Hockey RPS/Detroit Red Wings. | Justin Abdelkader/Chris Chelios. Justin Abdelkader/Darren Helm. | large age difference. sexually explicit scenes. | NC-17. | 1622 words. | unbeta'd. | written for pass_shoot_porn for the prompt: Things are never gonna be the way you want / Where's it going to get you acting serious? Things are never gonna be quite what you want / Even at 25 you got to start sometime. ideas stolen shamelessly from Jen. | title and cut-tag from the song 'People Change' by Rockapella.
Can't believe that you would tell me lies
It isn't what Justin's expecting, when after a particularly vigorous and sweaty session of sex, Cheli pulls the sheet up to his waist and turns on his side, regarding Justin with a very serious mien.
"You can't keep this up forever, you know," he says, and Justin fishes around in the bed for the bottle of lube currently digging into one ass cheek. Whatever Cheli's talking about, it's probably just something like how eventually Cheli's not going to be able to keep up with Justin's stamina.
"I know," Justin murmurs, finally yanking the lube out in triumph and throwing it towards the table next to the bed. Cheli gives him a stern look.
"I don't think you do know," he says. "Listen, Abby, I know what we have is fun—"
"And hot as fuck," Justin interjects, but he gets a glare from his former teammate, so he pauses. Maybe Cheli really is serious about something.
He doesn't really want to find out what this conversation is about, so he sneakily slips his hand beneath the sheet while Cheli's eyes are fixed on his face, and then he slides it along the bed until he can smooth up Cheli's hairy thigh until he's just about reached his prize—that amazing cock that Cheli is so proud of, and should be—when his friend grabs his hand.
"Not yet, not now," Cheli scolds. Justin tries to appear suitably chastised, using the face that always got him out of trouble with his mother.
"I'm just trying to—"
"Abby, listen to me. I know this is fun and exciting. I know you enjoy it. I do, too. But something's gotta change."
"I really don't see why," Justin says, and tries to extricate his hand so he can grope Cheli some more.
"Okay, honestly," says Cheli in exasperation. "Even if I wanted to, you wore me out just now. Give me ten minutes."
"Awesome," Justin says. He smirks. That wasn't so hard. But Cheli's not finished.
"I know how seriously you take this," he says. "That to you, fucking around is practically an art form. But you're almost twenty-five. You've slept your way through half the female Wings' fans—"
"I have a little more discrimination than that," Justin protests. Cheli continues as if he hasn't heard.
"—and you've been fucking me since before I left the team. But you're not actually serious. I can't, in good conscience, continue this relationship with you any longer. What you think you want, it's not actually what you do want."
"What the fuck does that mean?" Justin snaps. His glowing, satiated haze has been completely harshed. He doesn't even want to get at Cheli's dick anymore.
He snaps the sheet back and gets out of bed, searching for his jeans and yanking them on, sans underwear because he can't find them. He pulls his shirt over his head and shakes his head to rearrange his mussed curls. He happens to know that doing that makes girls crazy. And it used to get to Cheli, too. But he's pissed now.
Justin grabs his phone off the dresser and stuffs it into his pocket.
"If you didn't want to fuck me anymore," he says, "you should have just said so, instead of giving me some kind of retarded lecture about growing up. You're not my father."
"But I'm old enough to be," Cheli whispers. That gives Justin pause. He'd never really considered he had a daddy kink, but maybe he does. After all, it has always turned him on, how much older Cheli is, how hot he looks naked even with—or maybe especially because of—his grey chest hair sprinkled throughout the black.
"Yeah, but you're not," Justin repeats. He slings his coat over his arm and puts his hand on the door, half-opening it to walk out.
"Think hard about what you're really looking for," Cheli says, and that's enough to make Justin slam the door on his way out.
But as he tugs his coat onto his arms and goes out into the Michigan winter, he wonders. If Cheli's right. He can't remember the last time he took a girl home and really enjoyed it. They've gotten annoying of late—like when they talk, he just wants to stuff their mouths with cotton. Even fucking them isn't like it used to be. There's too much chatter, and not just out loud, but in his brain—a constant murmur that won't let him alone and leaves him unsatisfied even after he comes.
Justin hates that Cheli ended their relationship. That sex had been the best he's been getting.
Driving quiets the hum somewhat, and he finds himself wondering what Helmer's doing.
Without really intending to, he turns the car towards Helmer's house and drives there.
"Hey, man," he says when his friend opens the door. From the looks of things, Helm just got up: hair a sweaty, disorganised mess, eyes cloudy, lashes kind of stuck together. Justin feels a pang of something, maybe the urge to get the eyelash from Helm's eye, and it weirds him out.
It doesn't seem like Kindl's home, either. Shame. Watching Jersey Shore with the two of them could have been just what he needed right now.
"Hey," Helm says back, a bit of a croak to his voice. It's mid-afternoon, but if Helmer did any drinking last night like Justin did, it's not really a surprise he just fell out of bed.
"C'n I come in?" Justin asks. He misses when he used to live here, but that's Kindl's domain now. "Where's Kindl?" he asks as he shoulders his way past Helm without really waiting for permission.
"Gone to get... something, I forgot. He said he'd be back before dinner."
Helm's breath smells like toothpaste, so apparently he's been up at least a few minutes before Justin rang the bell and disturbed him. And then Justin realises that he's just standing, in Helmer's hallway, inches from his friend, who hasn't moved to put space between them.
He puts two and two together and actually comes up with four. Or thinks he does. He could be totally wrong.
Cheli's words are rattling in his brain. What does he want?
If this is just another jump in the sack, or a pity-fuck, he doesn't want to consider it; he leans forward and kisses Helm to make himself forget the taste of other lips.
But it does more than that. Instead of just making him forget, it makes desire burn hotter throughout his body. So he puts his hands on Helmer's chest and shoves him back against the wall, kissing him harder, deeper; Helm makes an approving noise and wraps his arms around Justin's neck, not pushing him away.
Justin doesn't know how long Helm has felt this way. Since before he moved out? Since they're not roommates anymore? It doesn't matter. Helm is fucking delicious; solid, lean muscle to his belly and chest, pliant lips, hair the perfect length for pulling—with that thought, he reaches up and threads Helm's hair through his fingers and tugs, twisting his head to the side for a better angle, and devours his mouth like he's out of oxygen and Helm is the cure.
With his other hand, he drives it between their bodies and finds Helm's cock, and cups him in his jeans. Helm's not very big, nothing like Cheli at all, but Justin can't explain how badly he wants that dick in his mouth, or how much he wants to throw Helm on his bed and fuck him through the mattress.
"Bedroom," Helm gasps when Justin allows him a chance to breathe.
"Nah, too far," Justin pants back; he leaves the terrain of Helm's lips and drops to his knees, fumbling Helm's zipper open. He's so far gone, so worked up, that his own dick is leaking heavily into his jeans, scraping against the seam. It's not comfortable without underwear, so he tries to get his own pants open even as he frees Helm's dick.
He's not gonna lie, he's a little disappointed by Helm's size, but at least he'll be easy to take; he surrounds Helm's cock with his mouth and sucks, running his tongue along the vein, even as he jerks at his own.
Helm puts a hand on Justin's hand and his hips rock forward, thrusting into Justin's mouth.
He swallows him down easily, and Helm's precome tastes bitter but welcome against the roof of his mouth.
"Abby," Helm grits out, and Justin does not hold his hips back; he allows Helm to fuck his mouth until his lips are swollen and aching.
His cock is just as swollen and aching, the throb of his heart echoed in his lips, his dick, even his balls. He fingers his balls and then behind them, swiping his finger across the dry pucker of his hole, and Helm must be watching him—Justin glances up to catch his eyes—because he grunts and tries to find purchase against the wall as he comes down Justin's throat.
Justin smoothly gulps it down, then pulls off, allowing Helm's swollen, wet cock to smear come and spit across the side of his face as he gets himself off with two hands now: one hand rubbing against his hole, the other tugging his cock hard and fast until he sprays come against Helm's jeans and the wall.
His cell phone chirps in his pocket, the ring tone announcing Cheli. He ignores it.
"Not just a simple fuck," he says, and realises it's true.
He hates that Cheli is right, but as he gets back to his feet, he supposes finding out he has a boner for Helm makes up for it.