“Come over here and make me.” + Willy/Latts, Hockey RPF
It should have been a normal afternoon, morning practice finished up and everyone scattered for their pre-game rituals. Mike wants a nap, and waits impatiently for Tom out by the car, ready to head home and get a few hours in before they have to be back.
Tom stops when he gets close and Mike looks up, confused - it’s bright and he’s hungry and he just wants to go. Tom looks at him like he’s going to say something, and Mike thinks idly that he’s gorgeous like this, backlit by the sun. He shrugs after a minute, and Mike only gives it a moments thought as they head home, going through the motions and arguing about the radio, like any other day.
Mike heads to the kitchen when they get home, dragging open the fridge and grabbing the milk. He picks it up and takes a long gulp right from the jug, wiping his mouth with one wrist as he sets it down.
“Jesus, Mike, fucking use a glass,” Tom says exasperatedly, and Mike rolls his eyes. Tom’s not his mom, for Christ’s sakes, plus they’re gross dudes, it’s fine.
“Come over here and make me, asshole,” Mike chirps back. Tom stands still for a second, giving off the impression of cocking his head like a puppy, then makes a beeline for the kitchen. Mike’s not sure if he’s gonna get punched over something as dumb as the milk jug or tackled to the ground and tickled for being an idiot, but what he doesn’t expect is two big hands at his hips shoving him back against the counter, and the long line of Tom’s body up against him, heating his whole front and pinning him there.
“Jesus fuck, Willy, what the fuck?” he protests half-heartedly) (like this isn’t what he’s fucking wanted for so long), shoving perfunctorily at Tom’s chest. Tom just leans in further, bracing his arms against the counter behind Mike, nosing in closer to whisper in his ear.
“Mike, you asshole,” Tom murmurs, “use a goddam glass,” and Mike thinks he’s going to die because those are teeth tugging lightly at his ear, sending shivers through him like tiny lightning. Mike can’t believe they’re standing like this in the middle of their kitchen, that it’s now when this whole thing that’s been building between them comes to a head, this thing that Mike’s been carrying around with him for months.
Tom’s ribs rise and fall beneath Mike’s hands (when had he moved his hands?), and it feels inevitable when something in Mike just...lets go, and between one breath and the next his hands are tangled deep in Tom’s hair and he’s dragging him back so he can press a kiss to Tom’s goddamn sinful mouth, licking in closer so whatever sounds Tom makes are caught there between them.
“I’ll try and remember,” he says distractedly, nipping at Tom’s lip lightly, pulling back and opening his eyes, searching Tom’s face for a reaction. Tom looks hazy and debauched, lips red and wet as he grins the biggest shit-eating grin, and his hair is sticking up on one side, hat fallen to the ground where Mike’s hands must’ve dislodged it.
Mike smiles lopsidedly back, his chest warm; he knows he could get used to seeing Tom like this, expression open and warm as he licks his lips and blushes. As Mike leans back in for another kiss, Tom’s big hands moving lower down his back, he thinks to himself, About fucking time, and gives it everything he’s got.