved rubbings. They tilt their heads into the touch and pant dog-breath in Tyler’s face, which only makes him wrinkle his nose and laugh.
Jamie doesn’t need this: the low gravel in Tyler’s throat, undoubtedly borne of all the kissing they’ve been doing, the visible strain of Tyler’s jeans where his thighs bulge, the too-easy way he slides to his knees. All of that is right in front of him - the human embodiment of Jamie’s particular cocktail of turn-ons, most of which can be summarized by hot hockey players anyways. And as if Jamie wasn’t already gone hook, line and sinker, Tyler’s muttering a waterfall endearments at his dogs, in that particular exaggerated dog-voice that makes Jamie’s insides twist, achingly warm and fond.
It’s one thing, after all, to have to deal with lusting over a teammate. Being in love with one is a whole ‘nother ball game. Hockey game, if it were a game at all. Which it isn’t, because Jamie’s good at hockey, and he’s - he’s got no idea how to deal with this.
No idea besides, apparently, bumbling through enough jokes that Tyler actually wants to get in bed with him.
He’s in the middle of chewing on these thoughts, eyes on Tyler’s ass, when the man himself nudges his dogs away and looks up and over his shoulder at Jamie, leering. Jamie isn’t fast enough to tear his eyes away, so Tyler definitely catches him staring. Naturally, it makes Tyler’s smirk grow, and he pushes himself to his feet in a languid, honey-slow move that Jamie can only call a slow-mo Bend and Snap that’s all Snap.
It’s so ridiculous and so Tyler that Jamie exhales a laugh, attempting to fight the blush he can feel rising again - because yeah, it was dumb but it was hot, and his dick is hard-wired to react to that ass and that cheeky grin. Apparently he doesn't need to bother, because Tyler himself looks delighted at having caught Jamie checking him out, trapping Jamie's hand around the wrist and tugging him further into the house.
They slingshot a little around the corner towards Tyler's bedroom - Tyler's bedroom, holy fuck - colliding together at the shoulders and hips in a way that makes sense for Jamie to anchor his hands on the muscular crests of Tyler's hips, really. And from there it's totally logical for Tyler to drape his hands over Jamie's shoulders and around his neck, for the sake of stability and keeping their balance. Yeah. Pressing Tyler into the wall so that they both stay upright, once their lips meet again and Tyler makes this noise deep in his throat - well, that's just common sense.
His snapback is a casualty in getting Tyler against a vertical surface, immediately out of mind as soon as it’s off Tyler’s head. Jamie doesn’t even know where it lands - he’s far more concerned with cupping a hand around the base of Tyler’s skull to angle him better for another kiss. They’re both breathing harsh and messy, barely parting to breathe, unable to get enough of each other’s mouths.
Tyler’s cock is a hard line against his hip, nudging against him with increased insistence as the kiss turns wet and filthy. It’s a really good thing they’re not in public, now; Jamie’s fingertips dip into the waistband of Tyler’s jeans of their own accord, groping whatever they can reach. It’s still not enough - Tyler wears his pants deliciously tight, and Jamie doesn’t have enough room to get a proper handful like he wants - but it does have the effect of hitching Tyler’s hips further into his. Jamie’s pulse hammers in his throat, loud in his own ears. He can work with that.
Jamie lets his fingers skirt inwards, to the delicate dimples where Tyler's lower back meets the top of his ass, the perfect swell of it. It's a special kind of agony, finally being able to touch but restricted by the fact that denim doesn't fucking stretch enough for Jamie's large hands. But he can still do this: he reaches his fingers as best he can, following the curve of muscle until he can slip the pad of his finger along Tyler's sensitive crease, a barely-there whisper of a touch.
Tyler keens. The touch sends a shudder up his spine and his mouth falls open, allowing Jamie to lick further inside and curl their tongues together. It takes a few beats for Tyler to catch up, to pull himself out of the daze caused by Jamie's fingers. He did that - and he does it again, smirks into the kiss as a strangled moan gets trapped in Tyler's throat and his hips jerk, caught between wanting to press back into Jamie's fingers and rock forward, seeking friction on his cock. Fuck, he’s so responsive, and it’s doing a lot for Jamie.
He barely feels the sting of Tyler's nails on his back as he scrabbles to bring Jamie closer, like that's even possible at this point. Their kisses are near-bruising and slick; obscene wet noises fill the hallway as their mouths join and part again and again. He's never had sex that literally sounds like porn before, and they're still just kissing. Well - okay, they're more or less at third base. Still - Tyler’s bitten-off groans and high-pitched whines are winding Jamie up like crazy, his own cock straining against his jeans so hard he wouldn’t be surprised if his zipper gave up the ghost. It feels even harder than it was when he first saw Tyler’s stupidly hot Body Issue pictures; it had been a good thing he’d been at home at the time, since he’d had to shove his shorts down right there on the couch. He’d come so hard he’d gotten jizz on his chin.
Touching the real thing is infinitely better than jacking off to ESPN-branded photos, in Jamie’s expert opinion.
The next time he inches his fingers closer to Tyler's hole, Tyler jolts so hard that their lips disconnect and his head falls back against the wall with heavy thunk. He’s panting out a thready laugh even before Jamie opens his eyes, though, toying with the sweat-damp strands of hair at Jamie’s nape. His eyes are so blown and dark that in the muted light his pupils are indistinguishable from his irises, the physical warmth of his cheeks evidence that his face is pink even if Jamie can’t see the color on his skin.
“Hm?” Jamie hums as Tyler’s laugh fades. He’s doing a shit job of resisting the urge to squeeze the handful of fantastic ass in his right hand, but Tyler just grunts and gives in to grinding against him a few times. Where the hell did he learn to move his hips like that? Jamie doesn’t want to come in his pants like a teenager, but Tyler seems to be doing his best to drive him in that direction.
The impish smile hasn't left his face, even when Jamie gets in a particularly good squeeze and Tyler's hips buck of their own accord.
"So close," Tyler chuckles, jerking his head to the side. Ah. The open door to his bedroom is three feet to their left. "And yet, so far."
"We made it most of the way," Jamie laughs, voice hitching when Tyler tugs a little at his hair and, Christ, lines them up perfectly so that their cocks slide together on his next sensuous rock upwards. Tyler waggles his eyebrows at him, clearly delighted with the reaction he'd gotten. But - isn’t it Jamie’s job to get reactions out of Tyler tonight? "Maybe it's time to move this to a bed, then, eh?"
"Don't want to eat me out against a wall?"
If Jamie had been moving, he would've tripped over both of his feet. And probably walked into said wall.
"Not for my first time," he replies, achingly aware of the sudden hoarseness in his voice and the twitch of his cock in his pants against Tyler's. And it's true, but it must've been a good thing to say, because Tyler swallows thickly, eyes flicking down to Jamie's lips and lingering there, full of heat. A flush of warmth ripples across Jamie’s skin at the sight.
"Yeah, let's - yeah," Tyler says, reeling Jamie in for one more kiss. It's a little softer and more chaste than the previous ones had been, a gentleness to the way he moves his lips against Jamie's that has Jamie aching with fondness.
Secretly, in the early hours of the morning when it isn't dangerous to even think the thoughts, he can admit it to himself: he wants this with Tyler, too. The lust is a little easier to set aside, compartmentalize for a time when he isn't sharing the team shower or a locker room with the object of his undeniably sexual interest. But he wants the soft moments: easy, drowsy contact in bed when neither of them are really awake yet, walking side-by-side in companionable silence with Cash and Marshall leading the way through their neighborhood, curling around each other on the couch to watch a movie after a hard game. There's a warm smile that Tyler has that always seems reserved just for him, one that's more in his brown eyes than in the quirk of his lips, and it always makes Jamie yearn for the extra pieces of Tyler that he can't have, that goes beyond the bounds of best-friendship that they've forged.
Their lips part with a quiet sound and they blink their eyes open at each other; Tyler's dark eyelashes drag against his cheek, and he gives Jamie that exact smile.
Jamie'd give him anything in return right now.
"Come on," Tyler murmurs, smile growing a little wider, more coy. "I think I've done a pretty thorough test-drive of this mouth, eh? Let's see what you can really do."
Tyler pushes them away from the wall and walks backwards through his open bedroom door, arms still linked around Jamie's neck as he tugs him along - like Jaime wouldn't follow at this point, honestly. He tugs the snapback off Jamie's head, tossing it aimlessly somewhere behind him on the carpet and immediately getting his fingers into Jamie's hair.
"Mmm," Jamie rumbles, leaning into the touch. He's thought about this as well - usually the most he gets from Tyler in regards to his hair are attempts at ruffling it after practices, and thorough chirping about how much hair gel he goes through in a given week. The tactile attention is as good as he’s imagined - better, when Tyler scrapes his nails gently through his scalp. A cascade of shivers run down his spine; his hair has always been a little sensitive.
"Fuck, Bennie," Tyler breathes, his voice a low, wrecked whine, "wish I could see you like this - wish I could pull your hair while your mouth is on me."
The words send a rush of lust through Jamie's veins again; it follows that Tyler wouldn't be able to keep his mouth shut during sex, would maintain a running dialogue of dirty talk, every idea and image that shutters through his brain in the heat of the moment. The thought tugs at the imaginative part of Jamie's hindbrain; he can almost see himself on his knees, Tyler's long fingers knotted in his hair, pushing it back when it falls into his face like it does during post-game interviews, slick with sweat and Tyler's hot cock in his mouth-
Jamie groans, nips at Tyler's lips when he can lean close enough to catch him. "You could," he rumbles, even though he knows that's not what both of them want tonight. That's okay - the thought of it is enough for now.
"While you're eating my ass?" Tyler giggles breathlessly, "I don't think I'm that flexible, man."
His next backward step brings the backs of his knees into contact with the edge of the mattress, and both of them go toppling onto it, laughing even before they hit the bedspread.
They bounce only slightly - because Tyler's a bit of a fucking hedonist and his mattress is probably the most expensive Jamie's ever come into contact with in his entire life, Christ, is it stuffed with feathers plucked off actual angels? - and when the dust settles, Jamie's miraculously managed to avoid landing his elbow on Tyler's chest or his knees on any of Tyler's soft, fleshy bits. He'd really like to get better acquainted with those, after all.
But that's how hyper-aware of each other they are, how in tune their bodies are even with half a dozen beers between them and in this new, untrodden and undeniably sexual territory. They're both tall and muscular - deliciously so in Tyler's case, Jamie can just see his abs and a dark line of hair where his shirt is riding up - but they fold together so naturally, like this is another easy extension of feeling where the other is on the ice. Chemistry, Jamie's own word echoes back at him.
Maybe there really is something there, something real - not just what he so desperately wants to see.
Tyler's eyes are bright and clear for all that they're still blown-dark, open and easily honest as they always are. There's still a hint of a smirk clinging at the corner of his mouth - he's probably waiting for Jamie to say something so he can make another not-so-subtle suggestive quip about how flexible he actually is, because Tyler is nothing if not opportunistic when it comes to jokes. That shouldn’t change because they’re here, like this, rather than leaning against the boards at practice or stealing each other’s fries at lunch on cheat days.
Because that's who he is - a cocky, mouthy, attractive, pain-in-the-ass that loves his dogs and is helpless in the kitchen and - and that's who he still is, underneath Jamie.
Jamie wouldn't want it any other way.
(He’s dimly aware that this is the textbook definition of being hopelessly in love, but there are bigger fish to fry than ill-timed emotional revelations.)
But as for flexibility - when he’s feeling particularly provocative, Tyler can get his knees pretty close to his ears; it’s a sight to see even if it’s padded by the thick fabric and protective layers of hockey pants. Jamie bets he can do a pretty good job of helping Tyler find a good burn in that stretched pose.
“I’ve seen you stretch on the ice,” Jamie says, and shifts his weight so that he can reach for Tyler with one hand, skimming his fingers between the soft fabric of Tyler’s shirt and the toned belly beneath it. Tyler’s abs are cut, even in this prone position, and he gasps a little, open-mouthed, at Jamie’s gentle touch. “I’m sure you can push yourself a little further.”
So sensitive. God, fuck. The list of things he wants to do to Tyler - and that he'd let Tyler do to him, like that's even a question - is going to be longer than his hockey stick at this point. His actual hockey stick. It would probably be more like the distance between the two lines. No, center ice to the net. Jamie's been wanting this for a while.
But the top of the list takes the cake, the thing that really makes his mouth water, and somehow that's what's going to happen tonight. God bless Tyler's incessantly competitive nature and the (admittedly small) improvement on Jamie's flirting skills thanks to the social lubrication of IPA.
Tyler's mouth drops open in another messy exhale; there's enough heat pooling in his cheeks that Jamie can feel as well as see the pink-red settling there. It's amazing Tyler has any blood left for his face, if the hardened length in his jeans is anything to go by, size-wise.
"Dude," Tyler rasps in reply, fingers sliding across the breadth of Jamie's shoulders, plucking at the neck and sleeves of his shirt. Tyler rucks up the dark cloth so that he can get his palms on the balls of Jamie's shoulders, watching his own fingers trying - failing - to span the meat of them. His eyes are a little dazed, a little glassy - but more than before, more than just from the booze. Jamie's never going to get tired of pulling these reactions out of Tyler, of seeing the physical manifestations of what he's doing and how much Tyler likes it all. The impressive hickies on Tyler's neck are visible even in the dark, flushed spots that perfectly match the shape of Jamie's mouth - no, he's not going to forget what it's like leaving these marks on Tyler's skin, causing Tyler's breath to stutter in his chest, winding Tyler up so much with his touch that he ruts up against Jamie regardless of how close to public and indecency they get.
Tyler licks his lips just then - another vision of pornography, though unlike the instances where Jamie oogles him when they go out for ice cream, this time it's intentional. It catches Jamie's attention and scatters his thoughts, following its path with his eyes until it tucks back behind Tyler's grin. It only makes sense, then, to chase it, to lean in and find Tyler's tongue with his own. Air can wait, breathing can wait; neither of them can get enough of the contact, the slick-wet slide of their lips together, the faint sting of teeth and the thorough exploration of what makes the other moan.
Jamie breaks away first, leaving a final smearing kiss along Tyler's stubbled cheek as he pants hotly, fingers clenched along the curl of Tyler's hip. Tyler combs his hair back - he'd be embarrassed that it keeps happening, but fuck, it feels so good - and giggles high and breathy.
"Tonsil hockey," he says, before Jamie can even ask, and Jamie can only huff out a laugh. It sounds a little wrecked and breathless even to his own ears - this is what Tyler does to him. Their cocks throb in what’s practically fucking synchrony, caught between them but not uncomfortably. The need to get off is an ache Jamie’s willing to put off, for now: Tyler comes first.
“You going to keep cracking jokes all night?” Jamie quips, and Tyler rolls his eyes. Doesn’t stop him from squeezing Jamie’s arms again in appreciation, though.
“Hey, you know me,” Tyler grins, “If you want me to stop talking, you better give my mouth something better to do.”
“Jesus Christ,” Jamie swears, laughing, but Tyler keeps talking.
“Besides - if I'm gonna tell you what to do, you're going to want to hear me talk. Feedback and all that, eh? It's not a learning experience if you don't get critique."
"Critique my ass," Jamie grumbles, and Tyler visibly brightens - because of course his mind had jumped to the literal idea of critiquing Jamie's ass - but Jamie doesn't give him any time to follow that thread of a thought. "So what you're saying is that the challenge is going to be - being so good that you're nonverbal."
To say Tyler looks delighted at the idea is an understatement. His eyebrows climb up his forehead, mouth pursed in a pouting smile that belies how surprised he is that the words came out of Jamie's mouth. His glee is threaded with something darker and sexier than his usual brand of excitement and anticipation, something more coy and knowing and predatory. "You think you'll be so good at this that I'll be reduced to moaning and groaning? That I'll forget every word except for your name? Pretty cocky for a guy that's never tossed a salad before."
Jamie shrugs, more confident now that Tyler's reacting so beautifully underneath him, hard and waiting and not a little damp. "I'm a fast learner. C'mon, take these off."
"Bossy bossy," Tyler complains, but he plants his feet on the bed and lifts his hips to tug at the fly and zip of his jeans. "Should've figured you'd be pushy in bed, too, Captain."
"I'll captain the fuck out of you," Jamie growls, nipping at the underside of Tyler's chin, and that shuts him up real quick. He feels the jerk of Tyler's cock against his stomach, and the sharp inhale of breath in his chest at Jamie's words.
Jamie smirks. Oooh, jackpot.
Tyler’s jeans are a blessing and a curse; the tight fit does wonders for showcasing his ass, which Jamie appreciates more than just on principle, but they’re a bit of a pain in said ass to peel off. Jamie sits back on his heels to watch Tyler struggle out of them, grunting ineffectively as he worms himself out of the tight denim - it’s a bit of a show, whether Tyler means it to be or not. It doesn't help that the hard jut of his cock tents the already-taut fabric, another obstacle in getting his pants down and out of the way, and after one particularly pathetic whine Jamie bats Tyler's hands away.
Tyler's bare skin is so warm against Jamie's fingertips, peppered with fine hairs that get coarser further and further down his legs. Jamie's mouth waters as he reveals each inch of skin, tantalizing-slow by necessity - Tyler's thighs are as well-toned as any hockey player's, corded muscle flexing as he pushes off the bed to raise his hips again. The smell of him hits Jamie in the face, stronger than he could have prepared for: it's musky, with a little bit of the tang of sweat, and a deeper spice that Jamie's come to associate with Tyler. There's an edge of salt, too, and Jamie's eyes find the sloppy, damp spot darkening the front of his boxer-briefs.
Another plus when it comes to guys: there's a lot of obvious physical responses to tell you you're on the right track to driving them fuckin' crazy. Jamie would know - Tyler always manages to drive him fucking crazy.
Jamie's fingers tighten in their grip of the dense fabric of Tyler's jeans, aching to touch before he remembers that he can , and he doesn't think twice about reaching out for Tyler after that. The first skim of his fingers along the distended fabric and the heavy line of Tyler's cock makes a gasp ring out above him, loud in the quiet of the room. Jamie's labored breathing is the only other sound, really, his heartbeat thudding in his ears but nowhere close to drowning out the sounds Tyler makes. He's been so attuned to Tyler and for so long that every cell in his body is sensitive, receptive to his every move and sound. Eating him out is probably going to do as much for Jamie as it's hopefully going to do for Tyler.
"Stop being a tease," Tyler whines, bucking into the gentle touch of Jamie's fingertips. Jamie shoots him a grin - he hadn't intended on being a tease, but it's always good to get positive reinforcement.
With Tyler’s help - okay, with Tyler thrashing his legs about rather ineffectively and grinning at Jamie because he knows it - they manage to get his jeans off completely, exposing the sculpted muscle of his thighs and calves, the tapered lines of his ankles and strong feet. Tyler flashes him another impish smile when Jamie’s eyes track up to his face again, lingering on the planes of his abs, the sharp cut of his hips that always seem to draw Jamie’s eyes inwards. His face heats, even though now he’s allowed to look. Tyler can catch him looking all he wants, and it’s okay.
He makes a show of glancing down to Tyler’s cock again, and then back to his face to watch Tyler’s cheeks dimple with a grin. Eyes on the prize.
When he settles over Tyler again, it's clear that Tyler's mind is already on moving the show along - he tugs Jamie into a sloppy kiss that's as much enthusiasm and tongue as anything else, a wet thing that leaves them panting into each other's open mouths. He's tugging at Jamie's shirt now, too, hands wandering and not content with only exploring the parts he can reach unhampered by dark fabric.
"Aren't you hot?" he complains, rucking up the bottom of Jamie's tee to scrape his nails up the base of Jamie's spine. Jamie shivers even though yeah, he is pretty warm. Both he and Tyler run hot; locked together like this, it's like straddling a furnace with a feedback loop.
"Aren't I?" Jamie laughs, but he pushes far enough away to drag his shirt over his head and toss it vaguely behind him on the floor.
"Oh, you are," Tyler purrs, eyes glimmering in the half-light. His hands immediately follow the paths that his eyes just made, smoothing across Jamie's bare collarbone and the lines of his chest, thumbing across a nipple. He's not as cut as Tyler is - he's seen diamonds less cut than Tyler is - but Jamie knows his strength's there, even if it's not quite as visible. Tyler clearly does too; his pupils widen as he gets a hand on either side of Jamie's chest, running down his ribs and the dense muscle of his back and sides.
But this isn't about Jamie. "You too, eh?" Jamie tugs at the hem of Tyler's shirt, smiling, and Tyler nearly elbows him in the face in his rush to get it off.
"Dude," Jamie splutters, avoiding a nosebleed by the virtue of honed puck reflexes, "I'm not timing you, chill."
"There is no chill when it comes to getting your ass eaten," Tyler counters, his quirked eyebrows the only part of his face visible for a moment as the collar of his shirt gets stuck, briefly, on his ears. "Lesson number one."
"Okay," he laughs hoarsely, because he is supposed to be learning something here. "Does that go for the person - erm, giving or receiving?"
Tyler's shirt joins the rest of their assorted clothes on the carpet with a muffled thwack. "Both, duh. You'll get it once you've tried it."
"You can keep saying that," Jamie leans in for a kiss he keeps chaste, just a brush of his lips over Tyler's as he murmurs, "or we can do something about it."
It's as much of a tease for himself as it is to Tyler, but Tyler is the one that surges against his shoulders, wriggling for leverage Jamie doesn't let him have. His lips land, though, at the corner of Jamie’s mouth and then inwards, tongue slipping against Jamie’s. Heat coils in Jamie's gut at the curl of Tyler's tongue along his, the wet surge of them together. It's so natural to rock his hips in time with the thrusts and parries of his tongue and Tyler's, mouths slick with spit and bitten red when they part again.
"Let's do something about it," Tyler breathes in the scant space between them. He's so close he's nearly blurry in Jamie's vision, but there's no mistaking the naked want in his tone, the flirtatious edge to the way he nibbles at Jamie’s lower lip with his teeth. "Take off your pants."
Jamie laughs; it comes out a little wheezy because Tyler does this sinuous, sensuous thing with his hips that should be outlawed in the great state of Texas. "And you had the nerve to say that I didn't have game, Mr. Take-Off-Your-Pants."
“Bro,” Tyler rolls his eyes, cheeks tight and pink he’s grinning so hard. “Jim Rob.”
The name has Tyler hiccuping with giggles again, nose scrunched adorably and dimples out in full force. He’s flushed pink even underneath his beard, a mixture of delight and arousal in his glinting eyes.
Yeah, Jamie’s never gonna live it down, but it was worth it to see Tyler like this.
Jamie reaches for his own fly before the instinct to hesitate can catch up to him, thumbing open the button and tugging down the zip one-handed. He does have to push up, though, to slide his jeans down and over his thighs. It’s gratifying and not a small turn-on that Tyler’s Adam’s apple dips as he swallows, his eyes tracking the motion of Jamie’s pants and the pale, bare skin he reveals.
With his knees bracketing Tyler’s thighs, there’s only so much he can do to get his jeans off - which is a shame, because Jamie doesn’t want to move an inch. But he reaches back to climb off the bed, catching himself before he can stumble and pushing himself to standing to kick his pants the rest of the way off. It’s not the most graceful he’s ever been, but Tyler’s not laughing.
He’s never seen this exact expression on Tyler’s face, a mix of a coy smile with a wide-eyed look of pleasant surprise, topped with a generous serving of raw want. If anything, it’s a second cousin to the look Tyler gives him if he’s reached his stall first, unlacing his skates and looking up at Jamie as he treads into the locker room after a win. Flushed and pleased is always a good look on him, no matter the context.
Wordlessly, Tyler’s eyes narrow in on the obscene tent Jamie’s pitching in his boxer-briefs. There's a flash of pink as his tongue darts out to wet his lips; Jamie's not even sure Tyler means to do it, but his cock fucking throbs at the sight. He doesn't need a reminder of what Tyler can do with his tongue - following that thought is a sure-fire way to becoming thoroughly, uh. Distracted.
But Tyler just bites his bottom lip, grinning with no small amount of mischief as he casually slips a thumb into the waistband of his own underwear, playing with the elastic. He tugs it away from his body and then down, revealing another pale inch of his hip, down further to where it pales even further when it meets the muscle of his thigh.
"Tyler," Jamie croaks, crawling back onto the bed and fitting one hand around Tyler's ankle, smoothing up the solid form of his leg until he can catch Tyler's fingers with his own. He's not sure if it's Tyler's pulse or his own that he can feel, pounding away with excitement and heat and anticipation. Either way, Jamie's pretty sure that neither of them are going to last very long if this delicious, hellish teasing keeps up. "Do I have to ask if you're ready for this? Because- "
"Ready is my middle name," Tyler smirks, sticking his tongue out through his teeth when Jamie rolls his eyes - because he knows Tyler's middle name, and it's some miracle of god that Tyler hasn't already thought to actually legally change it from Paul to something like Ready or Danger or Trouble. Which he probably would, if it was something that would get a laugh and charm the pants off people in bars.
And, well. Speaking of.
Tyler waggles his eyebrows at Jamie, fingers retreating from his own waistband; there's a dare in the glint of his eyes, and damn if he doesn't have Jamie's number, knowing he'll rise to the bait. Jamie swallows, but he's gotten this far - Tyler below him, mouth and cheeks flushed, lips swollen with the kisses they've traded, neck marked up beyond any plausible deniability - and the evidence of what all of this has been doing to Tyler is inches away. He wants this, he wants Jamie, wants Jamie to see him.
He curls his fingertips into the edge of Tyler’s waistband, inching his fingers deeper, when Tyler makes an odd noise in his throat.
“Wait,” he says, squirming and kicking out a little against the sheets until Jamie gives him more room. His heart’s dropped to his stomach; did Tyler not want- ?
But as soon as he’s got the clearance Tyler just flips onto his stomach, grabbing a pillow to stuff under his hips and rearranging his limbs so that he can look back at Jamie over his shoulder. Like this, the warm expanse of his back is presented for Jamie to admire, solid planes of muscle and the sinuous curve of his spine, down to the dimples at his pelvis and the lush curve of his-
If Jamie had to choose an eighth natural wonder of the world, he’d be hard-pressed not to pick Tyler’s ass. But he knows he’s incredibly biased, and he knows that off all the hockey asses he’s been exposed to, he’s partial to this one for various incredibly biased reasons. Still: it’s like fucking Christmas is early, knowing that he’s going to peel down the thin layer of dark cloth, the only thing separating him from getting some jim rob on.
He hooks his fingers in the elastic at Tyler’s hips, tugs just enough that the rising curve of Tyler’s ass and the perfect crease are visible. Tyler gets it; Jamie doesn’t have to even ask before he’s lifting his hips, allowing him to tug the boxer briefs down the rest of the way and off. They’re kicked somewhere towards the end of the bed, past Jamie’s knees - Jamie doesn’t care, out of sight out of mind, because the boxer-briefs were nothing compared to Tyler’s ass finally revealed.
Jamie’s seen Tyler do all manner of squats, lunges, training on the ice and off of it to keep himself and his legs at peak physical fitness. He’s never appreciated it more than this moment: even in the orange half-light of the street lamps outside, Tyler’s ass is magnificent. Faintly freckled and all muscle, two perfect handfuls - and that’s saying something, because Jamie’s hands are big and he knows it - with pale skin that looks as smooth as-
“Are you just going to stare at it all night? I mean, I know it’s a nice ass, I’m rather attached to it- ”
“Dude,” Jamie interrupts, “let me stare, eh? Your ass is literally the peach emoji.”
Tyler throws his head back and laughs, eventually burying his face in his pillow to muffle himself as he settles down to just giggling. Jamie smiles, too; there’s something fun and liberating in giving voice to the things you’ve thought and bottled up for the past few weeks. Er, months. Years.
That, and there’s nothing that sets off butterflies in his stomach like making Tyler laugh.
As it turns out, Tyler’s bare ass fits in his hands just as perfectly as it had covered, with the added bonus that Jamie can feel every inch of the soft skin and cushion of muscle underneath. There's a dark freckle right in the middle of one of the dimples at his lower back, and Jamie bends to kiss it; Tyler shudders, a palpable shiver running across his skin at the hot touch of Jamie's mouth.
Fuck, but he’s so turned on. Jamie gives Tyler’s ass a firm squeeze and Tyler sighs, grinding his hips - his cock - into the mattress. Jamie’s own cock throbs in sympathy; it’s still distending the fabric of his boxer-briefs, an obvious outline that’s blown right past suggestive and is probably just downright pornographic. Still: Jamie's not gonna reach down and tend to himself when he's got his hands on this ass.
Jamie shifts down the bed, slides so that he can settle more comfortably in the vee of Tyler's parted legs. He keeps himself propped up on his elbows, fingers tracing meaningless patterns against Tyler's skin as he debates where to start.
He's stared at Tyler's ass plenty; he's more than just thought about getting up close and personal with it. But there's a difference between Jamie's jerk-off fantasies and reality; Jamie knows which one he'd prefer, any and every day of the week, but his nerves seem to have caught up to him anyways.
"Any advice, to start?" he swallows, rhythmically squeezing and - okay, playing with how firm but malleable Tyler is underneath his hands. He can press with the heels of his hands to make Tyler's cheeks come together, release again to make them part and jiggle. It’s a little mesmerizing.
But Tyler hums, craning his neck to look over his shoulder and make eye contact with Jamie. His pupils are still wide and dark. Jamie can't see his mouth over the smooth, tattoo-patterned skin of Tyler's shoulder, but his visible cheek is pink and creased in a way that Jamie knows is Tyler grinning back at him. His stomach flips, heat crawling across his skin.
"It’s like any kind of sex,” Tyler says after a moment, eyes flicking down to Jamie’s mouth with an impish glimmer. “Start slow, give me a bit of a tease - and the wetter, the better.”
Jamie knows Tyler isn’t kidding about the wet part, but Tyler throws a wink in for good measure, and he can’t help but give a gentle smack to the cheek under his right hand. Tyler grunts, but it isn’t the kind of grunt Jamie’s expecting - Tyler kind of rocks into it, rutting into the bed underneath him.
Damn, isn’t Tyler just full of surprises. Another thing to file away for next time.
He soothes the sting with a kiss - there’s not really a dark mark, just a slight pinkness to Tyler’s cheek where his hand had connected - and runs his fingertips inwards while his mouth is occupied. The pad of his thumb rubs across the edge of Tyler’s hole, gentle but dry, and Tyler jerks a little underneath him. But Tyler laughs, a little breathless; Jamie can feel the swell of his ribs, the hitch in his breath when Jamie smooths his thumb across his hole with more confidence.
Jamie’s fingered himself before, so he’s not a stranger to the texture, but the fact that this is Tyler - that this is something he can do to Tyler, with Tyler - has him hard and leaking against Tyler’s sheets. He moves his thumbs down to cup the meat of Tyler’s ass and gently part his cheeks, finally getting a good look at his goal. He can’t control it; his mouth waters at the sight, at how private and dirty this is, and they’ve only just begun.
He hesitates. There’s really nowhere else to start but to just - go for it, right? They’ve pretty firmly got the foreplay part covered; the ridiculous trail of hats and shoes and clothes they’ve left in their wake is evidence of that. What else is it that guys in porn do? Though he really shouldn’t be using porn as an example of good etiquette for rimjobs, he knows that much, so maybe he’ll just get closer and-
“Go for the crease,” Tyler advises, and then snickers. “But I don’t need to tell you that, you’re a hockey pl- ahh!”
Jamie takes his advice.
He leans in, inhaling deeply at the musky, masculine scent of Tyler here, and licks a solid stripe from Tyler's taint up and across his hole. He pulls away just far enough to lick his lips consideringly, frowning more to himself than anything else.
That - wasn’t bad. Fuck, that was good. Just the touch of his tongue clearly did something for Tyler, and that’s more than enough incentive to try it again.
Jamie can’t really describe how Tyler tastes; it’s musky, a little salty from sweat, the normal underlying taste of skin. He laps at Tyler’s hole, strokes broad and slow to get them both acquainted with the sensations. Tyler’s already starting to breathe ragged underneath him, whining low in the back of his throat. Jamie pulls back just far enough to blow a breath of cool air across Tyler's now-damp skin, relishing the shiver that chases its way up Tyler's spine and the shift of his shoulders.
Fuck, it's so hot, drawing these reactions out of him. What was it that Tyler had said? Start slow: check. Wetter is better.
Right. Jamie can do that.
He works his tongue in his mouth a little before going back in, gathering as much wetness as he can. This time he rests the flat of his tongue against Tyler's hole, starting with short licks until he feels Tyler begin to relax a little further. Jamie still can't quite imagine what this is like from the receiving end, but from his side it's fantastic: slick and getting slicker, hot and getting hotter as blood rises to the surface of Tyler's skin as Jamie licks it, the pale flesh turning a delicious pink.
Emboldened, Jamie swirlings his tongue around the ring of muscle, following the shape of it with his mouth; the hair on the nape of his neck standing on end at the sound of the moan it earns him. Tyler swears colorfully when Jamie does it again, quickening and then slowing his pace, drawing various shapes with his tongue to see - hear - Tyler’s enthusiastic responses.
“Yeah, fuck, Jamie, like that,” he pants, rocking back against Jamie’s face. His hole twitches against Jamie’s tongue, and Jamie’s breath catches in his chest. A surge of precome wets the tip of his cock through his underwear, dragged out of him by Tyler’s vocal encouragement and the sheer feel of him against Jamie’s mouth. Christ.
He moves his lips away to press a string of kisses to the tempting curve of Tyler's ass, replacing his tongue with a slicked-up finger to play with Tyler's hole. One kiss turns to two and then three, and Jamie sets his teeth against the firm muscle and gently bites. He's rewarded with a strangled gasp and Tyler's hips surging back again to meet the pressure of his finger.
"Fuck," Jamie exhales, nosing back to the crease of Tyler's ass to have another taste. "Do you have any idea how good you are? How good you taste?"
Tyler whines, hands clenching his pillow in a death-grip. "Jamie," he says, a hitch in his breath interrupting Jamie's name when Jamie flicks his tongue against Tyler's hole. "I'm supposed to be the one engaging in dirty talk, eh? Your mouth should be busy."
Jamie grins, sliding down the bed a little further to get better leverage - and a better view of Tyler's ass. "Then talk, Ty."
“God, fuck,” Tyler moans, because Jamie punctuates his statement by pressing his tongue against him again, swirling nonsense patterns around his hole. “That’s the captain in you coming out, Jesus. I take back whatever I said- ohh, shit - about doing things by halves.”
He'd said that he was going to keep his mouth busy, so Jamie can't really reply - but he does hum, on a hunch, and it turns out that that at least is the same as a blowjob. Tyler inhales sharply at the slight vibration, arching his back in a tight bow. It puts his ass even further into the air, drives Jamie's tongue a little bit deeper, and oh-
Oh, god. He hadn't worked up to trying it yet, but Tyler's hole is sloppy and slick enough for his tongue to slip inwards, to dip inside easy and shallow with barely any resistance. Jamie’s face is pressed so close to Tyler’s ass that the cool tip of his nose drags against the damp crease of it, the temperature a heady contrast to Tyler’s furnace-like body heat. He’s sure that he can feel his heart hammering in time with Tyler’s, can feel a slick flush of sweat rising on the surface of his skin as Tyler whines, high and wobbly.
“Yes, fuck,” he pants, finally finding some presence of mind to run off his mouth as he’d promised. “Your tongue - yeah, fuck me with your tongue, like that.”
Jamie doesn’t need to be told twice.
He secures his grips on either side of Tyler’s ass a little more firmly, tilting his chin so that he can do as Tyler’s asked and thrust his tongue with more finesse. It’s still so easy, slippery-wet; Tyler’s skin here is nearly soft for all that it’s spit-slicked, starting to get swollen and pink from all the attention.
Jamie licks a long stripe again, then fits his tongue against Tyler's hole, dipping inside the wet heat of it. Tyler groans, voice going high and thready when Jamie presses his tongue in that much further, spreading the slick and waiting to feel the muscle relax around him. He's so fucking tight, but if Tyler wants Jamie to tongue-fuck him, he's going to do his damn well best to deliver.
“God, yeah, get me wet,” Tyler exhales a sigh that’s more of a whine, refusing to stay still in Jamie’s hands. Can he fucking hear how he sounds, how coarse his own voice is already? Every word twists something tighter in Jamie’s gut, adds to the anticipatory weight in his balls. Tyler could probably talk Jamie to orgasm, and it would be in his Top Ten even if Tyler never got a hand on him. “Play with it, use your tongue, fuck- ”
He starts a slow rhythm, pushing in and out of Tyler's hole until the tenor of Tyler's whining has reached a new pitch, desperate for something more. The sounds he keeps making - wanton, open mouthed-moans and cursing so strong it would earn him box time if they were on the ice - causes something to coil in Jamie's gut, his cock thicken impossibly in the confines of his boxer-briefs. Jamie has to reach down and adjust himself so that his cock stays trapped against his own body by the thick elastic of his waistband; he's long enough that the leaking pink head peeks out the top of it, drooling wetly on the sheets.
But that's nothing compared to the growing wet spot underneath Tyler's ass, Jamie's a little proud to say.
Tyler is so wet from Jamie's mouth that it dribbles a little down his crack, leaving his skin glistening nearly all the way down to his balls. Jamie runs his fingers through it, fingertips exploring what his mouth can't reach, spreading the slick as far as he can. He looks so good like this: spread open and wanting, sloppy-wet and pink and-
The nudging kick in his ribs is almost a surprise, and he looks up from his ministrations to catch Tyler's eye. He's peering at Jamie over his shoulder again, looking impossibly wrecked for all that Jamie can only see half his face. His dark eyes are glassy, his cheeks flushed a fetching red everywhere that isn't covered by his beard, hair totally mussed. The tattoo on his ribs swells every time he takes a gulp of air - he's panting as heavily as Jamie is, hips making minute grinding motions into the sheets more obviously now that Jamie's mouth isn't on him. He raises an eyebrow at whatever look is on Jamie's face, tipping his chin high enough that Jamie can see his grin over the tattooed curve of his shoulder.
"Wandering hands," Tyler rasps. "Stick to the program, eh?"
"Don't you want me to touch you?" Jamie asks, maintaining eye contact with Tyler as he lowers his mouth to Tyler's skin again, sucking a mark perilously close to the glistening crease of his ass. Tyler gasps, groaning low in his throat; his head nods forward as his eyes close and he pushes into the sensation. Fuck, it’s hot. Jamie has to tilt his head to follow Tyler’s movement, to keep his mouth fastened as he sucks.
Jamie pulls back with an obscene wet noise, giving Tyler's reddened skin a chaste parting kiss and grinning at the dirty look Tyler throws over his shoulder. Who said he had to play fair?
“Five minutes for biting,” Tyler says, and Jamie makes an incredulous noise that’s somewhere between a choked laugh and a whine, because only Tyler - the fucker had liked the biting! “What I want is for you to eat me out until I come, so I’d appreciate your captainly dedication to that goal.”
Jamie blinks at him, a dizzy heat rising to his face as he parses those words. “Can you- you can come from just this?”
Tyler bites his lip, shifting his hips, and Christ, it’s like he’s suddenly even more hyper-aware of Tyler’s every move, of every inch of their skin that is pressed together, sweat-damp and hot. His veins pulse heavy with heat when Tyler exhales messily and nods, pink-cheeked at the admission.
“If you do it right,” he admits, voice rough in a way that sends another electric bolt of lust straight down Jamie’s spine to his cock, “then, uh - yeah, I can come untouched, just from your mouth.”
Jamie’s heart skips in his chest, like Tyler had just stolen possession of the puck and given him the perfect pass, an opportunity on a golden platter. Tyler had said it, back at the bar: until you can make me come just from the feel of your mouth. But he didn’t want to expect, or put Tyler on the spot or in an uncomfortable position if he couldn’t really, but the fact that he can -
“Jesus, Tyler,” Jamie breathes, swallowing around the tightness in his throat at how incredibly, mind-blowing hot that image is. “Why didn’t you say so?”
Tyler as the gall to roll his eyes, like Jamie isn’t in the perfect position to do something about whatever snark Tyler’s about to unleash. “Didn’t I mention? I’m sorry, I’ve been a little busy fulfilling my best bro duties by telling you every hockey pun and rimming joke I kn- ohhhh, fuck!”
It’s the perfect opportunity to slip his tongue against Tyler’s hole and thrust inside, past the unresisting ring of slicked muscle and deeper, deep enough that Tyler’s breath cuts off in a gasp and he positively squirms. There’s no way Jamie can hope to reach his prostate, not unless he uses his fingers as well as his mouth, but there’s plenty he can do to the over-sensitive nerve endings of Tyler’s hole. He withdraws his tongue enough to flick it across the entrance, the puffy rim twitching under his ministrations in time with Tyler’s husky groans and expletive-laden encouragement.
For all that they try to keep swearing to a minimum at practice, the fact that Tyler's swearing now is dizzying, heady as much as it’s motivating; each moaned fuck and shit and goddamn, Jamie, your fucking tongue that slips from Tyler's mouth only makes his blood surge, heavy in his cock and thundering in his ears.
"You- ah! You are a pretty fucking fast learner," Tyler says, nuzzling into his pillow and hips undulating in a languid rhythm. His voice is getting hoarser from the constant running commentary, which keeps increasing in volume as Jamie works his ass. It's a good thing the houses are far apart in their neighborhood - and that Cash and Marshall are somehow used to Tyler making a lot of noise, since if Jamie didn't know better, he'd think it sounded more like Tyler's getting murdered than getting his ass eaten.
"Told you," Jamie smirks against Tyler's skin, flicking his tongue in a way he's already found makes Tyler stutter. Tyler's hips rock more forcefully against him, pulling away and then backing closer to his face, as if he can fuck himself on Jamie's tongue. And Jamie would let him, too, if he wasn't so determined to learn every little thing that makes Tyler grunt and whine and sob.
He's never seen anything hotter than this: Tyler stretched out in front of him, back curved in a sinuous arch as he attempts to ride Jamie's face. The flush has spread down the nape of his neck, sweat glistening off the muscular, freckled planes of his back and hips. His ass is marked up from Jamie's periodic kisses and nips, soft pink fingerprints where Jamie's held his cheeks apart so he can lick him open. He adjusts his grip, pressing a thumb to Tyler's slicked hole as he rearranges his hands, cupping the damp, tempting curves where his ass becomes upper thigh. Tyler released a slack-jawed moan that fills the room, and a hot shiver runs down Jamie's spine. Fuck, neither of them are going to last much longer.
Tyler's messy-wet, looks nearly as raw as Jamie's lips feel from the constant attention. He's blood-hot when Jamie returns his mouth to his over-sensitive hole, pure heat against his lips. Jamie leaves his thumb where it is, barely pressing in with thick, blunt pressure as his tongue works around it, and immediately something's different. Tyler's spine stiffens, a shudder rippling through his muscles and his hole clenching greedily on Jamie's finger.
"Ohhh, god," Tyler breathes, drawing out the vowel deep in his throat. Jamie glances up - Tyler's fingers are white-knuckled in the sheets, a bright contrast to how flushed the rest of him is - and does it again. The pressure of his thumb, slipping further so easily into Tyler's sloppy-slick hole, combined with the drag of his tongue around the swollen rim of it - it’s really working for Tyler.
"You fucking dick," Tyler gasps when Jamie does it a third time, thumb up to the first knuckle and his tongue chasing it, wriggling in alongside it in a move that makes Tyler's hips falter in their rhythm. "You just have to be fucking perfect at this too, Christ, Jamie- "
"Only for you," Jamie groans, tilting his head to leave sloppy, open-mouthed kisses on the nearest cheek he can leave. “Tyler- yeah, c’mon, only for you.” The words make Tyler sob, hips grinding into the bed and hitching back against Jamie's face, desperate. God, desperate to come looks so pornographically good on him, his muscles outlined under his skin when he tenses and relaxes, the pink flush showing even from underneath his tattoos on the parts of his arms that Jamie can see. So fucking good.
Jamie's panting hard, breath skittering across Tyler's skin and leaving goosebumps in its wake; still, his labored breathing is nothing compared to Tyler's, who is gulping in air like he's in the middle of an aggressive third period, chasing the puck and the clock. He's writhing, in continuous movement as Jamie sucks marks against his skin, tongues around his hole with abandon. He knows he can make Tyler come like this; they've been hurtling closer and closer towards orgasm with every sweep of Jamie's tongue. The squelching sounds of his thumb and mouth are obscene and near-blindingly hot, flooding Jamie's veins with heat.
Tyler was right: there's no comparing this to anything else.
Jamie increases his tempo, working his finger in and out of Tyler's hole faster and faster, as quickly as he can while keeping his tongue in place, too. It's all a hot glide, in and out in time with Tyler's ass rocking back to meet him, seeming to suck his finger in deeper with every stroke in. It's all he can do to keep up, to alternately keep his tongue firm in a pointed tip to thrust into Tyler and to let it soften, licking over the furled edges of his hole, in constant motion. A low whine keeps building in Tyler's throat, cutting off when he moans wordless vowels, growing and swelling again when he gets caught up in the sensations. The noise goes straight to Jamie’s cock; he can’t help but start to rock his hips in time with Tyler’s, to rub against the mattress in a tortuously good slide.
Tyler’s hole flutters against his tongue, stuttering and clenching as he winds tighter and tighter, like a coiled spring. There’s a tension in his muscles that Jamie can feel as it grows, stiffening as Tyler tips closer and closer to orgasm, unable to control the way his muscles jump and shudder underneath his overheated skin.
“Jamie,” Tyler moans, high and tight, and Jamie’s cock throbs. Tyler’s so fucking close, fucked raw on Jamie’s tongue and bucking against him, chasing his pleasure. He’s so close, on the teetering knife-edge before orgasm, his whole body a lit-up nerve electric with sensation.
Jamie can barely breathe, ignoring the strain on his jaw in favor of doubling his pace, jabbing into Tyler with his tongue and his thumb as far as either can reach. Tyler arches to meet him; he’s a fucking vision moving to ride Jamie’s mouth, sweat-slicked and red, muscles coiled with want and chest heaving. His balls have drawn up tight against his body, so close that Jamie nearly aches for him, his hole shuddering and thighs trembling.
Tyler arches back against his tongue and Jamie presses as deep as he can with his finger, circling Tyler’s puffy rim with his tongue and that’s it, Tyler keens. The whine growing low in his throat becomes a moan as Tyler’s mouth drops open, hips slamming backwards even as his hole clenches down on Jamie, twitching uncontrollably as the tremors of orgasm overtake him. Tyler tightens impossibly around him and Jamie doesn’t stop licking, laps at the winking rim around his thumb as Tyler rides out his orgasm.
Jamie finally slows to a stop when Tyler untangles his arms, pawing ineffectively at Jamie’s sex-tousled hair and whimpering a little, hyper-sensitive in the wake of orgasm. He carefully pulls his thumb away, taking a moment to admire how good Tyler looks wet and stretched and reddened from his mouth, and he can’t help but give Tyler’s hole one last parting kiss.
With a contented sigh Tyler flops over, knees knocking against Jamie’s chest as he does so. He’s all soft angles and languid, contented stretching now that he’s come his brains out; there’s a patch of clingy, sticky evidence slathered nearly all the way to his abs, but Tyler doesn’t seem to mind, let alone notice it.
Jamie does, though. It’s not like he hasn’t had fantasies about those abs, too, and seeing them sweaty and come-slicked - with Tyler’s still-hard cock taut against them, oozing a little in the aftermath - unfurls a wave of heat down his spine and straight to his balls.
Shit, he still hasn’t come. Tyler’s eyes sharpen as he realizes, at the same moment Jamie himself does, his contented smile going a little sharper, flirtatious. His limbs still don’t seem particularly coordinated - he nearly elbows Jamie again, trying to tug Jamie up the length of his body so that he can sling his arms around Jamie’s neck.
Jamie blinks down at him, planting his hands on Tyler’s hips so he can stay upright as all his blood floods south - the little that was left in his upper body to begin with. His fingers are a little cramped from carefully holding Tyler open for so long, his jaw clicking when he tries to wiggle it, but the lazy, cat-like contentment and well-fucked warmth on Tyler’s face make it more than worth the aches.
Tyler wiggles to get a little more comfortable, dark eyelashes brushing his cheek as he closes his eyes, going half-lidded when he looks up at Jamie again. Jesus, it’s like Tyler knows how to press every single one of his buttons. It’s true of their friendship - no one can get him into a good-natured shouting match about queso, it’s called queso, Tyler, not fucking dip cheese - and apparently it’s true here, too, with Tyler underneath him and Jamie trying desperately not to bust a nut in his shorts just looking at him.
“Was that- was that good?” Jamie asks, even though he can read the answer in the post-sex lethargy in Tyler’s arms and legs, the way all the lines in Tyler’s face have smoothed over with satisfaction.
“Very,” Tyler purrs, playing with the soaked hair at Jamie’s nape. They’re both covered in sweat, actually; rimjobs are hard work. Hard, sexy work. “Now how about you, eh? What did you think? Did you like it?”
“Yes,” Jamie doesn’t even have to think about the reply, groaning at just the thought of it. “It was incredible - you were incredible.”
Tyler flushes, looking surprisingly pleased at the praise. Does Jamie not tell him enough how amazing he is, at everything? “You did all the hard work, man. I haven’t come that hard in- I don’t remember how long.”
“Uh, good,” Jamie says, grinning perhaps a little stupidly. His cock is still rock-hard against Tyler’s softening one, his brain and mouth running on what’s probably the last thimble of blood his dick can spare.
But - Jamie looks down at Tyler, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes as he grins up at Jamie, biting his lip. That little coal of hope is still burning in his chest, brightened by the radiant smile Tyler’s giving him. His heart trips over itself, picking up pace again. Maybe he can do this.
“That’s great. But I, um- ”
“Um?” Tyler raises his eyebrows, going for the chirp with a soft smile, “You had your tongue in my ass and you’re saying um?”
“Well,” Jamie blushes, swallowing heavily, and oh god, now or never, he’s going to say it. “I was going to say, it was great but- I don’t think I’ve learned everything yet. So. We should maybe - do this again, sometime.”
Tyler stares at him. The smile starts to slip from his face, replaced with something unsure and hesitant, and Jamie’s heart drops to his stomach. Fuck, no, fuck, this is exactly what he was worried about, fucking up their friendship-
“I mean,” Tyler interrupts his thoughts, licking his lips before continuing, “Sure?”
He doesn’t sound particularly happy about it. “Sure?” Jamie echoes, “Really?”
Tyler tugs at the short ends of Jamie’s hair, frowning in what Jamie chalks up as petulance. “Sure. What do you want from me, man? I’m human, not a saint, when the dude I’m crushing on asks if he can give me another rim job I’m not about to go and say no to- ”
“What?” Jamie cuts him off, and Tyler continues to glower at him, the start of a flush coming into his cheeks. “What did you say?”
“Dude, how many time do you need to hear that that was fan-fuckin’-tastic? I couldn’t feel my face when I came, really, I’m down if-”
“Tyler,” Jamie says, the blood in his cock surging at Tyler’s words and now is not actually the time. He must’ve channeled some of his Captain Voice, because miraculously, Tyler’s mouth closes with a quiet click. “You’re- I’m- the guy you’re crushing on?”
Tyler presses his mouth into a thin line, like he’s determined to will away his blush. He looks almost irritable at his words being caught - which admittedly, would be more cute if Jamie wasn’t having an emotional crisis of the heart. He’s half-positive that there’s no way he could have heard Tyler correctly, that it was some sort of auditory hallucination as a result of some particularly mind-blowing sex.
But there’s something incredibly fragile in Tyler’s eyes, too, a soft-edged hesitance that stokes the fire of Jamie’s hope. For all Tyler’s confidence and easygoing attitude, he’s as insecure as Jamie is.
“Well,” Tyler finally murmurs hoarsely, throat bobbing. “I mean- you’re my liney and my bro and my best friend. You can make me laugh even after a shit practice, or a loss. Dallas is home now because of you, here with me, and- and my dogs are crazy about you, man, how was I supposed to not fall in love with you?”
“Tyler,” Jamie breathes, the feel of his heart swelling in his chest so strong, it’s nearly an ache. How was I supposed to not fall in love with you? “Tyler, I- I’ve been gone for you since, like, Christmas of your first season here.”
Somehow, after all this time, the admission is easy to make. Tyler blinks up at him, breathing shallowly, eyes flicking over his face as he tries to read Jamie’s expression. His eyebrows knit together but the spark is back in his eyes, tentative and hopeful. “Really?”
“Really. Jordie’s been giving me shit for it for years,” Jamie confirms, pulse jumping at the hint of a smile curling at the edge of Tyler’s lips. “Apparently I talk about you a lot or something.”
Tyler’s smile keeps growing. “You do, eh?”
“He and Daddy gang up on me,” he admits, because now that Tyler knows, he can finally actually complain about it to the person he’s always wanted to go to with said complaints. “Talking about my pining and puppy-dog eyes and how I - uh, touch you a lot without even realizing it. Even Val noticed, and he usually takes to subtleties like a brick wall.”
“Oh, c’mon,” Tyler rolls his eyes, “He’s trying, it’s mostly the language barrier.”
“Yeah, I know,” Jamie chuckles, and then they’re both grinning at each other, smiling until they’re laughing, and Tyler pulls him closer for a kiss.
It’s tender, the soft slide of their lips together with none of the previous urgency. But their mouths are already so well-kissed, swollen and red, that every touch lights Jamie’s nerves with electricity. Tyler makes a soft noise against his mouth and forget air, forget breathing - this is what his mouth is meant to do.
They pull apart with a wet noise and Tyler’s already giggling, gazing up at Jamie through his eyelashes like Jamie’s the best thing he’s ever seen.
“I can’t believe you didn’t notice,” Jamie sighs happily, leaning to touch their foreheads together. “I was so sure I was being stupidly obvious about it - how crazy I am about you.”
Tyler grins right back at him. “I thought I was being obvious. I don’t click with anyone else like I do with you, Bennie.”
“Mmm, good,” Jamie hums, and dips down for another lengthy kiss. He can do this with Tyler, now. It’s a thing he gets to do, lean in to Tyler’s space and kiss him once, twice, as much as he wants. Fuck yes. There are so many things that he wants to do. “You know, we should go out on an actual date. Not just like - not a bro-date, or whatever. A date.”
“That’s not moving too slow for you?” Tyler snickers, biting his lip - and Jamie has no choice, then, he has to kiss away the mark Tyler’s left on his own lip.
“No, it would be nice,” Jamie mumbles, enjoying the press of their mouths together too much to pull away. Tyler’s not complaining, though, just trading easy, warm kisses with him every time Jamie leans closer.
Tyler’s nose wrinkles as he grins broadly, eyebrows waggling. “Really? Because tonight you managed to have enough game to get me into bed and give me a jim rob. I won’t say no to a date, but- ”
“Shut up," Jamie groans, but he mostly says it into Tyler’s mouth, because then they’re kissing again. Tyler lets his giggles get smothered between their mouths, grinning when he slips his tongue into Jamie’s mouth ever-so-briefly, making him groan.
But then he’s pulling away just as quickly. “Oh, shit, man,” Tyler’s eyes are a little wide, though no less delighted. “You didn’t even come yet!”
Jamie’s erection, which had flagged a little through their conversation, picks up interest when Tyler’s hands immediately begin to wander, skirting down Jamie’s ribs to his hips, squeezing appreciatively. He’s going to be back to cutting diamonds in no time.
“What do you want?” Tyler asks, eyes flicking down to the growing bulge in Jamie’s boxer briefs. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, pinks and slick, and Jaime groans.
“It really isn’t going to take much,” he warns. “I’ve been pretty on the edge since you, uh.”
Tyler’s smirk is all self-satisfied smugness. “Eating me out did a lot for you, huh?”
“Yeah,” Jamie exhales, thighs flexing as he grinds his hips into Tyler. Now that it has his attention again, his cock is throbbing and heavy. “Can I rub off on your abs?”
Tonight, it seems, blurting out things in Tyler’s presence is really working for him. Tyler laughs, tugging at Jamie’s waistband. It’s already stretched by his swelling cock and sticky-damp from earlier, smeared with Jamie’s precome. “ ’Course you can, c’mere, take that off.”
Jamie does. He can barely stop staring at Tyler’s abs while he does so, though, so it’s not too much of a surprise that he nearly tips over trying to untangle his boxer-briefs from his knees. The smears of come across his belly are starting to dry, tacky around the edges, but debauched looks pretty delicious on him. “You aren’t already too much of a mess?”
“Well, yeah,” Tyler smiles, “but it’s not fun if it isn’t a bit messy, eh? C’mon, get up on this. Make me even more of a mess.”
And, well. Jamie isn’t going to say no to that.
Jamie’s halfway through pulling his sweaty pads over his head when he notices the glint of metal on the shelf of his stall.
He finishes shucking his chest pads, wiping his damp face on the shoulder of his tee and blinking sweat out of his eyes. There’s a little trophy on the shelf, nestled next to the snapback he’d left there along with his keys. It’s only maybe eight inches high, a silver two-handled cup on a dark wood base. It gleams in the cheerful light of the locker room, reflecting all manner of beautiful grays and whites and greens.
Up close, it’s clear that it’s not actually silver silver - in fact, Jamie’s pretty sure that it’s the kind of thing you can buy and have engraved for like forty bucks.
Tyler’s smirking and won’t meet his eyes as he strolls back into the locker room, towel draped around his waist, and, well, that answers the question as to who left it there.
“I won’t say no to a trophy,” Jamie says, shooting Tyler a smile, “but our anniversary isn’t for another two weeks, you know.”
“Oh, I know,” Tyler’s grin is wide and knowing, an edge of mirth to his tone that Jamie knows well. “Did you read what it says?”
The trophy’s cool to the touch when Jamie picks it up, a pleasant weight for its size. He turns it over in his hands, admiring the curling font and bright polish of the metal.
“Jamie Benn,” he reads, smoothing his thumb over the engraved script on the black plaque fixed to the cup’s base. “The James Roberts Trophy. James Roberts?”
Jamie looks up at Tyler, eyebrows raised in confusion, and finds his boyfriend pink-faced, biting his lower lip to keep from giggling. He’s never been particularly good at keeping a straight face. “You know. Our friend, James Roberts. Jim Rob?”
“Oh my god,” Jamie groans, barely resisting the urge to put his face in his hands.
“One year to the day, baby,” Tyler crows, slinging a bare arm around his shoulder and planting a wet, beard-scratchy kiss on Jamie’s cheek. Jamie doesn’t even try to push him away; it’s weirdly romantic for Tyler to remember the one-year anniversary of them getting their shit together, starting with Jamie’s ridiculous, tongue-tied proposition.
That, and he’d never say no to a mostly-nude Tyler Seguin draped across him.
“I can’t believe you had a trophy made,” he says, setting it back on the shelf. It’s smudgy with his fingerprint, but still gleaming at him in a way that seems almost mocking. Almost.
Of course, that’s when Jordie shoulders in beside him to look at it, not even halfway out of his pads but too curious for his own good. “The James Roberts, eh? I don’t think I know a hockey player named James Roberts- ”
That’s what finally sets Tyler off laughing, full belly laughter that doesn’t show any sign of tapering off into his signature giggles. He tucks his face into Jamie’s neck, clinging to his shoulders and barely breathing through the laughter.
Jordie just tuts and shakes his head, rolling his eyes as he goes back to his own stall. “Do I even wanna know?”
“Probably not,” Jamie half-shrugs, grinning. None of their teammates actually know the truth behind how they finally got their act together, and he’d like to keep it that way. As far as anyone knows, their first date was two weeks shy from a year ago, and that’s hopefully all they’re ever going to know.
Especially his older brother.
Tyler winds down from his giggling, grinning at Jamie when their eyes meet again. His smile dimples his cheeks, eyes sparkling from the exercise and delight, and Jamie couldn’t fucking love him more if he tried.
“That was pretty good,” Jamie nods to the trophy, ensconced in a place of honor at the top of his stall. “We’ll put it on the mantle, eh? Not bad, winning a trophy in the first year of a relationship.”
“You earned it,” Tyler says earnestly, waggling his eyebrows, “and I’m sure you’ll continue to prove yourself worthy of the honor of the James Roberts.”
Jamie laughs. “I’ll certainly try.”
“Oh, you succeed,” Tyler purrs, and then snickers at the faint sounds of Jordie groaning at their flirting somewhere behind them. “But y’know, speaking of trophies- ”
“There’s a different one I have my eye on, to win this coming year,” Tyler looks back at the impressive eight inches of James Roberts, the polished silver bright against the wood of Jamie’s stall. “A little bit bigger than Jim here.”
Jamie’s smile grows to matches Tyler’s, the two of them grinning at each other and then back at the little trophy. “Yeah?”
Tyler shrugs, grin still in place. “Yeah. I think we can do it.”
Jamie catches Tyler’s hand in his. They’re both sweaty from practice, hair going everywhere and fingers damp even as they lace them together. His heart swells as he squeezes Tyler’s hand in his and gets an answering squeeze in return.
“You know,” he says, “I have a really good feeling about us winning things together.”
Tyler beams back. “Me too.”