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The flight home from the away series is excruciating—positively torture. Scott sits in his seat and fiddles with his seatbelt buckle, clipping it in and releasing the catch with a snap, over and over until Carter leans over and puts a hand on his shoulder.
Scott jumps out of his skin.
“Everything all right, Cap?” Carter seems more concerned than annoyed, which probably says a lot about how quickly Scott’s usually stoic exterior is cracking under his impatience to be back in his apartment—back with Kip.
“Fine, fine. Just…keen to get home.”
“You leave the stove on or something?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
The heat is not from the stove. The heat is from Kip, it’s all Kip: he is somehow capable of ratcheting Scott’s blood to temperatures heretofore unheard of.
He keeps his phone in his pocket, but it’s practically burning a hole through his jeans. Saved in his messages, and in a deeply hidden and password-protected folder labelled “Forms”, is the photo Kip had sent him: Scott’s jersey, black boxer briefs, spectacular body on display. It’s instantaneous boner material if he looks at it—or so much as thinks about it for too long.
Also on his phone was a message from Kip, which he’d received as they were checking their gear for the flight:
See you in a few hours. I’ll be waiting for you.
It had been enough to send Scott scurrying for the men’s room so he could will his semi-hard dick to chill the fuck out.
Kip knows his ETA. Kip will be waiting for him.
He remembers what Kip had said, when Scott had been so boundlessly excited to see his boyfriend wearing his jersey.
“Imagine how much fun it will be to fuck me while I’m wearing it.”
Oh boy, he had imagined. He’d had to jerk off thinking about it to get to sleep for his pregame naps in Colorado and Vancouver.
He’s not sure what it had been about seeing Kip in his jersey. A sense of possessiveness that he otherwise doesn’t feel had come over him in a red haze. He saw his name emblazoned across the back of Kip’s shoulders and his brain shouted at him: mine, mine, mine. It should be concerning. Kip isn’t his property.
He wonders if it’s normal. He wishes he could ask one of the other guys, but he doesn’t want to open that whole can of worms. If they think he’s seeing a woman, he’ll never hear the end of it. He would rather be Hunter the Monk than have to spend the next six months shutting down their prying.
He remembers the first time he’d seen Kip in his cute hat and apron at the smoothie shop. He’d smiled at Scott, and Scott had immediately tumbled headfirst into infatuation. His brain had said it then, too, but quieter: this one, Hunter. This one.
Thinking about Kip in Scott’s own kit has his brain screaming and kicking the back of his seat.
The flight seems to take forever. He tries to read but can’t focus properly on the page. He thinks about napping but doesn’t trust his subconscious. He does not want to pop a boner on the plane next to his assistant captain.
He settles for watching old episodes of Seinfeld, ones he’s seen a hundred times before, letting the laugh track and the familiar beats of the plot lull him into a kind of hypnotic state.
The hours tick by.
By the time they disembark in New York, he is feeling mildly calmer. He slaps his teammates on the back, thanks them for the trip, for their efforts in the road games, and wishes them well for the next couple of days. Forty-eight blissful hours stretch out ahead of him. Two whole days with Kip.
He is fairly certain they aren’t going to leave the apartment. Hell, if he has it his way they won’t be leaving the bedroom.
It’s nearing 9pm by the time he’s in the car service and making his way home from the airport. He pulls out his phone and sends Kip a quick message with his ETA.
Be home by 10. Can’t wait to see you.
Roadworks slow the car on Grand Central Parkway. Scott bounces his knee where he sits in the back seat, growing antsy.
By the time the car pulls up at his building he’s practically sweating. He undoes the first couple of buttons on his shirt, and shrugs out of his jacket, grateful for the cool air that hits him when he opens the car door.
The ride up to his apartment is an excruciating forty-three seconds.
God, he’s never been this wound up about anyone before. Jersey or not, just the idea of Kip is a potent aphrodisiac. He’s got it bad.
He opens the door with enough force that it bangs back against the rubber stopper on the wall. Once inside, he closes the door with a heavy hand, and flips the locks.
Kip is standing in the kitchen, leaning against the marble countertop. He’s wearing Scott’s jersey again, the red fabric hitting the tops of his strong thighs. His legs are bare. He’s looking at Scott with a coy grin.
“You’re back,” he says, and he smiles in that way that creates the most delightful deep dimples.
“You’re here,” Scott replies.
He crosses the room in an instant, scooping Kip into his arms, practically picking him up off the floor. Kip’s laughing, and then Scott is gathering the fabric of the jersey in his hands and tugging Kip closer. He captures Kip’s mouth in a searing kiss, claiming him, devouring him. Kip parts his lips to Scott’s tongue and clings to Scott’s shoulders for dear life.
Scott kisses with abandon, tearing his mouth away to kiss at Kip’s neck, his cheeks, then back to his lips, which feel impossibly soft beneath his own.
It’s less of a make out and more of a meal.
He runs his hands down Kip’s back, feels the stitching on the jersey, the smoothness of the moisture-wicking fabric. He grabs firmly at Kip’s ass, digging his fingers into muscle, pulling Kip closer. He feels his dick give an interested twitch when he clocks bare skin beneath the polyester of the jersey—Kip is naked underneath.
But then his fingers trace over something else: familiar elastic, thick at Kip’s waist.
He pulls away, fingers curiously trailing over Kip’s skin.
“Are you…” he starts, but then needs to know, is done with the tease. He turns Kip around, presses him against the cold marble of the kitchen counter, and rucks up the jersey.
He moans, a mixture of pleased surprise and hot-blooded boil rumbling out of him: Kip is wearing a jockstrap.
Jockstraps have always been equipment to Scott. Functional, they serve a purpose, and he’s not thought about them one way or another since high school.
On Kip, though—the thick elastic straps framing his perfect ass—it’s like sirens are going off in his head.
He lets out a deep groan. “Jesus Christ, Kip,” he murmurs.
“You like it?” Kip asks, voice breathless.
Scott trails his fingers over the elastic—the flexible side straps, the thicker waistband. He sees goosebumps rise on Kip’s skin in response.
Like it? He’s currently operating on another plane of existence: his dick is so hard it’s painful inside his jeans, his mouth is watering, and Kip is standing here, hands braced on marble, like he’s some sort of sex god here to tempt Scott from the righteous path.
He sins; it’s easy.
He reaches around and fits his hand around Kip’s cock. There’s no cup, obviously, but he can feel how hard Kip is, his thick and straining at the fabric of the jock.
“How long have you been waiting for me like this?” he asks, squeezing at Kip’s length.
“Hours. Been waiting for you to come home and find me. Been waiting just for you.”
“Kip,” he lets out, and it’s more of a strangled moan than a name.
He traces his fingers over the name on the back of the jersey, running over each letter. Then he applies pressure, just enough for Kip to get the picture, and pushes him chest-down against the kitchen counter.
He grabs at Kip’s ass, squeezing the hard muscle, holding his cheeks apart. Kip moans into the marble, the sound echoing through the kitchen.
Scott drops to his knees. He buries his face in Kip, laving the broad flat of his tongue over Kip’s hole.
“Oh, god,” Kip moans, breathless.
He eats Kip out like he’s starving. Long, wet passes that massage his rim, then faster, hot flicks with his tongue, pushing in, just a little. Spit is running down his chin, but he doesn’t care.
Kip is mewling, his fingers scrabbling against the unforgiving marble, the sound turning to a drawn-out wail as Scott slips a spit-slick finger inside him, working him efficiently before adding another. He scissors his fingers apart, licks between them, uses his free hand to hold Kip open as he’s splayed on the counter.
“Scott, fuck, I’m not gonna last—”
Scott stops, draws his fingers out. He stands swiftly, hears Kip’s breathing hitch.
He grab’s the jockstrap’s waistband and hauls Kip to standing.
“Bed. Now.”
Kip tries to turn but is stopped by the firm grip Scott has on the back of the jock. He looks at Scott over his shoulder, his eyes wild and dark, enticing.
“Make me,” he says.
Scott growls and hoists Kip into his arms. Kip is laughing, just a little, as Scott marches down the hall with him and deposits him roughly on the bed.
“Hands and knees,” Scott barks. “And leave the jersey on.”
The bottle of lube is already on the bed, because of course Kip was organised, a fact for which Scott is endlessly grateful. He snatches it up and slicks his fingers before shoving two into Kip.
Kip groans on the bed, a choked-off noise slipping from his throat.
Scott fingers him hard and fast, twisting and curling his fingers, stretching him open.
His free hand reaches down and plucks one of the elastic side straps of the jock, pulling it taut and letting it snap back against Kip’s ass with a sharp slap.
“Jesus—more,” Kip pants, and Scott is only too happy to oblige, snapping the elastic against Kip’s skin again and then again, watching his flesh warm and turn pink.
He slides a third finger into Kip, curling them deep, working that spot inside until Kip is keening, a raw, desperate sound. He grins, speeding up his fingers, then using his free hand this time to land a firm slap on Kip’s ass. Kip wails, his fingers grabbing at the sheets, his head tossing. Scott spanks him again, and again, watches as his skin turns the same red as the Admirals jersey he’s still wearing.
“Please, oh, Scott. Please.”
Scott smirks and slips his fingers free, ignoring Kip’s wail. He then rubs his thumb over Kip’s hole where he’s relaxed and open.
“So good for me,” he murmurs. “All mine.”
The possessiveness has taken over all logical function. He realises with a jolt that he’s still fully dressed.
Taking his shirt in his hands, he rips it open, buttons skittering to land on the floor and the bed. He doesn’t care; he didn’t particularly like that shirt anyway. He shrugs the fabric off his shoulders and arms, tossing it aside, and then undoes his belt with a clink. Jeans and boxers next, toeing out of shoes and socks with remarkable efficiency. He keeps his eyes on Kip, on Kip’s beautiful face as he looks back over his shoulder to watch Scott undress.
Naked, he comes to kneel behind Kip on the bed. He scoops up the lube and slicks his cock, wiping his hand on the comforter. He grabs Kip by the hips, pulls him back close. He doesn’t ask, but Kip is already whimpering, pleading for Scott to fuck him; he just feeds his cock into Kip, inch by inch, until he’s fully seated.
When he starts to thrust, his rhythm is unkind; an animalistic flexing of his hips, trying to get deeper, to claim, to own.
“Oh, god, oh, Scott!” Kip is moaning wildly, and Scott can’t stop fucking him, something primal taking control of his muscles, his need.
His own name is blazing up at him from where it’s stretched across Kip’s broad shoulders. He lowers his head, drags his mouth, his tongue, across the letters, breathes deep and inhales scent of it, damp with Kip’s sweat.
An animal. Possessing and possessed, he drives into Kip with abandon. He grips the waistband of the jockstrap like Kip’s a colt he’s breaking in.
Kip has a death-grip on the sheets; he shifts one knee, readjusts, and then keens as Scott lights him up from the inside out.
“Take me, Hunter,” he moans, and Scott’s head is spinning. “Fuck me, Captain.”
It should be cheesy and too much and eye roll-inducing, too much like they’re in a bad porno, but it works. Somewhere between the neediness of Kip’s voice and whatever devil is driving Scott, it works, ratcheting the heat up another notch.
“Who do you belong to?” Scott asks, voice strained.
Kip shouts, drops his head to the mattress. “Yours, fuck, I’m yours!”
Scott reaches down to where Kip’s cock has slipped out of the jock. He wraps his around it, jerking Kip ruthlessly in time with the snap of his hips.
Mine, mine, mine.
“Oh, fuck, Scott!”
He feels Kip shake under him, feels him tighten around his dick as he comes.
Scott can’t last; it’s too much. He comes with a shout, grinding deep into Kip, collapsing on top of him and gripping him around his middle, clutching the jersey in his hands.
They don’t move for a while, lying among the sheets; their chests heave, sweat growing cool on their bellies and brows.
Scott winds an arm around Kip’s waist and tugs him close. He exhales shakily.
“You are fucking amazing,” he murmurs.
“Right back at you,” Kip says, eyes still closed, hand patting Scott easily on the chest, right over his thumping heart.
: : : :
Three days later, he’s making coffee in the kitchen. Kip is sitting and idly scratching away at a sketchbook. Scott’s pretty sure that Kip is drawing him, but he’s not going to ask.
There’s a package on the kitchen counter, the shipping label addressed to Kip.
“What’s that?” Scott asks.
“A present for you,” Kip says, smiling sweetly at him, all dimples and innocence.
Scott takes the package, and opens it. He shakes out the content: fabric, polyester, red. He unfolds an Admirals jersey.
“Turn it over,” Kip says.
He does. On the back is stitched a large, white 87 and the name: Grady.
“It’s silly,” Kip says. “I ordered it while you were away.”
“You had this made?” Scott runs his fingers over the name. He knows that sports stores do custom jerseys, but they’re not cheap.
“Yeah. I don’t know, I thought it was kind of cute.”
“You gonna wear this to my games?”
Kip smiles, turning coy. “It’s actually for you.”
“Me?”
“Mhmm. If you wanna…I don’t know. Be mine, too?”
Scott clutches the jersey, feeling something warm and aching well up inside him. To cover it, he crosses the kitchen to where Kip sits, kissing him soundly.
“I love it,” he says. “I’ll be yours.”
“You’d better,” Kip says, kissing him back, smiling the whole way through it.