Thanks to my buddy Jeff for the inspiration.
❄️ Chapter 1: The Pinch Hitter
Jeff gripped the wheel with both hands, turning the orange Golf off the interstate and onto the dark ribbon of the driveway. The staccato of the gravel under his tires broke the silence of the woods. It was four in the afternoon on December 23rd, but the sky was already drooping purple—not dark, but a little weary, holding its breath for snow.
He killed the ignition and sat for a moment. Under the hood, the metal ticked as it cooled. He stretched his neck, working out the tightness of the four-hour drive from the city.
The house ahead was glowing. Warm amber light from inside spilling out onto the snow outside. The only surprise was the narrow path shoveled in the snow—a sloppy, single-width trail that was uncharacteristic of Sean, who usually cleared the driveway like a human plow. Jeff would have to rib him about it later—Super Dad must be slipping.
Jeff was thirty-two, fit, and currently unattached. There hadn't been a dramatic breakup or a broken heart—just a realization back in October that the guy he was seeing wasn't it. Jeff was mostly content, but his apartment did feel a little too quiet at this time of year.
Being at Sara and Sean’s never felt like a duty—but this year, especially, it felt like a necessary antidote. He was eager to trade his peace and quiet for their specific brand of noise: the chaos of the three kids, Sara’s belief in factory-scale cookie making, and Sean’s dad jokes and teasing.
He stepped into the cold. The air was sharp, smelling of pine and that metallic sensation that comes before snow. He fished out his duffel and started up the path. The front door swung open before he reached it.
“There he is! The pinch hitter arrives!”
Sean’s voice boomed down the walk. The deep, familiar sound shot Jeff straight back to being thirteen—when Sean was the twenty-four-year-old golden boy dating Jeff’s older sister.
He grinned before he knew he was grinning.
Sean started down the steps, but his gait was off—slanted, cautious. His right arm was strapped up tight, black mesh crossing his chest. As he stepped out into the remaining light, Jeff saw another change.
It stopped him in his tracks.
“Whoa,” he blurted.
Sean’s trademark reddish-blond curls—the unruly halo Sara loved and complained about for fifteen years—were gone. In their place was a high-and-tight buzz cut. He looked like a marine who’d set his own broken arm and kept moving.
Sean caught Jeff’s stare, realized what he was looking at and grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, shocker, right?”
Sean stepped close, clapped Jeff’s shoulder with his good hand, dragging him into a sideways hug that felt a little like coming home. Sean smelled of soap and sweat—the latter, more than usual.
Without a thought, Jeff reached out, resting his palm against the rough buzz of Sean’s scalp.
The cut exposed the muscle at the top of Sean’s neck, the shape of his skull. But his face was unchanged: broad, quick to smile, impossible not to trust.
“You cut it all off,” Jeff murmured, brushing the side with his thumb. It was velvety stiff.
“Had to,” Sean said, chin angling toward the sling. “Fell off a ladder three weeks ago, putting up chimney lights. Total bonehead move. Grade II sprain, tore some cartilage. Couldn’t lift my arm to wash or comb it right.”
Sean rubbed the stubble with his good left hand, feeling his way over Jeff’s fingers.
“Yesterday, I hit my limit. Took the dog clippers in the downstairs bathroom.”
“The dog clippers?” Jeff let go, still feeling the scratch of it.
“Yeah. Made a hell of a mess. Got as far as a streak down the top, and Sara had to finish the back. After she finished yelling at me. Pretty bad, right? But necessity...” He shrugged.
Jeff nodded, taking in the new lines of Sean’s face. “Honestly? It suits you. Real tough guy.”
Sean grinned, letting the approval land. “Tough is good. I feel like deadweight right now with this clipped wing.” He raised his elbow slightly. “I can’t do half the crap that needs doing.”
His voice dropped. “I’m glad you’re here, seriously. It’s been a grind. The house is a mess. Glad to have a right-hand man.”
Jeff caught the lines around Sean’s eyes he hadn’t noticed before. Maybe just the onset of middle age. He wondered, suddenly, how many times Sean had been the backup for everyone else, how few times he’d asked for anything in return.
“I’ve got you,” Jeff said, realizing as the words came out how deeply he meant it. Not just a polite response. “Whatever you need, just point me at it. I’m all in.”
Sean squeezed Jeff’s shoulder. “Thanks, man. I might just take you up on that.”
He let go, nodding to the door. “Come on. Before we both freeze. Sara ’s making enough chili for an army.”
💪 Chapter 2: Muscle Memory
The evening hit Jeff like a storm of laughter, shrieking, Sara yelling from her kitchen. The quiet outside already felt a thousand miles away.
Clyde and Sophie, wild with the freedom of winter break, were screaming over a game of Mario Kart, while two-year-old Benji used the dog as a jungle gym in the center of the rug.
Jeff’s mom was perched on the edge of the sectional, gripping a Switch controller as her wine glass sat dangerously close to her elbow.
“Grandma, drift! Drift!” Clyde screamed.
“I am drifting!” she shouted back, leaning her entire upper body to the left.
She looked up, saw Jeff, and held out the controller to Sophie, breathless. “Take it. I’m out of gas.”
She stood up, flushed and laughing, and grabbed Jeff for a hug and kiss. “You beat the snow, honey,” she said, ruffling his hair like he was still the age of the older kids.
She asked about the drive, about work. She didn't ask if he’d heard from his father—if he’d heard from him. She hadn’t in years.
The divorce was twenty years in the rear view mirror. Jeff had grown up in the remains, the pieces held together by his mother and older sister, until Sean joined the fold—not just a brother-in-law, but the standard of steady, easy masculinity that Jeff had been missing without realizing it. He was a force that changed everything without quite unseating anyone.
As they caught up, the back door opened with a gust of wind, and Sean returned. He’d been outside, checking the perimeter before the snow hit. He wore a heavy Carhartt coat draped over his shoulders like a cape to accommodate the sling.
On his head was a charcoal beanie, yanked low, and under it his earlobes blushed red. Jeff recognized it instantly. He’d knitted it for Sean five years ago, a nervous, handmade gift for the Something You Made Christmas. He’d assumed it had ended up in a Goodwill pile.
"Gate’s sagging," Sean grunted, shedding his boots. "Might lose a hinge if that wind keeps up."
Jeff left his mom mid-sentence. “You still have the hat?”
Sean blinked, surprised. He patted it with his good hand, reminding himself what was on his head. “This? Are you kidding? I love this thing. Especially now, with nothing left up here for insulation.”
He chuckled, then yanked the hat off, rubbed the stubble, grinning.
“Come get warm,” Sara yelled, over the noise of Benji shrieking at the dog. “There’s whiskey on the counter.”
“That’s my girl,” Sean said, drifting toward the kitchen.
He leaned against the granite island, struggling to open a bottle of Maker’s Mark with his left hand.
“Give it,” Jeff said, taking the bottle. He cracked the seal, and poured them each a glass.
"Thanks." Sean took a sip, rotated his right shoulder and winced. “Sick of this already. I didn’t realize how many things I did right-handed until now.”
“You did check the gate,” Jeff offered, leaning against the counter opposite him.
Sean grunted. “Yeah. Looked at it. Couldn’t fix it. Couldn't even lift the latch to test it properly.”
There were slight whiskers on Sean’s throat that Jeff noticed when he swallowed, his Adam’s apple slowly bobbing.
"Look at this," Sean muttered, poking his strapped bicep with his left finger. "The atrophy starts so fast. By January I’m going to look like a T-rex on this side. A little tiny twig of an arm."
“You’re ridiculous,” Jeff said. “You’re fine.”
“No, seriously. It’s turning to mush. I can’t even get a pump.”
Sean pushed off the counter, stepping into Jeff's space. He angled his right shoulder forward, presenting the injured arm like a challenge. “Feel it.”
Jeff hesitated. The arm was strapped tight against Sean’s ribs in the black mesh. He reached out carefully, wrapping his fingers around the thickest part of the arm, right above the elbow where the sling cut across.
"Squeeze it," Sean said, holding Jeff's gaze.
Sean gritted his teeth and tensed the muscle. It shifted under Jeff’s palm—a hard mound.
“Sean, that’s not mush. That’s what guys train for” Jeff said, his voice dropping. He let his hand linger for a second before pulling back.
"Bullshit," Sean grunted, though the insecurity in his face smoothed out a little.
He relaxed the arm, wincing slightly, then gave Jeff a sudden, slow once-over. “You, though… you’ve bulked up. Especially since the fourth of July. Filling out the sleeves, man.”
Jeff felt himself flush, and tried to cover with a sip. “I invested in a trainer. It’s a tough market out there for a guy in his thirties. Gotta stay competitive.”
Sean studied him for a beat. “Show me.”
It wasn’t a question.
Jeff grinned, rolled his eyes, but obliged. He peeled off his v-neck sweater, setting it on the counter. His t-shirt was comfortably snug over the chest and shoulders. He curled his right arm and his bicep swelled against the fabric.
Sean let out a low whistle, reaching out to squeeze the muscle with his good hand. His thumb traced the ridge, admiring.
“Jesus, Jeff,” he murmured. “You’re not the skinny kid anymore.”
“Not for a long time, Sean.”
Sean’s gaze lingered, an inkling in his eyes that he wasn't looking at the kid he taught to throw a spiral. He was looking at a peer.
Sean stepped back, nodding. “Guess you’re taking point on heavy lifting this year. That gate’s not fixing itself.”
“I can handle it,” Jeff answered.
Sean grinned. “Good. I need you.”
🔧 Chapter 3: Maintenance Mode
The next morning was colorless and biting. The silence was broken by the scrape of mugs and the low hum of the heater.
“Gate’s sagging,” Sean said, coffee in hand. “Wind battered the top hinge out of alignment.”
The walk was brisk—a quarter mile of frozen gravel and wind with the house shrinking behind them, until it was just a glowing yellow smudge in a cold backdrop.
“It feels far away from everything,” Jeff said, rubbing hands together under the leafless maples and tall evergreens.
The gate was listing badly to the left, its bottom corner half-buried in a snow drift.
“Alright,” Sean said, kicking the snow away and examining the iron hinge. “This isn't heavy, it’s just fiddly. I can’t hold the level and turn the wrench at the same time with one hand.”
He handed Jeff a yellow torpedo level. “Just press this against the vertical beam. Watch the bubble. I’ll crank the adjustment bolt until you tell me it's plumb.”
Jeff moved into position, shoulder brushing Sean’s good arm as he pressed the level against the wood. “Like this?”
“Perfect. Hold it there. Tell me when the bubble hits the middle.”
Sean began working the wrench, his movements methodical. It was quiet, just the metallic clink of the tool and their breathing.
“So,” Sean said, eyes on the bolt. “Solo again? No special guy in the picture?”
Jeff shrugged, keeping his eye on the bubble. “Nope. Just me.”
“You’re a catch, Jeff. Smart, fit, good job. Why are you still on the market?”
Jeff laughed softly. “I don’t know. I guess I’m picky. I’ve dated plenty of guys, but… I haven’t found the spark. You know? I’d rather hold out for Mr. Right than settle for Mr. Right Now. There’s an opportunity cost.”
He looked down, away from Sean. “Doesn’t help that I’ve measured every guy against you, since… forever. I guess I look at what you and Sara have. The way you balance each other. I want that. I just haven’t found the guy who fits.”
Sean paused, wrench stopped mid-turn.
“Don’t let your sister’s Instagram fool you,” Sean said softly, resuming the work. “We’re a good team. But running a corporation this size—schedules, kids, bills, more bills.” He gestured back toward the house. “It takes a toll.”
“Trouble in paradise?” Jeff asked, stepping lightly. He didn't hope for it—he respected what they built—but he could hear the weariness in Sean's voice.
“Not trouble,” Sean said. “Just… quiet. We’re in a dry season. Have been since Benji was born, to be honest. Nights go to the kids, and by the time we could… well. We’re usually asleep. We go… months.”
He let out a little sigh, white breath coming out. “It’s temporary, though. I figure we’ll pick it back up in… I don’t know, another five years? When bed time’s not a contact sport.”
“Five years?” Jeff groaned. “That’s a long drought, Sean. You gotta miss it.”
Sean shook his head, turning the wrench again. “Hell. I feel like a car up on blocks. Motor still runs. No one wants to drive it.”
Jeff adjusted his grip on the level. “Too nice a car for storage.”
Sean’s head snapped, catching Jeff’s eye. The air prickled between them.
Sean gave the bolt one final, hard crank. “How’s the bubble?”
“Dead center,” Jeff breathed.
“Good. Let go.”
Jeff stepped back. The gate swung smooth and latched with a solid click.
Sean leaned against the post. “Thanks. Couldn’t have done it without the extra hand.”
“Anytime,” Jeff said.
Sean sighed, a little wistful sounding. “You’ve always been good at this. Pitching in. Even back when you were a teenager, handing me tools, staring at me like I was Captain America.”
Jeff felt the heat rise on his cheeks. “I wasn’t staring.”
“You were,” Sean snorted. “It was flattering. Honestly, I missed it when you went to college.”
For a moment, neither of them said anything
Jeff grinned, finding a little courage. “Well… you were usually shirtless. And in those cut-off jean shorts. It was hard to look away from those obliques.”
Sean groaned, laughing. “Oh my God. Those shorts. I must have thought I was God’s gift.”
“You basically were,” Jeff said.
“Well, I appreciate the review. It’s nice to know someone noticed.” Sean’s smile softened. “I don’t much feel like that guy these days.”
Before Jeff could reply, Sean jerked his chin in the direction of the house. “Race you!”
He took off across the snow-packed gravel, boots skidding, sling flapping. “Loser makes cocoa!” he called over his shoulder.
For a second, Jeff just stared, then mumbled, “Lunatic.”
He sprinted after him, trying not to eat it on the icy path, catching up just as Sean reached the bottom step, both of them out of breath and laughing.
Somehow, everything felt a little lighter.
🥧 Chapter 4: The Assignment
As the snow fell outside, the house settled in. The frantic energy of the morning burned off, settling into a cozy lull.
The living room smelled of pine needles and the garlic Jeff was sautéing in the kitchen. Clyde and Sophie were sprawled on their stomachs in front of the TV, mesmerized by the Grinch stealing Christmas.
Jeff stood at the island, methodically chopping kale for a salad, following a recipe from the New York Times on his phone. Nearby, on the rug, his mom was reading The Polar Express to Benji in a hushed voice. She had a glass of Chardonnay balanced near her knee, and Benji, for the first time all day, was silent, his thumb in his mouth, eyes heavy.
It was a nearly perfect Christmas Eve tableau.
The clock had just ticked two when Sara appeared. She stood in the archway, looking like a general who’d just lost the front line.
Strands of hair were escaping her messy bun. Wet patches soaked the front and sleeves of her grey cable-knit sweater. She scanned the room—the drowsy toddler, the movie, the cooking—with disbelief in her eyes.
She walked straight to the double ovens, peering through the glass at her pies, before turning to Jeff.
“You,” she said, pointing a finger at him.
Jeff lowered his knife. “Me?”
“I’m calling in a favor.”
“Name it,” Jeff said. “I can finish the pies if you want to—”
“Nope, nope. Not the pies,” she cut in. She glanced toward their mother, lowering her voice to a whisper. “It’s Sean. He decided to take a shower. He thought he could do it himself. He got his clothes off, but now he’s stuck.”
Jeff blinked. “He’s stuck? In the tub?”
“What? No. Well.” She wiped her damp hands on her apron. “He can’t reach his left side or his back with the bad arm. He got frustrated, then he got mad, and now he’s just sitting on the edge of the tub pouting.”
Suddenly, Clyde sprinted into the kitchen, sliding in his socks. “Mom! Can I have a gingerbread man?”
“Not before dinner,” Sara said reflexively, then sighed. “Actually, I don’t care. Just one. Go.”
Clyde grabbed a cookie from the cooling rack and bolted back to the TV. Sara watched him go, then rubbed her temples.
“See? I’m up to my ass in pies that need finishing. I have three children to keep alive. I cannot handle a fourth right now.”
She stood there, staring, as if Jeff was supposed to understand something.
“I need you to go up there,” she said. “Get him washed up and out of the tub.”
Jeff stared at her.
“You want me to… bathe him?” Jeff asked. The words felt absurd.
“It’s just like washing the dog,” Sara said, waving a hand dismissively. “I mean, he’s practically a golden retriever anyway. Just hose him down? Scrub his back? I don't care, just make him human again so he stops sulking and comes back downstairs to help me referee.”
Jeff hesitated, glancing toward the stairs. “Sara, I don’t think your forty-something husband wants his gay brother-in-law scrubbing his back.”
“Jeee-eff,” Sara said. She bent down to check the oven light, squinting at the browning crusts. “I don’t have time to do it. And he’s too big and slippery. He almost fell on me last time I tried it.”
She straightened up, grabbing a dirty mixing bowl and shoving it into the sink. “Mom certainly can’t do it. Good lord, can you imagine? You’re the only one strong enough to brace him if he slips.”
She lowered her voice. “I half want to drown him myself for pulling this. But he’s embarrassed and helpless.” She let out a long breath. “He trusts you. You’re his right-hand man, right? Please. Just be the backup.”
Jeff could feel the weight of the request. It was practical—Sara was at her limit, and physically, Jeff was the only one capable of the job.
“Okay,” he said. “I got it. Focus on the pies.”
He scooped the chopped kale into a wooden bowl and wiped his hands on a kitchen towel.
“You’re a saint,” Sara said, her shoulders finally dropping an inch.
“Sara,” Jeff said, leaning in slightly. “You have flour on your eyebrow.” He scratched at his own brow to demonstrate.
She jutted her lower lip out and blew a puff of air upward, trying to dislodge the powder without using her hands. It didn't move.
Jeff laughed, untied his apron, and headed for the stairs, leaving the peace and quiet behind.
🚿 Chapter 5: The Phantom Limb
Jeff went upstairs. The door to the master bath was cracked open, steam spilling into the hallway.
Sean sat on the edge of the large garden tub, naked, waiting. The shower was running, hot. His good arm was stretched out, palm pressed flat against the tile wall. His clothes were in a pile on the floor.
He glanced over his shoulder as Jeff stepped in. The black mesh sling cut a stark line across his chest.
“Rescue party?” Sean asked.
“Right-hand man,” Jeff said, closing the door behind him. “Sara said you were stuck.”
“Thought I could manage,” Sean muttered, looking away. “Couldn't even get the washcloth to my own armpit without seeing stars.”
Stripped of his usual flannel and jeans, Sean looked raw. The buzz cut gave him a tougher edge, but the sling made him vulnerable, too. When he adjusted the water, Jeff caught the stark contrast of his tan lines—the sun-darkened neck and arms against pale ass and hips.
Sleek but solid, Sean was pure dad-strength—a body that looked capable of anything, but currently doing absolutely nothing. Vibrating with unused energy.
“Well,” Jeff said, kicking off his borrowed slippers. “I always knew you were high-maintenance, but this is a whole new level.”
Sean let out a dry snort, the tension in his shoulders dropping an inch. “Shut up.”
“Relax,” Jeff said, unbuttoning his jeans. “I’m on it.”
He peeled off his shirt and jeans, down to his grey boxer briefs.
Sean watched him, eyes widening a little at Jeff's lean frame. “You’re coming in?”
“Unless you want me to hose you down from the doorway,” Jeff said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Make room.”
Jeff stepped into the tub—the spray hit him instantly, soaking his boxers, plastering fabric to skin. He pulled the curtains closed, and the steam sealed them into a private, white-noise world.
Sean stood up, handing him the washcloth. “This is humiliating.”
“It’s just maintenance,” Jeff said softly. “Turn around. Face the wall.”
Sean obeyed, turning his back to Jeff. He braced his good hand against the tiles, head bowed between his shoulders.
Jeff soaped up the cloth until it was heavy with lather.
He started on Sean’s back. Water cascaded over Sean’s shoulders, running down the valley of his spine. Jeff didn't just scrub; he massaged. He pressed his thumb into the knots along Sean’s traps.
“Harder,” Sean groaned, dropping his forehead to the tile. “Muscle’s knotted. Right there.”
“Easy, Tiger,” Jeff said, digging his thumb in deep. “I usually charge extra for deep tissue.”
Sean let out a dry chuckle. “Put it on my tab.”
Jeff worked his way down, over the small of the back, to the dimples just above Sean’s ass.
“Okay,” Jeff said, his voice dropping an octave. “Spread ’em. I’m being thorough.”
Sean chuckled, but it was a breathless, low rumble. “Don’t make it weird.” But he obeyed, widening his stance.
Jeff ran the soapy cloth down the crack of Sean’s ass, pushing in to clean him with a firm, deliberate pressure. He felt Sean’s breath hitch. “That’s… very thorough.’
“Now who’s making it weird?” Jeff chuckled, throwing Sean’s words back at him.
But he felt himself stiffen, his wet boxers were awkwardly tight.
“Lift your left arm,” Jeff murmured, close to Sean’s ear.
Sean raised his good arm. Jeff reached around from behind, sliding the soapy cloth into the hollow of Sean’s armpit. He scrubbed the hair there, catching the scent of several days of sweat.
“Okay, other side,” Jeff said. “See, that’s not so bad.”
He reached his arm around Sean’s chest to support the sling, gently working the cloth under the mesh to clean the right pit. Sean leaned back against him, using Jeff for balance.
Jeff dropped the washcloth. “Mesh keeps catching the cloth,” he said. “I’ll use my hands.”
He lathered his palms and reached around Sean’s waist from behind. He slid his hands under the sling, over Sean’s pecs.
Sean exhaled. “Fuck. Right there. It’s so itchy.”
Jeff’s thumb grazed Sean’s nipple. He looked down over Sean’s shoulder. Sean was hard—thick and heavy, bobbing slightly with the motion of the water.
“Sorry,” Sean murmured. “Mechanical response. The hot water… your hands.”
“It happens,” Jeff breathed. He stepped closer, twisting his hips slightly; there was no hiding his own erection now, only the wet fabric covering it, pressing against Sean’s rear.
Sean looked down at his own arousal, then at Jeff’s arms wrapped around him.
“Sorry. I’m climbing the walls, Jeff,” Sean confessed, his voice cracking. “I can’t… I can't even jerk off. My left hand is useless.”
“I’ve got you,” Jeff whispered.
Jeff slid his right hand down Sean’s stomach. He found Sean’s cock—soap slicked, hard, and desperate.
Sean gasped, his knees buckling.
Jeff squeezed, pumping his hand. Positioned exactly where Sean’s injured arm would be, Jeff’s arm became the phantom limb—makeshift, but steady. .
“That okay?” Jeff murmured into the wet nape of Sean’s neck.
“Yeah,” Sean groaned, leaning his full weight back against Jeff. “Yeah. A little…tighter.”
Jeff tightened his grip and fell into a rhythm—slow, steady strokes.
Sean began to thrust his hips to meet Jeff’s hand, fucking Jeff’s fist, starving for the friction.
“I got you,” Jeff whispered, the steam thick around them. “I’m right here.”
🌊 Chapter 6: Wrecked
Jeff kept the rhythm slick and fast, his chest pressed against Sean’s back, his arm reaching around to work him. He could feel the tension radiating off Sean—weeks of frustration coiling up for release.
“Feels so good,” Sean breathed, his head thrown back, eyes closed. “God, I needed this.”
Jeff could feel Sean getting close; his thighs were tensing and releasing against Jeff’s. But then Sean slowed his hips, fighting the edge.
“You’re holding out on me,” Jeff whispered against the wet skin of Sean’s shoulder.
“Can you blame me?” Sean gasped. “It’s been months. If I let go now, it’s over.”
Jeff didn’t answer. He simply let go.
Sean made a noise of protest, a sharp intake of breath as the friction vanished. He turned, clumsy in the small space. “Jeff—?”
Jeff took a half-step back and sank to his knees on the tiled floor.
The hot water beat down on his shoulders, soaking his hair instantly. From this angle, Sean looked massive—a tower of pale muscle, ruddy skin, and the stark dark line of the mesh sling.
Jeff turned Sean slightly, at the hips to make room.
He reached out, wrapping his fingers around the base of Sean’s cock to hold him steady. He didn't rush. He leaned in, darting his tongue over the slit, then swirling it around the sensitive ridge of the crown.
Sean let out a deep sigh.
Jeff opened his mouth and took just the head, sucking wetly while his thumb stroked the shaft. He pulled back just an inch, looking up.
“That okay?” Jeff murmured against the wet skin.
Sean looked down. "Oh yeah," he breathed. "Jeff… A little deeper?"
Jeff slid his hand down, cupping the weight of Sean’s balls in his palm to anchor him. He opened his throat and slid down the full length.
Sean grabbed the windowsill with his good hand, bracing himself. “Oh fuck.”
Jeff worked him, his hand gently squeezing Sean’s balls while his mouth did the heavy lifting. He adjusted his angle, careful of Sean’s sling—but relentless, keeping him wet, gulping him down.
Sean’s dad demeanor dissolved in the steam, leaving just the frustrated man in need of release.
His left hand came down, tangling in Jeff’s wet hair, gripping hard.
“Like that,” Sean groaned, his voice a desperate growl. “Please.”
Jeff pushed through his gag reflex, taking him to the base, then pulling back, repeating. He sped up, matching Sean’s thrusts.
“I’m gonna…” Sean’s hips moved fast to meet Jeff’s bobbing head. His body bowed like a drawn bowstring. “Jeff, I can’t… ah, fuck!”
Sean choked—a hot, heavy flood filled Jeff’s mouth. It was overwhelming—weeks of pent-up drought releasing in a sudden torrent.
Jeff held on, swallowing in frantic gulps as Sean groaned and his legs trembled. He reached up, steadying Sean, fingers pressing into his ass.
When the waves subsided, Jeff pulled back. He licked his lips and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He stood up slowly.
Sean was slumped against the wall, chest heaving, eyes closed. He looked drained, beautiful, and completely wrecked.
“Holy shit,” he whispered.
Jeff looked at him. The sight of Sean so undone spiked Jeff’s arousal, making his cock ache, pushing against the heavy, wet cotton of his boxers.
“Get on your knees,” Jeff said.
Sean’s eyes flickered open. He blinked, water dripping from his eyelashes. “What?”
“On your knees,” Jeff repeated. His voice was rough. “I’ve always wanted to see.”
Sean stared at him, the power dynamic shifting. He took in Jeff’s serious face, the command in his eyes.
Jeff didn't offer a hand. He waited.
Slowly, Sean obeyed.
It was an awkward, ungainly production. He braced his good hand against the tiled wall, sliding, core bunched tight and bicep trembling as he fought gravity, breath tight as lowered himself, inch by inch.
Jeff’s hands hovered inches from Sean’s shoulders, muscles coiled and ready to catch him if the slick floor betrayed him. But he didn't grab him. He didn't coddle him. He watched Sean grit his teeth and force his body to obey, trusting that the strength was still there, until his knees finally hit the hard tile—one, then the other—with a wince.
Sean looked up at Jeff. Submissive. The Captain America of Jeff’s teenage years, kneeling at his feet, water sluicing over his shoulders.
Jeff shoved his wet boxers down, kicking them away. He grabbed the bottle of body wash, slicking his hand, and began to stroke himself.
Sean watched, mesmerized. His wet palm slid slowly up Jeff’s ribs, his left hand tracing the sharp serratus muscles, feeling the tension.
“Jesus, Jeff,” Sean murmured, voice thick with awe. “Look at you.”
“Watch,” Jeff commanded.
Sean’s eyes fixated on Jeff’s hand moving. He licked his lips.
The visual was too much—Sean kneeling, the absolute trust in his eyes. Jeff stroked faster, hips thrusting forward.
“Yeah,” Jeff whimpered.
He came with a grunt. Sean didn't flinch. Jeff’s release splattered across Sean’s chest—hot and heavy. The cum soaked the black mesh of the sling, matted on the reddish-blond hair of his pecs, marking him.
Sean stayed there, watching the fluids mix with the shower water, a look of quiet fascination on his face.
Jeff exhaled slowly, leaning back against the wall as the rush faded.
Sean looked down at the mess on his sling, then back up at Jeff. A slow, lopsided grin spread across his face.
“Well,” he drawled, wiping a drip from his collarbone. “That is going to be a real pain in the ass to clean out.”
Jeff laughed, the sound echoing in the small room. “I’ve got you.”
“Good,” Sean said, reaching for Jeff’s hand to pull him up. “I’ve got a clean one in the bedroom, but I definitely can’t get the straps on by myself.”
🔋Chapter 7: Restoration
Ten minutes later, the bathroom was clean.
They were in the guest bedroom. Sean stood near the dresser in fresh sweats and a clean t-shirt, his injured arm cradled carefully against his stomach.
Jeff stood behind him, holding a new, blue sling, fresh from the laundry.
“Okay, arm in,” Jeff murmured.
Sean guided his right arm into the blue envelope. Jeff adjusted the elbow, making sure it was seated deep in the pocket so the weight would be supported.
“That good?” Jeff asked.
“Yeah. Good.”
Jeff pulled the strap up over Sean’s left shoulder. He leaned in close to Sean’s back, reaching around his chest to grab the strap and thread it through the plastic buckles. It was the same motion as a hug—intimate—but functional.
“You can tighten it,” Sean said softly. “Lock it down.”
Jeff pulled the velcro tight, securing the arm firmly against Sean’s ribs.
“You know, I knew you were handy,” Sean murmured, his voice low as Jeff worked the strap across his chest. “But I didn’t know you were that handy.”
Jeff felt a flush rise on his cheeks, close enough that Sean could probably feel the heat of it. He smoothed the strap over Sean’s shoulder, his hand lingering for just a second on the solid muscle.
“You don’t know all my tricks,” Jeff said quietly.
Sean let out a soft laugh. “Clearly.”
Jeff stepped back. “There. Fresh and dry.”
Sean stood up and rotated his torso slightly, testing the fit. “Perfect. Feels good to be out of the wet one.”
He rolled his shoulders, inhabiting the space differently now. The defeated, "dead weight" posture from the bathtub was gone. He looked solid again—like he could do anything.
He headed toward the door, then paused, his hand on the frame. He checked the hallway, then looked back at Jeff. The playfulness was gone, replaced by something earnest.
“You saved me back there, buddy,” Sean said, meeting Jeff’s eyes. “I owe you one.”
Jeff smiled, feeling that familiar warmth settle in his chest—the feeling of being useful, of being the one Sean needed.
“Anytime, Sean,” Jeff said. “I’ve got you.”
“I know.”
Sean gave him a final nod and disappeared into the hall. “I’m gonna go smash the appetizers,” he called back. “You coming?”
Jeff looked down at the pile of damp towels on the floor. He gathered them up, snatching up his soaked grey boxers too. He dropped them down the laundry chute.
He stood there for a moment, watching the empty doorway, listening to Sean’s footsteps retreat toward the noise of the family.
Jeff smiled to himself. He’d told Sean earlier that he measured every guy he dated against him. He realized the bar hadn't just been raised—it was in the stratosphere. And he didn’t mind that at all.
He switched off the light and followed the bark of Sean’s laugh.
END
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