Work Header

Momentum? I hardly know him

Work Text:

The combine is the first chance they've had to fuck since Worlds, so, as usual, Connor ends up at Jack's door at 2 in the morning. He texts Jack so he doesn't have to knock, and a few seconds later the door clicks open. The room is dark, blue-black with a television screen flickering somewhere out of view. Jack, leaning on the door, is shirtless and his jeans are unbuttoned; Connor's mouth starts watering, and he puts his hands on Jack's shoulders and walks forward until he can kick the door shut behind him.

"Hi,” Jack says.

"Hi," Connor says, reeling him in. In the dark Jack's mouth glances off Connor's chin, once, and he laughs; they get it right next time, and Jack presses in close.

Some kind of highlight on the TV ends and then Connor hears his own voice, an interview from this afternoon. "I actually just met Jack this morning," eight-hours-ago-Connor says, and Jack breaks off the kiss by starting to laugh.

"You're such a fucking liar," he says, and Connor shoves him backwards towards the bed.

"I told you they'd buy it," Connor says, but Jack's still laughing as he sits on the edge of the bed and Connor slides down to kneel between his legs.

"Shut up," Connor says, without much hope, reaching into Jack's boxers to get his dick out. He's not fully hard yet, probably because he's laughing too hard to be really turned on, but Connor has really fucking missed sucking Jack's dick, so he shrugs and goes for it.

Jack's laugh breaks up a bit into a moan. "Fuck, yes," he says. "I fucking missed this."

Connor hums a reply around Jack's dick, just to feel him shake, then tries to focus, but Jack's talking again, something about the putative look on a hapless reporter's face, and eventually Connor has to pull off. "Do you want a blowjob, or do you want to talk about telling Bob McKenzie we've been fucking at every IIHF tournament we've both been to since 2013?" He presses a kiss against the leaking tip of Jack's dick, then pulls off enough that it's just resting against his lower lip – an image he knows for a fact Jack's gotten off to.

"I want a blowjob," Jack says, promptly, and Connor says, "That's what I thought."

He tongues the head of Jack's dick, enjoying Jack's stifled noise, and gets back to business. Jack's finally managed to get hard, and he's heavy in Connor's mouth. Connor's jaw aches, because they've never been able to do this for a long enough stretch that he's gotten used to this feeling. It doesn't matter, though, because it never takes Jack long to come the first time, and tonight is no exception. He jerks a little, mumbles something, and then he's coming thick against Connor's soft palate, making him choke.

He pulls off, lets Jack watch himself finish against Connor's mouth in the flickering blue light. Jack's eyes are wide, his mouth still half-smiling from his laughter earlier; he doesn't look away.

When Jack groans and flops back on the bed, Connor gets up and goes to the bathroom to wash his face. When he looks in the mirror, he's flushed and his lips are red and used-looking. His dick, already hard, twitches in his pants. When he gets back into the room, Jack's inched his way up to be properly on the bed. He makes a moue at Connor as he unbuckles his belt and drops his pants.

"Someday I'm going to get a picture of you like that," Jack says.

Connor snorts. "Good luck," he says. He knees his way onto the bed and straddles Jack, bending down to kiss him. Jack makes a noise. "You didn't brush your teeth," he says, and Connor says, "Lucky you." Jack doesn't disagree, pulling Connor back down, but Connor pulls off and says, "Hey, I wanna fuck you."

Jack makes kind of a pissy face. "That's a lot of work," he says. "I'm so fucking tired and you just made me come, man."

"Come on," Connor says. "I really fucking want it. I'll do the work."

"You always say that, and then I always end up spending 40 minutes riding you."

That's because Jack looks amazing riding Connor's dick, Connor thinks but doesn't say.

"There's no way I'm lasting 40 minutes tonight," he says instead, and Jack says "Fine, fine," with an exaggerated eyeroll. "Stuff's in the drawer."

Connor levers himself off to fish through the nightstand, and Jack flips himself onto his stomach, turning his neck to watch Connor. The mock-pissed face has faded into something softer, and Connor smiles at him as he climbs back on, putting a hand under Jack's knee and easing his leg up so Jack's half-kneeling. He leans forward enough to kiss Jack, and Jack kisses back before a while before saying, "C'mon, don't leave me hanging."

"Oh, you're so put upon, you hate getting fucked, right?" says Connor.

Jack gives him a sly grin. "Got to make you work for it," he says, and sighs as Connor gets a slick fingertip in him and gets to work.

The aircon is going full blast and the TV's still on, now on baseball highlights. The blue light desaturates everything, but Connor can see Jack's back muscles move as he flexes back on Connor's fingers, sighing contentedly.

"Yeah," Connor says, dumbly aware his mouth is open. "Take it," and Jack does, rippling around three fingers. Jack's looking less and less like a lazy, fucked-out cat. He’s getting into it, pulling his other leg up under himself until he's on all fours and shoving himself back; Connor reaches his free hand around Jack's hip and palms his dick, then pulls away.

"I'm going to," he says, fumbling for a rubber.

"Yeah, yeah," Jack says, "Stick it in," and Connor does, as slowly as he can bear, watching his dick disappear into Jack, pulling back again. He never gets tired of looking at the point where they're joined; maybe he would if they fucked every day, but, then again, maybe not.

"Don't piss around, just fuck me," Jack bitches.

Connor does as he’s told. As soon as he starts moving, it's like his dick remembers it's been months, and he's blindingly hot for it, feeling himself sweat through the Otters t-shirt he's forgotten to take off. He grabs Jack's hips with both hands and starts fucking him in earnest, and Jack tosses his head back with a shout.

"Sssh," Connor tries.

Jack says, "Fuck," bringing an arm around to bite his wrist. That's going to be really discreet at interviews tomorrow but it's Jack's problem, except Connor can't stop thinking about it, about a bruise on Jack's wrist that there's because of Connor, right there where anyone can see.

That's what he's thinking about when he comes, hips stuttering hard enough to drive Jack into the pillow, and then collapses across Jack's back.

Eventually he regains consciousness enough to wriggle off Jack and fumble one hand towards Jack's dick. Jack whimpers as Connor's hand comes down a little too firmly; he's limp, and Connor says, "Sorry, did you..."

"Mmhmm," Jack says. He rolls over enough to get an arm around Connor, and Connor curls in a little, feeling his eyes close. "Alarm set for an hour," he says, and Jack says, "I'm not a rookie, Davo."

"Right," Connor says, sleepily, and basically passes out.


"So, you two just met yesterday?" The reporter tilts his microphone towards Connor, expectantly.

Connor looks at Jack, meets his eyes. Jack's wearing long-sleeved Underarmour, sweating through it, and Connor flicks his eyes towards his wrist for a second, then back at Jack. Jack's going red. He might be starting to laugh.

Connor turns back towards the reporter and says, "Yeah, we bumped into each other on the street yesterday."