Fic: Never To Break You (4)
He’s tried twice this week to no success, so when Kevin drives down to the eastside again, he isn’t really prepared to actually see Jason, standing there like he wasn’t gone for nearly two months. Kevin kind of stares for a moment, because he’s really right there, and Kevin suddenly feels so much closer to the answer, as Jason wanders towards his car.
“Heard you’ve been looking for me,” Jason says, leaning down by the open passenger side window.
“Can’t really blame me,” Kevin grins, and Jason just shakes his head. “What can I say, I’m a one-dude-man.”
“That is definitely not the phrase, but definitely suits you better than one-woman-man,” this is accompanied by a smirk that’s definitely only half friendly, if that.
“Hey, I could be-”
“Oh, please,” Jason snorts with laughter, “do you remember what we do? You can tell a lot about a guy from just that, and you are three very distinct things,” he says, starts to tick them off on his fingers, “one, single. Two, into guys. And three, not getting any from anyone else.”
“Wow, that was flattering,” Kevin smirks, but he’s kind of blushing.
“Gonna dispute any of them?”
“I don’t really think I can, unfortunately.”
“Well, there you go.” Jason taps his fingers against the door, “so, are you here because I’m a great conversationalist?”
“Of course,” Kevin says, “but maybe for other things too.” Jason scoffs at that, opens the door and slides in. His long legs stretch out before him, his height more obvious when he’s sitting than when he’s leaning down next to the car.
“You’re paying up front this time,” Jason informs him.
“What, don’t trust me?” Kevin asks, but Jason just smirks at him. “How much for a night, anyways?”
“Wow, you’re moving up in the world. Six thousand.”
“Six thousand,” Kevin repeats dubiously, and he’s not exactly a frequent customer to this kind of thing, but that just seems a little much. Slightly.
“Six thousand.” Jason looks over at him. “Any chance you believe me?”
“Not exactly. How much?”
“How much do you have?”
“Fuck, aren’t you an extortionist,” Kevin laughs, and Jason rolls his eyes; Kevin has the distinct impression that he doesn’t know what extortionist means. He starts to drive back out of the eastside, and Jason’s quiet on the drive there, but he looks sort of surprised at the hotel Kevin leads him into, even though the look is gone before Kevin can really register it. He lingers a few feet away while Kevin pays for a room; the place isn’t great or anything, but it’s definitely more hotel than motel, one of the places a tour guide book would call one of Gastown’s little hidden treasures, optimistic about the clean rooms and charmingly old furniture despite its location, unfortunately close to East Hastings.
“You’re really not very good at this whole thing,” Jason says as they walk down the hallway, “a hotel? You’re a letter off.”
“I like it,” Kevin defends himself; Jason shrugs.
“Guess you’re agreeing to any price at this point, hmm?” Jason says after Kevin’s closed the door behind them. Jason turns on the bedside lamp, and its glow is dim and golden.
“Looks like it,” Kevin agrees cheerfully, “care to throw me a number that isn’t six thousand, or ‘everything’?” Jason sighs, sitting on the end of the bed and looking up at him.
“Three hundred,” Jason says, with a flicker of something defiant on his face that Kevin’s pretty sure means the number’s been hiked up. He kind of hates the thought of putting a price on something like this at all, but he gives Jason what he asked, for this thing that should be invaluable.
“So,” he says, climbing onto the bed, and sitting near the headboard, “what does that include?” He studies Jason’s back for a moment, and he’s seeing that jersey, carrying a name and number with pride and he’s right back at the rink talking to those players, and then maybe Lapierre would step onto the ice wearing that jersey, but then Jason turns to face him, and the moment is gone.
“You get to do me,” he says, “plus whatever it takes to get you there.”
“And you?” Kevin asks.
“And you- me- what?” Jason says, and the grammar is a little jarring, makes his accent a little more pronounced.
“That’s part of it, right?”
“I-” an entirely new look appears on Jason’s face for a moment; he looks somewhere between stunned and perplexed, and it’s a flash of openness in this so very guarded man. “Why would you want- sure, yeah. It’s all-inclusive, so.”
“Great,” Kevin says, and that look is completely gone from Jason’s face as he shrugs off his jacket. Jason crawls up the bed to him, and those big hands press on Kevin’s shoulders to get him to lie back. He pulls off Kevin’s shirt and tosses it aside, but still looks confused when Kevin tugs at the hem of his shirt. He gets it after a second and strips it off. (Hockey, Kevin’s mind whispers, because how else could someone have such a perfect body?)
“What do you want me to do?” Jason’s dark eyes flicker up to Kevin’s face.
“We could just cuddle,” Kevin says, grinning.
“Yeah,” Jason rolls his eyes, but he gets a little… guarded, like every muscle is screaming don’t touch me; he tenses a little, shoulders get this defensive set to them. It kind of makes Kevin want to soothe the tension from his body, but the idea of aimless touching is what’s making Jason look at him like that.
“I’m really not picky,” Kevin says, and Jason smirks.
“I know.” He runs his hands down Kevin’s chest slowly, straddling his hips. Kevin watches his hands, his arms, the muscles that move in his shoulders, and he’s imagining a jersey, imaging all that gear, and Jason’s shirtless, but Kevin imagines pulling a jersey over his head, the 40 proud on its back, imagines pulling at the Velcro straps and pulling away gloves, tugging off elbow pads, untying breezers, tearing away sock tape. Maybe they’d be on the bench in the dressing room, maybe they’d be in the corner on the ice, gear collecting around them, on their knees on the ice. Kevin groans a little, hips twitching involuntarily at the thought; Jason smirks down at him, and in Kevin’s mind, his back is against the boards, this player’s skates knocking against his, the sharp clack of blades scraping together.
Jason dips his head to scrape his teeth down Kevin’s neck and Kevin shivers; in his mind, the move is preceded by spitting out a mouthguard, pushing off a helmet, and it clatters across the ice, sliding away, and he catches sight of the 40 on its top before he’s being distracted by hands tugging at his - jeans, they’re on a bed, in a hotel - hockey pants, which get tossed into the pile with the rest of his gear - clothing, on the sheets - on the ice. Jason continues to bite at Kevin’s neck, one hand slipping down between them to rub at the growing bulge of Kevin’s erection. He groans, hips arching up into the touch, and in his head, his breath is a visible fog in the cold air, those lips against his neck so hot while their skin is so cold.
“Oh, fuck,” he mumbles, as Jason’s hand moves so, so slowly, could go out of his mind with how good it feels. His head falls back against the pillows - if they were on the ice, he’d hit the boards painfully, and just the thought of the cold boards against his back has him moaning and pushing into Jason’s hand, his dick starting to leak precum shamelessly as he thinks of how those hands would be so warm even in the cold rink air.
“Hey,” he tugs at Jason’s beltloop, “you’re, uh. Being unfair.”
“Yeah, me being dressed is a crying shame,” Jason says dryly, but he still undoes his jeans slowly, climbing off Kevin to work at the zipper. He pulls his jeans down in slow movements, and a thrill shoots through Kevin when he sees that Jason’s hard, erection tenting his boxers obscenely. Jason kicks off his jeans, looks up; when he meets Kevin’s eyes, he goes scarlet and looks away.
“C’mere,” Kevin suggests, and Jason frowns a little, but Kevin sees the wet spot that starts forming in his boxers at that, the way Jason’s dick twitches with interest. He comes back over, but doesn’t let Kevin’s hands get near him, goes instead to tug down Kevin’s boxers. Kevin groans when Jason’s hand closes around him, thrusts up into his hand, because Jason’s stupid three things list is totally accurate; no one’s touched him since Jason did almost two months ago, and this is a world away from the way it feels when Kevin does it himself, even though he’s thinking of the same things, of Jason’s intense eyes and big, sure stickhandler’s hands. His thoughts slip back to the ice rink, Jason’s kneepads sliding on the ice’s surface as he edges down, hands flat against the ice. Jason’s hands curl around the sheets as he licks across the head of Kevin’s cock, takes him in his mouth slowly. Kevin tries to keep his hips still, but even movement he doesn’t make is turned into a desperate, needy whimper, falling easily, helplessly from his lips. Within two minutes, his breath’s coming faster, every movement feeling so perfectly good, and he gasps aloud as Jason’s tongue does that thing again.
“Wait,” he manages, “gonna-” he only means it so Jason can pull off and finish with his hand, but Jason draws away entirely, sits back on his heels and jerks his head for Kevin to get up. Kevin realises what this means, and something in him twists with a jolt of anxiety.
“There’s stuff in my jacket pocket,” Jason says, lying down on his stomach on the bed. Kevin reaches over, finds a packet of lube and a condom; he looks back at Jason, who’s just waiting, looking over his shoulder. Kevin can’t help but run his hands across Jason’s back, smooth over his hips, and Jason’s hips jerk a little, a half-strangled sound coming from him. His hips rub against the mattress almost involuntarily as Kevin’s hands stroke across his skin, until Jason makes a displeased little noise, raises himself up a little and looks back at Kevin expectantly. Kevin tugs down Jason’s boxers, could get lost in the little sigh of relief that escapes Jason. He’s hard, so hard, dripping precum excessively; Jason’s head drops, and he pushes his hips back against Kevin’s touch when Kevin slips the first finger inside him. Kevin’s done this only a handful of times before, with fairly disinterested partners, who didn’t make the same sounds as Jason, who alternates between whining and hurriedly cut-off moans. Kevin’s never had a meaningful first time, and this, this will not be it. Jason would never allow that.
By the time Kevin’s gotten to three fingers, Jason’s practically trembling as he props himself up on his elbows, his hands clenched tightly in the sheets. He doesn’t reach back to touch his own dick, which looks achingly hard, precum pooling on the mattress beneath him. Kevin leans up to press his lips against Jason’s shoulder, earning a low groan.
“Ready?” he asks, and Jason just nods. Kevin strokes his hand along Jason’s back as he slides back, and Jason chokes on a moan. Kevin pulls the condom on over his throbbing dick, lines the head up at Jason’s entrance. Jason is practically squirming under his hands, making needy, breathless little sounds he muffles against the pillow. Kevin pushes in gradually, gasping at the tight heat around him. He thrusts slowly, long, slick slides that make Jason whimper. Kevin closes his eyes, imagines ice under his knees, Jason’s chest protector leaving only some skin visible, and the image makes him groan, thrust his hips deep. He must have hit the exact right angle, because Jason cries out, a desperate, wanting sound that he quickly swallows back, going silent again. Kevin repeats the same movement, reaches around to get a hand on Jason’s erection. Jason makes the most desperate sounds, deep and raw, canting his hips back, every muscle tensing up. Kevin grasps his hip tight, imagines his hands fisting in the back of a jersey, bunched fabric below a bold 40 as Jason moans, and it’s too much for him; he shoves in deep, groaning as he comes hard, the sudden rush making his head spin, and he can just hear the way his voice would echo in the empty rink. It only takes two strokes before Jason’s coming too, with a sound that’s practically a sob, his knees almost giving out under him.
Jason collapses down to the mattress after Kevin pulls out, hasn’t moved when Kevin comes back from the washroom. “What do you usually do now?” he asks, lying down next to Jason. Jason lifts one shoulder in a shrug, face against the pillow.
“You really do suck at this.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Most guys leave. One guy wanted to catch the highlights of the game,” Jason adds, half smirking. “That wasn’t so bad, hockey tends to make things better.”
“You’re a hockey fan?” Kevin asks. Jason turns his face back against the pillow.
“Not just hockey,” he says, almost sounds defensive, like Kevin’s insulted him, “uh, other sports too. Like the… Whitecaps and shit.”
“So, football?” Kevin asks, arches an eyebrow when Jason nods without pointing out that the Whitecaps don’t play football. Jason pushes himself up, doesn’t really look at Kevin.
“So I can go home now, right?” he asks.
“I can drive you back-”
“It’s okay.” Jason pulls back on his boxers and his shirt, and just as he pulls on his jeans, Kevin catches sight of a tattoo on his calf. It looks like a number, like a jersey number, but before he can register more than that, Jason’s got his jeans back on and is grabbing his jacket, already on his way out the door.
Kevin lies back on the bed after he’s gone, and when he closes his eyes, he sees an empty sheet of ice, gear scattered at his side, no one there but him.
Have I found him?
(next chapter)