Fic: Caught A Spark
CAUGHT A SPARK
Jeff Skinner/Eric Staal, NC-17
3100 words
Eric really thought that the months between the end of the season and now would have been enough to kill this... whatever it is he's feeling for Jeff.
For elucidate-this in the Hockey Holidays exchange.
Muchas gracias to liketheroad for the lookover. Also on AO3 here.
The only good thing about the Media Tour, Eric thinks as he tries and fails to flag down a cab for the third time in a row, is that it means the new season is just around the corner. And it's a good thing he has that to look forward to, because otherwise it'd be too easy to get dragged down by how overwhelming it all could be; New York City's noise and bustle and the same interview questions over and over and smiling for the camera until his face could break and the cabs that won't pick you up aren't really Eric's idea of a great time.
He wants to text Marc and ask him how anyone is supposed to enjoy being here, but he's not actually sure where his phone is right now. He really hopes he didn't leave it on the plane.
But he eventually hails a cab and makes it to his hotel. He has just enough time to sit down and wish he had more time to rest before he's back up, putting on a clean suit and adjusting his tie to head out to the Versace party.
*
Eric's barely stepped into the place and he already feels underdressed. Not that any of the other guys are dressed particularly better than him -- well, except Lundqvist, probably, but that guy doesn't count -- but just the vibe in the place, like there's residual snobbery leaking from the walls. Plus he would bet that some of the clothes hanging on the racks around them cost more than his first truck.
At least, at first glance, it looks like knows a lot of the people who are already milling around. Toews and Perry are here, and Doan and Stammer, and some guys he recognizes but maybe won't talk to unless they say hi first, like Kesler, and Kaner.
And there, standing next to a rack of shirts and an impossibly tall model, smiling and blushing as he talks to Tavares and Grabner, there's Jeff.
Jeff looks good. Unlike pretty much everyone else he's not wearing a jacket, and his shirt makes it clear he put on more bulk over the summer. He's carrying it well, Eric thinks. It changed his face, too; he doesn't look as young as he used to and Eric's not sure how he feels about that. But his smile is still the same, which Eric finds himself irrationally glad about.
Eric really thought that the months between the end of the season and now would have been enough to kill this... whatever it is he's feeling for Jeff. Eric doesn't even want to try to put a name to it. That would give it more credit than it deserves, he thinks, and he's not sure he'd like what that name would end up being. He's perfectly happy to chalk it up to Jeff being a likable, friendly guy. They're friends. He never expected to be such good friends with a rookie, or someone so much younger than him generally, but he's cool with that. There's just something lurking around the edges of those feelings, trying to push outwards, into far, far murkier territory--
"Staaler!"
Eric startles out of his weird moment and looks over to see Brad Richards waving at him from halfway across the room. It's obviously an invitation, so Eric swallows with a dry throat and forces himself to walk into the party like his heart isn't all of a sudden beating twice as hard.
By the sound of it Brad's telling the story of the hell he went through trying to find a place in the city that wasn't full of weird neighbours or too ridiculously overpriced or too far from the Garden, and Eric finds himself settling into the conversation and the party around him.
He's finally starting to feel relaxed. Mike Richards had wandered over and handed him a beer--something fancier than he would normally drink, but it looks like that's all that's going around tonight so he'll take it--and they're catching up on their summers.
"Did you finally finish the renos up in Kenora?" Eric asks him, remembering the plans Richie'd outlined for him at the Olympics.
Mike's face lights up. "It's getting so close, man," he says, then launches into something about finding the perfect couch for his games room.
It's easy to fall into the conversation, but he can't help but keep a part of his brain focused on keeping track of Jeff. Where he is, who he's talking to. When Eric puts it that way it sounds pretty creepy, but it's just because he hasn't actually even had a chance to say hi to Jeff yet, ask him how his summer's been and how his training's been going and if he missed Eric as much as Eric missed him. Wait, no, not that last part. Where did that even come from? Eric shakes his head at himself.
"We losing you there, Eric?" Richie asks, teasing.
Eric feels his face go hot. He's sure he looks terrible when he blushes, unlike some other people he could think of. "Sorry, it's been a long day."
"I hear that."
Eric wants to ask Richie about the boat he just mentioned thinking about buying, but someone official-looking comes up and needs to borrow Richie for a few minutes. Eric stands awkwardly and watches Richie go, then finds his gaze drifting over to where Jeff's standing. He may as well go over, he tells himself. He hasn't said hi to Jeff yet and he really should, find out how his first trip to the Media Tour is going. It's the right thing to do, he decides, and he starts making his way across the party towards Jeff. But before he can get there, someone--a reporter, by the looks of it--gets Jeff's attention.
Eric sighs, slows his pace. He was okay to cut in when Jeff was just talking to the other kids, but he's not so sure he wants to do it in front of a microphone.
He veers to change course, nods at Phaneuf, and ends up talking to Claude Giroux, who is really French and makes him a little uncomfortable, and some guy who he knows is an actor and thinks might be in one of those shows the guys on his team all watch. They're talking about the Cup Finals
Eric watches Jeff as he thinks, lip poking out the corner of his lips
Someone Eric recognizes only as one of the guys who writes for NHL.com comes up next to Eric.
"Hard to believe last year was only his rookie season," the guy muses out loud.
Eric is so busy freaking out over the reminder of exactly how young Jeff is that it takes a second before he realizes the guy must be talking to him. "Makes me feel old," he finally replies, and fuck if that isn't the entire problem.
And then the guy talking to Jeff must say something funny because Jeff bursts into a smile that lights up his whole face.
Sometimes Eric wishes he could forget why he even wanted Jeff in the first place. But he knows he can't, because the afterimage of Jeff's smile is seared into his retinas.
*
When he gets back to his hotel room it's like whatever had been holding him back until now just snapped. He's ready to admit to himself that he's got it bad for Jeff. His incredible smile, that ridiculous dimple, the way his eyes crinkle around the edges, all of that, but it's more than that too; it's the way Jeff laughs at his dumb jokes and the way he's so enthusiastic about everything and the way he plays.
And the way Jeff kissed him.
Eric remembers that with an unusual clarity.
It had been after a huge win over Tampa. The team was riding high and the giddiness followed them to the bar, where they drank toasts to Eric's goal and Jeff's goal. Jeff was beaming the whole time and more often than not he was pointing it Eric's way.
But even so, Eric has no excuse, no explanation at all for what happened when they were finally calling it a night. They were about to head their separate ways when Eric slung an arm around Jeff's shoulder and pulled him in for a manhug, but for some reason Jeff returned it full-on. So it was by reflex, just a sudden burst of affection for hockey and this kid and his hockey skills, that Eric pulled Jeff into his chest and pressed his lips to the top of Jeff's head. He'd meant it mostly in a sort of embarrassing older brother way, but Jeff'd gone tense and pulled away. Eric had a joke about it on the tip of the tongue, but then Jeff's lips were on his, warm and chapped and firm and so warm, and just as the neurons in Eric's brain started firing, started making the connection that he didn't really mean it like a brother much at all, started telling him to kiss Jeff back, Jeff pulled away, flushed red and looking down and fidgeting with his phone which was suddenly in his hand.
"I," Eric started, but he didn't know what came next so he just stopped talking.
"Sorry," Jeff said, "that was weird, I don't know why I did that. Have you ever just done something in the moment and you have no idea where it came from?"
Eric unfortunately had, and has a record in Minnesota to prove it. He couldn't quite get himself together to say as much, though, so he just kind of made a noise of agreement.
He wasn't sure what was written on his face but it must have been completely different from what was running through his head, because Jeff was standing closer and then he was up on his toes and kissing Eric again.
That time Eric actually kissed him back. Or at least he did for a few precious heartbeats until he could finally make himself stop, the guilt piling on so thick he could barely breathe. Or maybe that was from the way Jeff was kissing him. Either way--
"Stop, Jeff," Eric panted, pulling back with incredible effort. "We can't do this."
Jeff huffed an unhappy sigh out through his nose. "I know, people could see."
"Well, that too." A sudden tingle of panic ran down his spine. That hadn't even occurred to him. "But I meant, we can't."
The distance between their bodies felt so much bigger than it actually was, and the silence filling it was dense, suffocating.
"It's just," Eric started to explain, but stopped. He wasn't sure how he wanted to put it into words, or if he even wanted to put it into words at all.
"Yeah," Jeff agreed quickly. "So, uh, I'm just going to call a cab, I'll see you at the rink tomorrow." He waved, the movement way more stiff and awkward than it'd ever been before, then turned the corner and disappeared.
So Jeff's made it clear that he's interested.
And that's the problem. Because Eric is interested in Jeff right back, but he can't act on it. He's not just Jeff's teammate, he's the captain. He's supposed to be the one being responsible, making good decisions. He's supposed to be an adult. He's not supposed to play favourites. A hysterical little voice in the back of his mind pipes up, If you're going to kiss Jeff you're going to have to kiss everyone on the team, like some twisted reincarnation of giving out cards to everyone in his class on Valentine's Day in Grade 3.
But Jeff wants him.
And Eric wants him back.
He wants Jeff's mouth, he wants to kiss him again, for Jeff to kiss him all over, his chest, his thighs, the spot near his ear nobody's touched in forever. He wants Jeff on his knees, looking up at him, putting that mouth on Eric's dick.
No.
He really wants to not have these, these feelings about Jeff. Who is practically a child. Who was a rookie last year (Rookie of the Year, every journalist in the room today was happy to remind him), while Eric was in his eighth year. Eight! That was longer than some guys even had careers in the league.
Eric clenches his eyes shut, grits his teeth in frustration.
What he wants and what he should want are two different things.
He knows he needs to get a grip and take the high road. He knows this.
And yet...
Eric slides his hand down his stomach and works his belt undone. He pauses, only for a second, before he heaves out a deep breath, unbuttons his slacks, and pushes the waistband of his boxers down over the rising bulge of his cock. He sighs as it springs free, already weighty and dark with the recent rush of blood. It's only a matter of moments to kick his clothes off his legs and onto the floor.
He feels only the faintest pang of shame as he wraps his fingers around himself.
His grip chafes just this side of uncomfortable, but his mouth is dry too and he can barely muster the spit to wet it, let alone spit into his palm to slick things up. There's lotion in the bathroom and probably something in his shaving kit, but that'd mean he'd have to move, get up, take his hand off his dick, and that's the worst thing imaginable right now when he can see Jeff so clearly in his mind's eye, straddling his lap, his cheeks flushed and eyes dark.
Eric sighs and shifts his weight as he thumbs the head of his cock, rubbing the edges of the slit. He imagines Jeff watching him do it, his tongue poking between the corner of his lips as he focuses on it.
"Let me," this Jeff says, reaching down to lift Eric's hand away and pick up where he made him leave off.
He presses his thumb to the ridge of the head, tracing hot arcs back and forth. Then he catches the head up in his sweaty grasp, squeezing for a moment before jerking the length of Eric's cock, once, twice. He pulls almost all the way off and then takes hold again, rubbing the pad of a finger against the crown.
Precome blooms under Eric's--Jeff's--touch, slicking it, and Eric groans hoarsely.
Eric spreads his legs a little wider, giving Jeff more room. Jeff grins at that. He runs his hand down the line of muscle at Eric's hip and then further, tracing the curve of Eric's balls. He cups them, rolling one side and then the other with a light touch.
"Shit," Eric hisses.
Jeff looks pleased with himself. He bites his lip as he looks down, watching Eric's dick pushing up through the top of his grip, then looks up and catches Eric's eye. "I want to taste you," he tells Eric, the look on his face saying he knows Eric is powerless to deny him anything.
Tension pulls across Eric's hips as he presses them down against the sheets, trying not to buck up against Jeff's face as he leans in. His hand wraps around the base of his cock, gliding slowly up the length before squeezing again. Eric's thumb slips across the head and he so easily imagines that it's Jeff's tongue instead, moving carefully at first but then more confidently.
Eric's heart is beating bruisingly hard against his ribcage and his breaths catch hard in his throat as he tries to keep them steady. His balls start to draw in and he shudders with a ragged moan, his stomach and thighs pulling tight.
His imagined Jeff looks up and catches Eric's eye as he drags his tongue up the length of Eric's dick.
Eric's dick twitches hard against his stomach.
Jeff lifts his head and Eric's dick slides free.
Eric runs his hand up his stomach and chest as he imagines Jeff moving up his body. They're not quite touching but he can feel the heat from Jeff's chest above his, can imagine the weight resting fully on him.
Jeff straddles him then, his dick sliding against Eric's as he presses their chests together, and Eric's head falls back and he twists his fingers through his own hair, pulling slightly as he lifts his hips, pushing up into Jeff's weight, rubbing against him. He grips his cock tightly around the head, squeezing, thrusts up into it, hot and slick with sweat on his palm and a steady pool of precome, and that's it, that's all it takes, and he's coming hard, through his grip and across his fingers, shooting up onto his chest.
He relaxes slowly, his muscles unclenching one at a time, and he lies limply in the middle of the bed as he sucks in quick breaths and waits for his racing heart to slow down. He only barely has enough energy to wipe his chest and stomach clean with his t-shirt. The sheets stick to the cooling sweat on his back as he lies there, thinking about if he wants to turn on the TV or just keep staring at the ceiling, when there's a knock at the door.
Eric groans. "Are you kidding me?" he mutters to himself.
The knock comes again, a little louder, so Eric musters as much strength of will as he can to swing his legs over the side of the bed and sit up. He grabs the sweats and Canes tee half-hanging out of his bag and then reluctantly stands so he can pull them on.
No more knocks sound by the time he gets to the door and he's starting to wonder if all this effort of getting up was for nothing, but then he opens the door and there's Jeff, real live Jeff, standing there looking up at him.
"Hey," Jeff says, "I missed you at the party. Wanted to come say hi."
Eric gapes at him.
"I was thinking we could get dinner or something?" Jeff says, and takes a step forward into Eric's room.
Eric takes a step back. He still hasn't said anything. He's not sure he's actually really registered what exactly is going on. "Sure," he hears himself say. "That sounds great."
Jeff looks at him, bites his lip and really looks.
Heat pools again in Eric's stomach.
"Actually," Jeff says, and his face is suddenly flushed all pink, "I was really thinking we could--" And he cuts himself off because he's up on his toes leaning into Eric's space and kissing him hard.
Eric pulls Jeff in close so he can let the door swing shut, then presses Jeff up against it and kisses him back for all he's worth.
Jeff Skinner/Eric Staal, NC-17
3100 words
Eric really thought that the months between the end of the season and now would have been enough to kill this... whatever it is he's feeling for Jeff.
For elucidate-this in the Hockey Holidays exchange.
Muchas gracias to liketheroad for the lookover. Also on AO3 here.
The only good thing about the Media Tour, Eric thinks as he tries and fails to flag down a cab for the third time in a row, is that it means the new season is just around the corner. And it's a good thing he has that to look forward to, because otherwise it'd be too easy to get dragged down by how overwhelming it all could be; New York City's noise and bustle and the same interview questions over and over and smiling for the camera until his face could break and the cabs that won't pick you up aren't really Eric's idea of a great time.
He wants to text Marc and ask him how anyone is supposed to enjoy being here, but he's not actually sure where his phone is right now. He really hopes he didn't leave it on the plane.
But he eventually hails a cab and makes it to his hotel. He has just enough time to sit down and wish he had more time to rest before he's back up, putting on a clean suit and adjusting his tie to head out to the Versace party.
*
Eric's barely stepped into the place and he already feels underdressed. Not that any of the other guys are dressed particularly better than him -- well, except Lundqvist, probably, but that guy doesn't count -- but just the vibe in the place, like there's residual snobbery leaking from the walls. Plus he would bet that some of the clothes hanging on the racks around them cost more than his first truck.
At least, at first glance, it looks like knows a lot of the people who are already milling around. Toews and Perry are here, and Doan and Stammer, and some guys he recognizes but maybe won't talk to unless they say hi first, like Kesler, and Kaner.
And there, standing next to a rack of shirts and an impossibly tall model, smiling and blushing as he talks to Tavares and Grabner, there's Jeff.
Jeff looks good. Unlike pretty much everyone else he's not wearing a jacket, and his shirt makes it clear he put on more bulk over the summer. He's carrying it well, Eric thinks. It changed his face, too; he doesn't look as young as he used to and Eric's not sure how he feels about that. But his smile is still the same, which Eric finds himself irrationally glad about.
Eric really thought that the months between the end of the season and now would have been enough to kill this... whatever it is he's feeling for Jeff. Eric doesn't even want to try to put a name to it. That would give it more credit than it deserves, he thinks, and he's not sure he'd like what that name would end up being. He's perfectly happy to chalk it up to Jeff being a likable, friendly guy. They're friends. He never expected to be such good friends with a rookie, or someone so much younger than him generally, but he's cool with that. There's just something lurking around the edges of those feelings, trying to push outwards, into far, far murkier territory--
"Staaler!"
Eric startles out of his weird moment and looks over to see Brad Richards waving at him from halfway across the room. It's obviously an invitation, so Eric swallows with a dry throat and forces himself to walk into the party like his heart isn't all of a sudden beating twice as hard.
By the sound of it Brad's telling the story of the hell he went through trying to find a place in the city that wasn't full of weird neighbours or too ridiculously overpriced or too far from the Garden, and Eric finds himself settling into the conversation and the party around him.
He's finally starting to feel relaxed. Mike Richards had wandered over and handed him a beer--something fancier than he would normally drink, but it looks like that's all that's going around tonight so he'll take it--and they're catching up on their summers.
"Did you finally finish the renos up in Kenora?" Eric asks him, remembering the plans Richie'd outlined for him at the Olympics.
Mike's face lights up. "It's getting so close, man," he says, then launches into something about finding the perfect couch for his games room.
It's easy to fall into the conversation, but he can't help but keep a part of his brain focused on keeping track of Jeff. Where he is, who he's talking to. When Eric puts it that way it sounds pretty creepy, but it's just because he hasn't actually even had a chance to say hi to Jeff yet, ask him how his summer's been and how his training's been going and if he missed Eric as much as Eric missed him. Wait, no, not that last part. Where did that even come from? Eric shakes his head at himself.
"We losing you there, Eric?" Richie asks, teasing.
Eric feels his face go hot. He's sure he looks terrible when he blushes, unlike some other people he could think of. "Sorry, it's been a long day."
"I hear that."
Eric wants to ask Richie about the boat he just mentioned thinking about buying, but someone official-looking comes up and needs to borrow Richie for a few minutes. Eric stands awkwardly and watches Richie go, then finds his gaze drifting over to where Jeff's standing. He may as well go over, he tells himself. He hasn't said hi to Jeff yet and he really should, find out how his first trip to the Media Tour is going. It's the right thing to do, he decides, and he starts making his way across the party towards Jeff. But before he can get there, someone--a reporter, by the looks of it--gets Jeff's attention.
Eric sighs, slows his pace. He was okay to cut in when Jeff was just talking to the other kids, but he's not so sure he wants to do it in front of a microphone.
He veers to change course, nods at Phaneuf, and ends up talking to Claude Giroux, who is really French and makes him a little uncomfortable, and some guy who he knows is an actor and thinks might be in one of those shows the guys on his team all watch. They're talking about the Cup Finals
Eric watches Jeff as he thinks, lip poking out the corner of his lips
Someone Eric recognizes only as one of the guys who writes for NHL.com comes up next to Eric.
"Hard to believe last year was only his rookie season," the guy muses out loud.
Eric is so busy freaking out over the reminder of exactly how young Jeff is that it takes a second before he realizes the guy must be talking to him. "Makes me feel old," he finally replies, and fuck if that isn't the entire problem.
And then the guy talking to Jeff must say something funny because Jeff bursts into a smile that lights up his whole face.
Sometimes Eric wishes he could forget why he even wanted Jeff in the first place. But he knows he can't, because the afterimage of Jeff's smile is seared into his retinas.
*
When he gets back to his hotel room it's like whatever had been holding him back until now just snapped. He's ready to admit to himself that he's got it bad for Jeff. His incredible smile, that ridiculous dimple, the way his eyes crinkle around the edges, all of that, but it's more than that too; it's the way Jeff laughs at his dumb jokes and the way he's so enthusiastic about everything and the way he plays.
And the way Jeff kissed him.
Eric remembers that with an unusual clarity.
It had been after a huge win over Tampa. The team was riding high and the giddiness followed them to the bar, where they drank toasts to Eric's goal and Jeff's goal. Jeff was beaming the whole time and more often than not he was pointing it Eric's way.
But even so, Eric has no excuse, no explanation at all for what happened when they were finally calling it a night. They were about to head their separate ways when Eric slung an arm around Jeff's shoulder and pulled him in for a manhug, but for some reason Jeff returned it full-on. So it was by reflex, just a sudden burst of affection for hockey and this kid and his hockey skills, that Eric pulled Jeff into his chest and pressed his lips to the top of Jeff's head. He'd meant it mostly in a sort of embarrassing older brother way, but Jeff'd gone tense and pulled away. Eric had a joke about it on the tip of the tongue, but then Jeff's lips were on his, warm and chapped and firm and so warm, and just as the neurons in Eric's brain started firing, started making the connection that he didn't really mean it like a brother much at all, started telling him to kiss Jeff back, Jeff pulled away, flushed red and looking down and fidgeting with his phone which was suddenly in his hand.
"I," Eric started, but he didn't know what came next so he just stopped talking.
"Sorry," Jeff said, "that was weird, I don't know why I did that. Have you ever just done something in the moment and you have no idea where it came from?"
Eric unfortunately had, and has a record in Minnesota to prove it. He couldn't quite get himself together to say as much, though, so he just kind of made a noise of agreement.
He wasn't sure what was written on his face but it must have been completely different from what was running through his head, because Jeff was standing closer and then he was up on his toes and kissing Eric again.
That time Eric actually kissed him back. Or at least he did for a few precious heartbeats until he could finally make himself stop, the guilt piling on so thick he could barely breathe. Or maybe that was from the way Jeff was kissing him. Either way--
"Stop, Jeff," Eric panted, pulling back with incredible effort. "We can't do this."
Jeff huffed an unhappy sigh out through his nose. "I know, people could see."
"Well, that too." A sudden tingle of panic ran down his spine. That hadn't even occurred to him. "But I meant, we can't."
The distance between their bodies felt so much bigger than it actually was, and the silence filling it was dense, suffocating.
"It's just," Eric started to explain, but stopped. He wasn't sure how he wanted to put it into words, or if he even wanted to put it into words at all.
"Yeah," Jeff agreed quickly. "So, uh, I'm just going to call a cab, I'll see you at the rink tomorrow." He waved, the movement way more stiff and awkward than it'd ever been before, then turned the corner and disappeared.
So Jeff's made it clear that he's interested.
And that's the problem. Because Eric is interested in Jeff right back, but he can't act on it. He's not just Jeff's teammate, he's the captain. He's supposed to be the one being responsible, making good decisions. He's supposed to be an adult. He's not supposed to play favourites. A hysterical little voice in the back of his mind pipes up, If you're going to kiss Jeff you're going to have to kiss everyone on the team, like some twisted reincarnation of giving out cards to everyone in his class on Valentine's Day in Grade 3.
But Jeff wants him.
And Eric wants him back.
He wants Jeff's mouth, he wants to kiss him again, for Jeff to kiss him all over, his chest, his thighs, the spot near his ear nobody's touched in forever. He wants Jeff on his knees, looking up at him, putting that mouth on Eric's dick.
No.
He really wants to not have these, these feelings about Jeff. Who is practically a child. Who was a rookie last year (Rookie of the Year, every journalist in the room today was happy to remind him), while Eric was in his eighth year. Eight! That was longer than some guys even had careers in the league.
Eric clenches his eyes shut, grits his teeth in frustration.
What he wants and what he should want are two different things.
He knows he needs to get a grip and take the high road. He knows this.
And yet...
Eric slides his hand down his stomach and works his belt undone. He pauses, only for a second, before he heaves out a deep breath, unbuttons his slacks, and pushes the waistband of his boxers down over the rising bulge of his cock. He sighs as it springs free, already weighty and dark with the recent rush of blood. It's only a matter of moments to kick his clothes off his legs and onto the floor.
He feels only the faintest pang of shame as he wraps his fingers around himself.
His grip chafes just this side of uncomfortable, but his mouth is dry too and he can barely muster the spit to wet it, let alone spit into his palm to slick things up. There's lotion in the bathroom and probably something in his shaving kit, but that'd mean he'd have to move, get up, take his hand off his dick, and that's the worst thing imaginable right now when he can see Jeff so clearly in his mind's eye, straddling his lap, his cheeks flushed and eyes dark.
Eric sighs and shifts his weight as he thumbs the head of his cock, rubbing the edges of the slit. He imagines Jeff watching him do it, his tongue poking between the corner of his lips as he focuses on it.
"Let me," this Jeff says, reaching down to lift Eric's hand away and pick up where he made him leave off.
He presses his thumb to the ridge of the head, tracing hot arcs back and forth. Then he catches the head up in his sweaty grasp, squeezing for a moment before jerking the length of Eric's cock, once, twice. He pulls almost all the way off and then takes hold again, rubbing the pad of a finger against the crown.
Precome blooms under Eric's--Jeff's--touch, slicking it, and Eric groans hoarsely.
Eric spreads his legs a little wider, giving Jeff more room. Jeff grins at that. He runs his hand down the line of muscle at Eric's hip and then further, tracing the curve of Eric's balls. He cups them, rolling one side and then the other with a light touch.
"Shit," Eric hisses.
Jeff looks pleased with himself. He bites his lip as he looks down, watching Eric's dick pushing up through the top of his grip, then looks up and catches Eric's eye. "I want to taste you," he tells Eric, the look on his face saying he knows Eric is powerless to deny him anything.
Tension pulls across Eric's hips as he presses them down against the sheets, trying not to buck up against Jeff's face as he leans in. His hand wraps around the base of his cock, gliding slowly up the length before squeezing again. Eric's thumb slips across the head and he so easily imagines that it's Jeff's tongue instead, moving carefully at first but then more confidently.
Eric's heart is beating bruisingly hard against his ribcage and his breaths catch hard in his throat as he tries to keep them steady. His balls start to draw in and he shudders with a ragged moan, his stomach and thighs pulling tight.
His imagined Jeff looks up and catches Eric's eye as he drags his tongue up the length of Eric's dick.
Eric's dick twitches hard against his stomach.
Jeff lifts his head and Eric's dick slides free.
Eric runs his hand up his stomach and chest as he imagines Jeff moving up his body. They're not quite touching but he can feel the heat from Jeff's chest above his, can imagine the weight resting fully on him.
Jeff straddles him then, his dick sliding against Eric's as he presses their chests together, and Eric's head falls back and he twists his fingers through his own hair, pulling slightly as he lifts his hips, pushing up into Jeff's weight, rubbing against him. He grips his cock tightly around the head, squeezing, thrusts up into it, hot and slick with sweat on his palm and a steady pool of precome, and that's it, that's all it takes, and he's coming hard, through his grip and across his fingers, shooting up onto his chest.
He relaxes slowly, his muscles unclenching one at a time, and he lies limply in the middle of the bed as he sucks in quick breaths and waits for his racing heart to slow down. He only barely has enough energy to wipe his chest and stomach clean with his t-shirt. The sheets stick to the cooling sweat on his back as he lies there, thinking about if he wants to turn on the TV or just keep staring at the ceiling, when there's a knock at the door.
Eric groans. "Are you kidding me?" he mutters to himself.
The knock comes again, a little louder, so Eric musters as much strength of will as he can to swing his legs over the side of the bed and sit up. He grabs the sweats and Canes tee half-hanging out of his bag and then reluctantly stands so he can pull them on.
No more knocks sound by the time he gets to the door and he's starting to wonder if all this effort of getting up was for nothing, but then he opens the door and there's Jeff, real live Jeff, standing there looking up at him.
"Hey," Jeff says, "I missed you at the party. Wanted to come say hi."
Eric gapes at him.
"I was thinking we could get dinner or something?" Jeff says, and takes a step forward into Eric's room.
Eric takes a step back. He still hasn't said anything. He's not sure he's actually really registered what exactly is going on. "Sure," he hears himself say. "That sounds great."
Jeff looks at him, bites his lip and really looks.
Heat pools again in Eric's stomach.
"Actually," Jeff says, and his face is suddenly flushed all pink, "I was really thinking we could--" And he cuts himself off because he's up on his toes leaning into Eric's space and kissing him hard.
Eric pulls Jeff in close so he can let the door swing shut, then presses Jeff up against it and kisses him back for all he's worth.