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Jonny turns up on his doorstep with sushi at seven thirty on the dot, and Patrick lets him in without a word.
It's kind of hilarious how eager Jonny can be when he really wants something, and apparently right now Jonny wants Patrick. Which is fine by him. They haven't spent much time together in weeks, both tired and stressed, and it's easier dealing with it alone than trying to untangle their web of feelings with each other. Jonny turns inwards while Patrick turns outwards, and it never ended well even before they were sleeping together.
And Patrick has his sisters and his parents to talk to and it works out, but now they're on an actual win streak again - okay, it's only two games, but the last month has been suck after suck - Jonny has apparently decided that it's fine to invade Patrick’s condo again.
Plus Patrick totally deserves a reward for his baller hat trick, and Jonny better be paying out.
“What if I’d eaten already?” he yells in the direction of the living area, because Jonny’s already kicked off his shoes, his jacket thrown over the nearest inanimate object because he's a fucking slob, and has started dishing out the boxes of sushi onto his coffee table before Patrick can even think about moving.
“You knew I was coming,” Jonny yells back, sounding extremely pleased with himself, and Patrick just rolls his eyes and heads to the kitchen to grab them plates and beer. It’s not entirely untrue; Jonny had hip checked him as he was leaving, eyes dark as he’d told Patrick that he was proud of him, and then walked out without letting Patrick even have one word in the conversation. Jonny’s lucky that he speaks Toews-ese, because otherwise they’d be fucked.
Plus, Jonny had been weird all day. Well, weirder than usual, because Jonny can be pretty fucking weird. See: not actually having a conversation about coming over and expecting Patrick to understand it. The last two days he’s been jumpy, ever since they got back from Winterpeg - which, snow in April, fuck that shit - and he’d spent a lot of time with his laser focus on Patrick, but he hadn’t really been looking at him at all. He’d broken the unspoken rule of the locker room earlier, because he’d barely taken his eyes off Patrick as he’d dressed for the game, and eventually he’d had to turn his back to Jonny and pretend to look for something in his stall just so the rest of the team wouldn’t see the flush creeping down his chest.
If it was meant to get him to focus it had worked; three goals and an assist, and a sweet goal for Jonny too, and it’s the best he’s felt about his game in weeks. Plus, Jonny’s on his four game point streak and he feels pretty good about that too, even if Jonny doesn’t. Patrick feels the need to fuck some sense into him except tonight he’s in the mood to be spread out beneath Jonny, his dark eyes completely focused on giving Patrick what he wants. It’s a good look for both of them.
Jonny’s made himself comfortable by the time Patrick makes his way into the living area, plates and beer in hand. He's sitting on the floor, leaning against Patrick’s couch with his legs stretched out under the coffee table. He's already started on the food, a piece of sashimi dangling precariously from the chopsticks in his hand. He's so fucking pretentious sometimes, but it makes Patrick smile as he drops onto the floor next to his captain.
“Started without me,” he grumbles as he nudges a beer towards Jonny. “Aren't Canadians supposed to have manners?”
“You must be rubbing off on me,” Jonny says around a mouthful of tuna, the corners of his lips curving upwards. Patrick sticks his tongue out before inwardly bemoaning that he's not rubbing off on Jonny in the fun way (yet), and snags a piece of his favorite with his fingers, Jonny’s judgmental eyes following his hand until he pops the whole piece into his mouth. He licks at the corner of his mouth when the spicy mayo gets caught there and he watches Jonny follow the flick of his tongue, licking his own lips after Patrick puts on more of a show than is strictly necessary.
If he wasn't already sure, the way Jonny shifts beside him afterwards is a definite indication that he came here to get laid, and the sushi is just a peace offering for them both being dicks over the last month. There's no hurt feelings; maybe there would be if they were with someone who didn't understand their life but Patrick gets it, and so does Jonny. For now, hockey comes first. It’s always been their rule, and Patrick’s okay with that. Once they’re battered and bruised and can’t skate any more, that’s when they can finally just be Jonny and Pat and not Tazer and Kaner, and they can spend every evening like this if they want.
Before he’d met Jonathan Toews - and the Junior Flyers and World Juniors don’t count, because the first time they’d been kids and the second they’d barely spoken two words to each other - he’d always imagined his future in the wife and two kids and a house in the suburbs way that most people did. Now all he sees is Jonny, and once their jerseys are retired and their statues stand outside of the United Center, they’ll have every day to enjoy domestic bliss.
Or domestic grossness, because Jonny’s chewing his food with his mouth half open and Patrick does not need to see what a half chewed California roll looks like.
“Fucking mouth breather,” he mumbles, and Jonny elbows him in the side.
They settle into silence after that, Jonny eating obnoxiously loudly beside him just to be an ass, Patrick only half paying attention to the Blues-Avs game that Jonny’s found to watch. He probably should be paying more attention since the Blues are their likely playoff opponent but the hot weight of Jonny along his side is too easy to press into, and when Jonny shifts to wrap an arm around his waist he smiles, his fingers casually dipping into the waistband of Patrick’s sweats. He slides his hand over so it’s resting on Jonny’s thigh, and out of the corner of his eye he watches the corner of Jonny’s mouth turn up.
It’s easy when it’s like this, just enjoying the comfortable silence that sits between them as they polish off the sushi like the hockey players they are. The outside world doesn’t exist; there’s no obligations to themselves or the Hawks or even the media. They’re just allowed to be.
“You okay, Peeks?” Jonny says once the game switches to commercials, and Patrick nods, letting his head rest against Jonny’s shoulder. Jonny’s the only person to call him that now Sharpy’s stuck in Dallas, and he hates the nickname, but Jonny always says it in this stupid fond voice that he kind of loves, and he doesn’t ever want to stop hearing it. “You haven’t chirped any of these fuckers once.”
“Not worth my time,” he replies, grinning against Jonny’s shirt, “pretty sure no one’s going to outscore me tonight.”
“A hatty for Patty,” Jonny says, clearly pleased with himself at the rhyme and Patrick rolls his eyes. Jonny’s so lame sometimes, but he likes Jonny’s dumb jokes so he’s probably just as lame.
“So do I get a reward?” he says, stretching his arms above his head in a well practiced move. The strip of skin between his worn t-shirt and his sweats draws Jonny’s attention immediately, his hand curling tighter on Patrick’s hip, and Patrick fails to hide his smile.
“Maybe if you clean up,” he says, gesturing to the empty take out containers with his free hand as he rubs circles into Patrick’s hip with his thumb, “since I provided dinner and all.”
“Says the guy who can’t find the trash can to save his life,” he mutters under his breath, shooting a pointed grin at Jonny. Jonny looks completely unperturbed, his attention back on the game, and the only sign that they even had the conversation is the wide smile that’s he’s trying to hide in his fake yawn, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
Since Patrick doesn’t like his condo to look like the inside of a college dorm room - and fuck, he would not have wanted to share a dorm room in college with Jonathan Toews - he clears the table in record time, stacking the take out boxes inside of each other before he carries them to the garbage. He considers grabbing another beer since his is almost empty, but the thought of sex wins out over more alcohol.
Jonny’s looking unbearably smug when he returns from the kitchen, the half smile twisting his lips into an upwards curve, his dark eyes following Patrick with every step. It’s stupidly hot when Jonny gets like this, when Patrick can see how much Jonny wants him, and when Jonny licks his lips it’s like a fucking Pavlovian reaction, his dick already twitching in his sweats.
He's still sitting on the floor but his arm is stretched out along the sofa cushions, the implication that he wants Patrick by his side easier to read than his practice schedule. He knows Jonny, each move calculated and careful, a stark juxtaposition to his own impulsive behavior, and he sits in Jonny’s lap without a second thought, his knees on either side of Jonny’s hips.
“You’re so easy, Peeks,” Jonny says, his grin widening as his hand curls around Patrick’s wrist, his thumb rubbing the tiny scar. Patrick isn’t going to deny that; he is easy, and he always has been. It’s not a crime to enjoy sex. He leans towards Patrick, his mouth brushing Patrick’s own before he whispers, “Got you right where I want you.”
Which- oh. Jonny’s a sneaky fucker, but Patrick can’t bring himself to care when he slides his tongue across Jonny’s lower lip, biting down gently before Jonny’s fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently at a stray curl. He meets Jonny’s eyes for a split second before Jonny slides his mouth across Patrick’s and they’re kissing, Jonny’s mouth hot and wet, and Patrick melts into it.
Jonny’s confessed to loving his mouth more than once, usually when Patrick’s mouth was around his dick, but right now Jonny seems content to explore it like it’s the first time all over again, the hand on the back of Patrick’s head keeping him in place while Jonny licks into his mouth, his tongue flicking against Patrick’s lips before he repeats the action over and over.
It’s not that Patrick minds - Jonny’s a great kisser, and they’ve had some marathon make out sessions while not watching the movie of the evening - but he’s been ready to get laid since Jonny walked through his door, and he just wants. Jonny presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth and he’s pretty sure a whine whine slips from his mouth, loud enough so that Jonny can hear if his smug face is anything to go by; he trails his mouth across Patrick’s jaw, kisses feather light and teasing, stopping at the patch of soft skin just below his ear. Jonny knows how to play Patrick, how to drive him insane, and that’s where he always starts.
“Jonny,” and that’s definitely a whine, “just fuck me already.”
Jonny laughs at that, and pulls away, his expression halfway between amused and aroused until he looks between them and sees the obscene bulge of Patrick’s dick in his sweats. His mouth parts a little as he reaches between them, thumbing at the damp patch that’s starting to form, and Patrick can’t help but to grind down into Jonny, his own dick pressing into Patrick’s ass.
“Kaner, if you want a reward you’re going to have to be patient,” Jonny says, managing to sound only slightly condescending, and he pauses to press a kiss to Patrick’s collarbone. “Although I don’t think patient’s in your vocabulary.”
“Fuck you,” Patrick says, except what he really wants to say is fuck me now please, and apparently it shows on his face because Jonny’s using his extra weight to roll them over so Patrick’s underneath him, all two hundred pounds of Jonathan Toews pressed against him in the best way. His wrists are pinned against the carpet but Jonny’s careful with them in a way that other people maybe wouldn’t be, and then Jonny’s kissing him again, dirty and wet and Patrick needs, his hips arching into Jonny’s as he wraps his legs around his waist and he can’t hold back the moan that passes his lips.
It’s been so long he’s sure he could get off like this, rubbing against Jonny before coming in his pants like a fucking teenager, especially when Jonny’s mouthing at his neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses across his skin.
“Fuck, Taze,’ he moans as Jonny nibbles at that spot below his ear again, the scrape of teeth a pleasant warning before he sucks gently at the skin there. It’s not enough to leave a mark; they’re not stupid, and turning up with a hickey that Jonny can’t take his eyes off while the media are watching would invite more questions than they want to answer right now.
Jonny moves on, biting at Patrick’s jaw before he murmurs, “Up,” against Patrick’s lips, releasing his wrists. He blinks stupidly at Jonny for a second, not getting it until Jonny cocks an eyebrow at him, and he pulls at the hem of his t-shirt, shuffling out of it as best he can while Jonny’s weight is pinning him to the carpet. There’s a bruising kiss pressed to his mouth once it’s over his head, and then Jonny’s working his way across Patrick’s left shoulder, mapping the pale skin with his tongue, his thumb dragging over the wet trails when he’s satisfied, pressing into his skin as though Jonny’s trying to brand him.
His dick is hard, still confined to his sweats, and with every movement Jonny makes there’s a hint of friction but not enough, not even close to what he needs. He loops an arm around Jonny’s neck and pulls him up for a kiss, sloppy and insistent, grinding against Jonny’s until Jonny’s got a hand on his hip, pinning him against the carpet. He feels Jonny smirk into the kiss, his mouth curling upwards, and then Jonny’s got his fingers tucked into the waistband of his sweats, and he’s not going to make the same mistake twice.
He lifts his hips so Jonny can tug them down, finally freeing his dick. It’s stiff and fat, curving slightly towards his belly and Jonny kisses the tip, teasing and featherlight, before he works his way down the shaft in the same manner. His eyes look black, focused entirely on Patrick, and he swallows a moan as Jonny’s fingers trail across his hip, tracing the v-lines on his stomach. His hand slides lower, across the inside of Patrick’s thigh and under his ass, and he wraps his underneath Patrick’s leg before his hand settles on his hip, effectively pinning Patrick right where he wants him.
Jonny’s eyes flick to his face, and then to his dick before he licks his lips, and Patrick thinks fucking finally before Jonny’s kissing the inside of his thigh, his mouth a perfect ‘o’ as he sucks tiny bruises into pale skin. When he’s satisfied he's left his mark he moves to the other thigh, doing the same thing but in reverse, biting lightly at the marks he’s just left before adding new ones.
This doesn’t feel like a reward; he’s so hard, the head of his dick shiny with pre-come, and he just wants Jonny to suck his dick. Tonight should be about what he wants; he’s the one with the hat trick, and if he’s having to deal with Jonny taking him apart piece by piece, then he deserves something more, because Jonny teasing him is like torture. Maybe multiple somethings.
“Maybe I should get three rewards,” he says, trying to keep his voice as even as possible as Jonny nuzzles into his pubic hair, his dick twitching as Jonny’s nose bumps against it, “since I got three goals.”
He hears Jonny smirk, if that’s even possible, and there’s a soft, “That’s the plan,” before Jonny’s mouthing at his balls and he can’t bite back the moan this time or the cursing that follows as Jonny takes one into his mouth, sucking gently. He’s almost certain that Jonathan Toews has been put on this earth to kill him, but if this is the way that it ends the what a way to go.
Apparently he said that out loud, because Jonny huffs something that’s closer to a laugh than anything else, flush creeping across his cheeks. Patrick doesn’t have time to think of a response before Jonny’s hand is on his dick and he moans, low and guttural, because he’s fucking finally getting what he’s needed all night.
Jonny flattens his tongue over his slit, licking slow and smooth before his wraps his lips around the head of Patrick’s dick. It’s Patrick’s favorite kind of porn; Patrick’s thick, and Jonny’s mouth stretches so prettily around the width, but the part he really loves is that Jonny never takes his eyes off Patrick. It never fails to make heat pool in his stomach, breathy moans catching in his throat as Jonny sucks teasingly at the head.
His hips jerk as Jonny does the twisty thing with his tongue, the one that sends shivery sparks up Patrick’s spine, his hands finding the back of Jonny’s head as he does it again. It feels like his whole body is on fire, every nerve in his body singing as Jonny sucks his dick, sloppy and wet, the way he likes it, his hand and his mouth perfectly synchronized.
“Jon,” he moans, “god, Jon, fuck,” and then Jonny’s sucking harder, and he feels his orgasm coiling low in his belly. It doesn’t take much to tip him over the edge, and he comes with a sob, the combination of Jonny’s hot, wet mouth and the rough drag of carpet across his skin finally too much for him. Jonny works him through his orgasm, doesn't stop until every last drop of come has been wrung from Patrick’s dick, licking at the head once more before he pulls away. He feels boneless and spent, blinking aimlessly at the ceiling, trying to keep this moment for as long as he's allowed.
“‘M gonna film you one day,” he mumbles, voice a little shaky and quiet as Jonny sweeps a hand over his stomach, muscles trembling under his touch.
“Okay Kaner,” Jonny replies and Patrick knows that tone of voice, the one that’s just agreeing with what he thinks is a stupid idea before Patrick forgets and moves on to the next one, but even though he’s come-dumb right now he’s pretty sure he isn’t going to forget this.
“You look so pretty sucking my dick,” he carries on; if he could see Jonny’s face he’s sure he’d be blushing right now, because Jonny always does when any compliments are directed as him, “‘s hot.”
Jonny doesn’t reply to that, just presses a kiss to Patrick’s cheek, and it takes him a second to realise that Jonny’s beside him, head resting on Patrick’s outstretched arm. His jeans are rough against Patrick’s skin where he’s tangled their legs together, the heat of his skin radiating through his t-shirt. His hand is splayed across Patrick’s chest, possessive in his own Jonny way, and Patrick moves his arm so he can lace their fingers together.
“You think I'm pretty,” Jonny says softly, and Patrick would think he's being chirped except Jonny sounds fond, maybe a little embarrassed. He turns his head a little, just enough so that he can see Jonny’s face, and Jonny’s dumb smile isn't anywhere close to his I made a funny joke face that he'd expected. He doesn't know what to do with Jonny like this, not when he's still orgasm stupid and he's likely to word vomit his feelings everywhere, and he unlaces their fingers before he cups Jonny’s jaw with his hand, stroking the still-healing scar across his lip.
“You know it, babe,” he eventually says, trying for lighthearted and teasing and failing on both of those counts, his love for Jonny making his voice heavy and equally fond as Jonny’s had been seconds earlier.
Jonny’s fingers thread into his hair and they kiss a little, soft brushes of lips as they smile. It's stupid, maybe, but Patrick thinks these moments are kind of perfect, when they're happy and stupid and together, and he never wants the rest of their life more than he does right now. Except maybe with 100% more Jonny nakedness, because he’s still fully dressed, even his socks, and he tugs at Jonny’s t-shirt half heartedly because he's starting to feel exposed.
“Get naked, Taze,” he says between kisses, “you can fuck my face, or like, rub off on me or whatever. I don't wanna move.”
“I want to fuck you,” Jonny says, and Patrick goes hot all over, his dick twitching at the idea even though he's only just come. He's about to say that he's right here, ready and willing and there’s even lube in his end table before Jonny continues, apparently knowing exactly what Patrick was going to suggest. “In a bed.”
“Jonny,” he whines, elongating all of the vowel sounds as much as he can. It gets him an eye roll and a half exasperated expression that Jonny reserves just for him. “I'm comfy.”
“I'm not fucking you on the carpet,” he says, all judgey and Canadian, although Patrick isn't really sure about the views of Canada as a nation and carpet fucking. It could just be a weird Tazer thing. “C’mon, Peeks.”
The hint of a whine in Jonny’s voice is enough to make him relent and he nods slowly, their noses bumping gently before Patrick closes the gap between their mouths again. They kiss slowly, his hand cupping Jonny’s jaw, tracing over the scar that Patrick had left on his skin.
Jonny’s smiling when he pulls away, relaxed and happy and soft, and so different from the Jonny he’s seen for the last month. It makes Patrick happy too, and he can’t help but mirror him, matching the fond expression that he sees on Jonny’s face. Sometimes they’re too ridiculous to even exist, he thinks, but when Jonny presses his thumb into Patrick’s dimple he’s not sure that he even cares.
Jonny pulls Patrick to his feet, still grinning as he pulls him into another kiss. They walk to Patrick’s bedroom tangled up in each other, Jonny pulling him in tiny half steps that make the process longer than it really needs to be, but Patrick isn’t going to complain when he’s got Jonny pressed against him, an arm looped around his waist to keep him close, fingers trailing over his lower back, just above his ass. It makes him feel hot all over and he deepens the kiss, his fingers threading through Jonny’s too-short hair as Jonny bites at his bottom lip.
Jonny’s still wearing too many clothes, and he isn’t sure he manages words as he’s pulling at the hem of Jonny’s t-shirt, his hands sliding over Jonny’s smooth skin, across his chest until he finds Jonny’s nipples. He flicks one with his thumb, dragging his nail over it; the sound that Jonny makes is somewhere between a sob and a moan, and it makes his dick twitch.
“Could have worn sweats,” he mumbles as he fumbles with the buttons on Jonny’s jeans; Jonny huffs a laugh in response, but doesn’t help, and kisses Patrick’s jaw lazily. “Fuck these fucking things.”
“We need to hydrate,” Jonny tells him as he pushes Patrick’s hands away, and Patrick wants to argue, wants to push Jonny against the wall until they’re both breathless but frustratingly Jonny’s right. Hockey comes first to him, always, even when he’s clearly hard in his jeans and probably has been for a while. He tries to glare at Jonny, but Jonny knows him too well to think that he’ll do anything else than get the Gatorade, because he loves hockey just as much as Jonny does.
It doesn’t stop him from pinching Jonny’s nipples through his t-shirt before he walks towards the kitchen and Jonny’s squawk of protest just makes him grin wider. Grabbing the bottle of Gatorade doesn’t take long - orange, kept in his refrigerator just for Princess Toews because he hates the blue that Patrick prefers - and he downs half of it as he circles back to the bedroom, stopping in the doorway when he gets there.
Jonny’s naked, sprawled across Patrick’s bed with his eyes closed, looking entirely like he belongs there. He’s hard; his hand around his dick, squeezing a little harder than Patrick likes to, and he’s using his thumb to pull at his foreskin, revealing the damp head before he tucks it back away. Patrick’s always been fascinated by it, and he hovers in the doorway, not wanting to spoil the moment.
“This isn’t pay-per-view, Kaner,” Jonny says, his eyes still closed, and not for the first time Patrick wonders how he does that. “Or if it is, I’m not charging you enough.”
In retaliation he throws the bottle of Gatorade at Jonny’s head, missing by more inches than he really wanted to and it bounces off the headboard and onto the mattress. Jonny just raises an eyebrow at him as he reaches out to grab it, downing half of it in one motion before he places the bottle on the nightstand.
“Thanks for not killing me,” Jonny says dryly, but there’s a curl to his lips that Patrick can’t ignore. He licks his lips as his eyes land on Jonny’s dick, head already pink and flush, and as much as he wants to get his mouth on it he’d rather have Jonny fucking him tonight. He doesn’t move though, happy to watch Jonny touch himself until he says, “Fucking get over here already.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” he replies, except Jonny actually had needed to tell him twice, but it’s definitely not his fault if Jonny’s looking all stupidly attractive in Patrick’s bed. He bounds over to him, settling himself between Jonny’s legs, and he traces Jonny’s hipbone lightly.
Jonny tugs on his wrist gently, his eyes wide and dark in the low light of the bedroom, and Patrick feels helpless to resist. It’s kind of par of the course with Jonny, as is the eyeroll he gets when he clambers over the Canadian to align their bodies with none of the grace that he shows on the ice. Jonny’s all hard lines and muscle spread beneath him, and he traces the lines of his abs before Jonny’s dragging him into a kiss, his fingers digging into Patrick’s left shoulder, almost hard enough to bruise.
His hand’s trapped awkwardly between their bodies but he can’t bring himself to care when Jonny’s hot and needy and naked beneath him, kissing Patrick like it’s as important to him as oxygen. He bites at Patrick’s lips a little, enough so they’ll be red and swollen later, maybe even tomorrow too, and Patrick moans shamelessly because Jonny drives him insane in the best possible way.
Jonny’s dick is hard and insistent against his belly, a line of heat that’s getting harder to ignore with every roll of Jonny’s hips. He’s torn between wanting to get off like this, rutting against each other like all of their first times, or wanting Jonny to fuck him into the mattress, Patrick spread open on his fingers until he’s begging Jonny for more.
It’s Jonny that makes the decision for him when he dips a finger between his ass cheeks, tracing Patrick’s hole with the tip of his finger, and Patrick trembles in his arms, a whine falling from his lips.
“Lube,” Jonny commands, and Patrick rolls off him to the other side of the bed, rummaging through his nightstand until he produces the tiny yet stupidly expensive bottle of lube that Jonny prefers. He does a lot of shit for Jonny that he wouldn’t for anyone else, and it doesn't even bother him.
Especially not when he throws the lube at Jonny, hitting him right in the middle of his chest, and Jonny gives him one of those soft smiles that’s just for Patrick. Jonny might not say it in words, but he always finds a way to show Patrick he appreciates the gesture.
It’s easy to shift onto his back, wriggling on the bed until he’s comfortable, his legs spread in anticipation of what’s coming. Jonny’s looking at him like he’s a hockey play, like he’s trying to figure out the best way to fuck Patrick into the mattress. Which is dumb, because Patrick likes all of the ways, and whatever Jonny picks is going to finish with a happy ending. Pun definitely intended.
“Do your worst, Toews,” he says, gesturing to his dick, and Jonny just looks at him like he actually can’t believe he said that out loud.
“Oh my god,” Jonny laughs out, grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “You- you’re-”
“Amazing? I know it, baby,” he says, wiggling his ass against the sheets as he pokes Jonny in the hip with his toe. It seems to get his attention back on Patrick, moving across the bed until he’s between Patrick’s legs.
“Incorrigible,” Jonny replies, his smile soft, his eyes fond. Patrick beams back at him, because even if he doesn’t know what incorrigible actually means, he knows that Jonny means it in the best way possible.
“You don’t need to impress me with your fancy college education,” he chirps back, and Jonny laughs again before he pours some of the lube into his hand, warming it between his palms before he presses a finger to Patrick’s hole. He whimpers as Jonny pushes the tip of his finger inside, because fuck yes, he’s been waiting for this moment all night. It’s still not enough though and he pushes back against Jonny’s hand until Jonny’s thick digit is fully inside him, and yeah, this is so much better than the alternative.
“Yeah,” Jonny says, voice low and quiet, his gaze focused on his fingers like it’s the first time all over again, “don’t think I do.”
It doesn’t take long for Jonny to add a second, twisting and stretching inside of him, and Patrick’s mumbling yeah, yeah every time Jonny brushes his prostate with his fingers. He feels dizzy with arousal already, dick fully hard again, proud and stiff as Jonny finger fucks him all too slowly. It’s maybe his favorite part, the way Jonny can take him apart with nothing more than his hands, and he can’t bite back the moan that passes his lips as Jonny adds a third finger.
“Fuck,” he moans as he sees stars, his body shaking as Jonny hits that perfect spot again and again, and he doesn’t know how he’s going to survive much more of this. He’s gone zero to sixty in three-point-five; his heart’s racing, his breathing ragged and loud in the near silence of the room, the only other sound the slick slide of the lube as Jonny works his fingers in his ass. “Jon, fuck-”
“Yeah, Kaner,” Jonny says, “you’re fucking- yeah.”
It doesn’t make sense to Patrick, but Jonny looks like he’s going to fall apart at any moment, eyes glazed, his lower lip between his teeth, and Patrick gets it. To have Jonny back in his bed after a month is making him stupid too, and he manages to whine out a, “Come on, please,” as Jonny curls his fingers just right, his thumb pressing just below his balls, and pre-come drips out of the head of his dick.
Jonny blinks at him stupidly, like he doesn’t understand what Patrick wants, but Patrick doesn't have it in him to roll his eyes.
“Peeks, I-” Jonny starts, finally managing to focus on Patrick, and if Patrick’s skin wasn’t already blotchy and red it would be now under his heated gaze, “I just-”
“Whatever you want, Jon,” Patrick replies softly, because he trusts Jonny implicitly, knows that whatever Jonny can’t verbalise won’t hurt him. “Just- fast, okay?”
It barely takes a second before Jonny’s awkwardly kissing him, bruising and fast, his lube sticky fingers tangling in Patrick’s hair before settling on his shoulder. He traces something over Patrick’s skin, the drying lube a pleasant drag of friction as Jonny makes the same pattern over and over again.
“Can I-” he asks, and Patrick nods, because he knows what Jonny’s asking.
“Yeah,” Patrick says breathlessly, and it’s all the answer Jonny needs before he’s moving, his mouth ghosting over Patrick’s skin in the same pattern, and he rolls his hips into Jonny’s, their dicks sliding together between them, and he feels Jonny tremble above him before he’s kissing across Patrick’s shoulder.
Jonny’s fingers slip out of his ass and Patrick whines as his muscles clench around nothing. There’s a mumbled, “Sorry, babe,” from Jonny before Patrick hears the snap of the lube and Jonny shifts on top of him, sticky fingers sliding down his side until they’re pressing at his hole again, and he tilts his hips as Jonny pushes his fingers inside of him again. It feels different and it takes Patrick a moment to realise that Jonny’s used his left hand this time, and it feels as clumsy and unpractised as it did their first time.
It’s easier for Jonny to pin him in place this way though, a hand on his shoulder, stilling him as Jonny presses kisses into his throat and across his collarbone until Jonny’s kissing his shoulder again in the same pattern as before, a triangle, Patrick realises, except he doesn’t know why Jonny would be trying to mark that on his skin. He doesn’t want to ask either, not when Jonny’s carefully sucking bruises into his shoulder, and Patrick shifts to get a hand on his dick as Jonny bites at the mark.
“Don’t move,” Jonny tells him in the voice he uses to captain on the ice, and Patrick nods carefully as Jonny’s teeth graze his shoulder again. It’s not the first time Jonny’s marked his skin and he doubts it’ll be the last; it’s inevitable they’ll get chirped about it in the locker room and if Jonny was even slightly embarrassed about it then it might be different, but Jonny always looks proud, like he’s pleased to show the world that Patrick’s his.
It’s not easy to keep still with Jonny above him, not when Jonny’s dick is pressing insistently into his hip and his fingers are sending sparks of pleasure up Patrick’s spine every time he moves, but he does the best he can. Jonny’s fully focused on bruising his skin, the trail of angry red already visible on his shoulder, his thumb pressing into every mark before he works on the next one. Patrick can’t bite back his whimpers, the edge of pain going straight to his dick.
“Jon,” he mumbles, because he’s not going to last much longer and he doubts Jonny will either, not with the way he’s leaking all over Patrick’s hip. “I need- please-”
“Yeah,” Jonny says, and he gets it. He always does, and Patrick doesn’t put up any protest when Jonny pulls his fingers out of his ass, his sticky fingers settling on Patrick’s hip as the blunt head of his dick presses against Patrick’s hole.
“What are you waiting for, a fucking invitation?” Patrick asks, and Jonny laughs, his eyes crinkling with amusement as he pushes inside Patrick and he can’t hold back a moan, Jonny’s dick stretching him wide open. He curls his hands into the sheets as Jonny bottoms out, reminding himself to breathe as he gets used to the feeling of being filled again. It’s been too long and it’s overwhelming having Jonny’s dick inside of him as he blankets Patrick with his body, the press of skin to skin making his body hum.
“Fuck, Peeks,” Jonny says brokenly; he’s already wrecked, his eyes glassy and unfocused, words falling from his mouth that Patrick doesn’t really understand. He’s fucking gorgeous like this but Patrick needs him to move already, and he tells Jonny that in no uncertain terms.
It takes a couple of seconds but Jonny eventually does move, just a slow roll of his hips that has heat pooling at the base of Patrick’s spine. His breath hitches as Jonny does it again, and he watches the flush spread down Jonny’s chest, watches his pupils dilate, watches his mouth part, his tongue just resting on his lip, and Patrick wants to kiss him more than anything.
He does; it’s sloppy and uncoordinated, every roll of Jonny’s hips shifting their mouths out of alignment but it feels so amazing that Patrick can’t bring himself to care. His dick is trapped between their bodies and every time Jonny moves there’s a hint of friction, not quite enough and he lets himself get lost in the rhythm for a moment, letting the sparks of pleasure wash over him until it’s not enough anymore.
“Harder,” he says, breathless and wanting, and Jonny’s eyes snap to him at the tone, “c’mon Jon, please.”
Jonny doesn’t need to be told twice, and the next snap of his hips is sharper and harder, nailing Patrick’s prostate so that he feels it all the way to his toes. He moans something unintelligible, hoping that Jonny understands it means exactly like that, and he buries his face into Jonny’s neck as he does it again, tasting the dampness of Jonny’s skin with his lips. Salt and sweat and a little of the ice still, and Patrick can feel Jonny’s pulse racing beneath his lips, sliding a tongue over the beat.
“Fucking perfect, you’re so- fuck- Peeks,” Jonny’s saying senselessly, and Patrick can’t do much more than agree with him as Jonny gets a hand between their bodies, jerking him off in the same rhythm as the jerk of his hips, and fuck, Patrick loves Jonny so, so much, and he’s almost certain that he tells Jonny that as he comes between them, coating his stomach in thick spurts.
It doesn’t take Jonny long to follow him over the edge, a few short thrusts and then his face is screwing up in the stupidest orgasm face that Patrick’s ever seen, but he loves it anyway. He pets Jonny’s hair purposelessly, Jonny taking a few seconds to try and collect himself before he collapses on Patrick’s chest, his skin hot and sweaty and kind of gross, but Patrick doesn’t want him to move. It’s easy to take a couple of moments to catch their breath and he can feel himself being pulled towards sleep, the game and the orgasms catching up with him all at once, his eyelids flittering shut as Jonny kisses him on the chin.
When Jonny pulls out he can feel come dripping into his crease, but he’s too tired to care. He rolls onto his front, limbs splayed across the bed, his knee hitched up so that his still sensitive dick isn’t pressed completely into the sheets. He’s feels like he’s been fucked within an inch of his life - apparently two orgasms after a game will do that for you - and he’s not sure he could move again if he wanted to. He really doesn’t want to.
Jonny’s asking him something, but whatever it is isn’t registering, and he mumbles something that he hopes sounds like a yes, because he’s not in the habit of denying Jonny much at all. He whimpers as Jonny presses a kiss to his hole, flicking his tongue over the sensitive rim before he pushes two of his fingers inside. Patrick can feel the sloppy drag of come as Jonny spreads it into his crease and over his perineum, following the path with his mouth.
Sometimes Jonny can get him to come again from this, but it’s definitely not going to be happening tonight. Not after he’s already come twice, and all he wants to do now is sleep.
“You good, Peeks?” Jonny asks, and he nods into the pillow, too tired to form words. Jonny must see it though, because he goes back to cleaning Patrick up with his tongue, and he drifts to sleep with Jonny’s hand curled around his hip and his mouth on his thigh.
When he wakes, Jonny’s a solid weight against his back, a hand splayed across his stomach and one of his ridiculous thighs shoved between Patrick’s legs. His mouth is hot against Patrick’s neck, warm puffs of air brushing over his skin with every breath he takes.
It's Patrick’s favorite way to wake up, and usually he'd push back into Jonny’s strong body until the Canadian wakes, but he feels gross. He’s lube sticky everywhere, can feel the handprints Jonny had left across his body in the way that his skin pulls tight when he shifts, and there's dried come on his stomach underneath Jonny’s hand. The freak probably knows it too.
“Taze,” he mumbles as he tries to wriggle out of Jonny’s grip, but it only makes the other man pull him closer, mumbling something against Patrick’s neck that he doesn't understand. There aren't many ways to wake Jonny up when he's still dead to the world, but the one that works the best is kicking at Jonny’s shins, enough to be annoying but not enough to leave bruises.
He does just that, gently rubbing his right heel against Jonny’s leg before he starts tapping a rhythm out. Jonny moves behind him, trying to shift away from Patrick’s foot and he loosens his grip enough on Patrick’s waist so that he can slide out from underneath his arm.
There's no need to be quiet as he climbs out of bed, and Jonny immediately rolls into the space he's just vacated, burying his face into Patrick’s pillow. There aren't many times he gets the opportunity to just look at Jonny, at least not like this, and he takes in his muscular arms, the strong lines of his back, and the curve of his ass, the rest of him covered by the comforter. He'd choose to wake up like this every morning if he could, but they've got too many years left ahead of them to contemplate it just yet, and he pushes the thought out of his mind as he heads to the bathroom.
The shower feels good against his aching muscles and he stands under the spray, letting the hot water run over his skin before he starts cleaning himself up. The marks Jonny had left on his chest are darker this morning, and he presses at them gently, his dick twitching at the hint of pain. Jonny’s not usually functional enough for morning sex though, and he washes the lube out of his hair before he steps out of the shower and wraps a towel around his waist.
When he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror, he stops.
Because Jonny hasn't just marked him. Jonny’s given him a fucking A, the outline of the dark purple bruises impossible to be anything else. It's placed exactly where it would be if he was wearing his jersey, and now he understands why Jonny had instructed him not to move, why he'd been so careful as he'd sucked marks into his pale skin.
He can't stop staring at it, or touching it, and soon his dick’s started to get interested again, chubbing up beneath his towel. He wonders if Jonny would let him do the same thing one day, mark Jonny’s skin so that everyone knows he wears the C, just like now everyone’ll know that he wears the A, and-
And Patrick thinks he gets it now. He'd known it was only for a game, that Hoss wears it when Duncs or Seabs can't, but for the first time in his career he hadn't wanted them to take the A back. Apparently, Jonny hadn't either.
Jonny's stumbles into the bathroom then, still soft from sleep and non-verbal, but it doesn't take long for him to drag himself awake once he sees Patrick. His sleepy smile turns smug, looking entirely too pleased with himself, his eyes focused on the same spot in the mirror that Patrick’s are.
“Looks good on you,” Jonny manages, sleep still slurring his words a little, and Patrick smiles back.
“Yeah, it does,” he says, meeting Jonny’s eyes in the mirror, and he watches Jonny’s gaze flick between the A and the towel that's doing a terrible job of hiding his semi. He's never been the exhibitonist in this relationship - that's always been Jonny, happy to walk around half naked at the first opportunity - but Jonny looking at him like he's about to devour him never fails to make heat pool in his stomach.
Jonny takes a step closer to Patrick, and then another until he's pressed flush behind him, his chest solid and warm against Patrick's back. He winds a hand around Patrick’s waist, pulling him closer. It's not too different from the way they woke up this morning, and he presses back into Jonny’s heat.
“You like it?” he says as his other hand snakes around Patrick’s body, his hand covering Patrick’s as he strokes the A on his chest with rough fingers. Patrick can't do much more than nod, his breath caught in his throat, because he fucking loves it. “I knew you would.”
Jonny hooks his ankle around Patrick’s, pulling his legs apart just a little, enough so that he can feel Jonny’s dick press against his crease. Definitely the advantage of sleeping with someone bigger and stronger than him; Jonny’s thighs are monstrous, and he can feel the shift of muscle against his own as Jonny finds his balance, not taking his eyes off the A that's staring back at them in the mirror.
Jonny’s hand - the one that's not stroking the A - slides across his stomach, his fingers dipping beneath the edge of the towel and Patrick shivers as he undoes it, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. He's not quite fully hard, but Jonny knows how to get him there, and he licks his lips as Jonny runs his thumb over the head, his rough fingers trailing over the underside of his dick, before he reaches to grab the lotion that's sitting on the counter. Patrick’s eyes drop to watch Jonny wrap his hand around his dick, his slow, smooth strokes exactly what Patrick needs, and he watches the pink tip of his dick disappear into Jonny’s fist, over and over again.
“Eyes up, Peeks,” Jonny murmurs into his ear, and he focuses his gaze back on their reflection. Jonny’s hair is sleep mussed, flush high on his cheeks the same way it is after a game; his own hair is a disaster, his skin still damp and pink from the shower, but they look good together. He's never liked being small until he'd had this, Jonny crowding him with his comparatively huge body, and he'd never admit it to anyone else but he likes that Jonny can push him around, can use his size and weight as an advantage to push him into the mattress and fuck him as hard as he can.
Jonny catches his earlobe with his teeth before he presses kisses against his hairline, stopping when he reaches the top of Patrick’s spine. He mouths at the skin there, wet and sloppy, but the drag of teeth that accompanies it makes Patrick moan, and fuck Jonny for knowing all of his weaknesses.
“One day,” Jonny says as he bites at the skin under his ear, his skin blotchy red where Jonny’s mouth’s been, “you're gonna wear it every fucking day.”
“Yeah,” he says, because his brain isn't able to think beyond Jonny’s mouth on his neck, the hand on his dick that's jerking him off so, so slowly, while the other just presses at the A on his chest, their fingers intertwined as he does it. He should be embarrassed about how close he is to coming already but fuck, this is so fucking good, being able to see Jonny and feel him and fuck, he never knew he had a thing for being able to watch himself until now, never knew that the shivery heat running through his veins would be multiplied by a thousand by having Jonny’s dark eyes meet his own in the mirror.
Jonny's grinding into him shamelessly now, can feel his hard dick between his ass cheeks, and every time Jonny strokes him he feels the tip of Jonny’s dick rub his hole. It's still sensitive, raw and open from last night, but it feels so fucking good and he wants more, maybe Jonny’s fingers or his mouth, and then Jonny’s chuckling behind him gently, his chest vibrating against Patrick’s back, and he realizes he probably said all of that out loud.
“Yeah, babe, you did,” but Jonny’s not mocking him, not with that way that he’s mouthing at Patrick’s shoulders again, pressing hard kisses into every piece of skin he can reach. “You know I'm gonna take care of you.”
“Jonny,” and he knows he's whining, but his whole body feels like it's on fire as he's chasing this orgasm, so close but still out of reach because there's not quite enough friction, Jonny’s fist too loose, too slow to get him there, “I need, fuck, Tazer.”
He must sound pretty pathetic, because Jonny tightens his grip, the smooth, steady strokes of his hand speeding up, and Jonny wraps his arm tighter around his body, fingers pressing into his abused skin. He leans back into Jonny’s chest, letting him absorb some of the weight that his legs can’t take anymore, grabbing at Jonny’s hip so hard he’ll probably leave bruises, and-
“Open your eyes,” Jonny instructs him in his most captainly voice, and Patrick hadn’t realised he’d even closed them. He does, because his brain snaps to attention the same way it does on the ice, and he locks into the image of the A on his chest, their linked hands over it. Of his fucking captain behind him, possessive and greedy and needy and he's so, so glad Jonny’s holding him because his legs buckle beneath him as he comes, Jonny’s voice in his ear telling him how good he is, how good he's gonna be as his A, how fucking amazing he looks, and Patrick’s brain whites out momentarily, his only thought Jonny.
When he blinks his way back to reality, Jonny’s dick is hard and insistent, pressed against his back, and he can feel the wetness where it’s been leaking. His stomach is no better; whatever Jonny had caught with his hand is being smeared across his skin, and his muscles tremble as Jonny runs his palm over them, leaving a sticky trail behind it. The shower was apparently pointless since he’s covered in come again, but he can’t say that he minds too much. Not when Jonny’s still holding him like he’s going to fall if he lets go, and yeah, okay, he might do that because his legs feel like jello.
“You’re gross,” he says as Jonny smears come across his chest and up to his A, still mouthing at the back of his neck.
“Yeah,” Jonny agrees, and god, who would actually agree to that except Jonathan fucking Toews, “but you fucking love it.”
The worst part is that Patrick really does; Jonny’s always been a possessive freak. He’s always fought for him when they’re on the ice, letting the world know that Patrick is his, but when they’re alone like this there’s nothing more Jonny enjoys than spreading their mess across Patrick’s skin, covering him in the only tangible proof of their relationship. He’s pretty sure that Jonny likes spreading his own come across Patrick more than he does Patrick’s, but Jonny hasn’t actually come yet, and maybe Patrick should lend a helping hand with that.
Jonny hasn’t let go of him, his arm still tight around his shoulders and so he slides his hand between their bodies. It’s awkward on his shoulder, the angle unnatural as he palms the underside of Jonny’s dick.
“‘M good,” Jonny says as he arches into Patrick’s hand, breathing as hard as he does when he's just come off an extra long shift, and Patrick’s pretty sure he’s not good at all. He’s just being stubborn and Jonny, and fuck his shit because it’s ruining the afterglow.
“Whatever, Tazer,” he says, trying to get a better angle but it’s not like he can see behind him, and Jonny bats his hand away, glowering at Patrick as best he can because he's long immune to the patented Tazer glare.
“Three,” he says slowly, trailing his fingers across Patrick’s ribs, and he bites his lip to stop the whimper that’s threatening to escape his mouth, “to one.”
He gets it after a few seconds; Patrick had maybe insinuated that his reward for his hat trick was going to be orgasms, and somewhere in Jonny’s stupid brain he’s equated that to him only getting to come once while he gets Patrick off three times. It’s the kind of dumb Jonny-logic that makes him frustrated, or would if he wasn’t still orgasm-happy, but he wrestles his way out of Jonny’s grip anyway and turns to stare at him.
Jonny’s dick is so, so hard, leaking everywhere, and curving up towards his stomach in a way that’s making Patrick’s mouth water. He knows Jonny’s close, his balls pulled tight against his body, his dick shiny and dark and Patrick just wants to do something because it looks like it's bordering on painful. And if Jonny’s going to be an idiot about it, then Patrick’s going to have to employ some of his Jonny wrangling skills.
“Then let’s call this an advance, eh?” he says, winding his fingers into Jonny’s hair to pull him into as sloppy, open mouthed kiss. It’s easy to hop up onto the counter behind him when they break apart, to wrap his legs around Jonny’s waist and pull him closer, pressing a kiss to his forehead as he presses the heel of his hand into the base of Jonny’s dick.
“Fuck, Peeks,” he says, and he sounds wrecked already, his forehead dropping to Patrick’s left shoulder as he smears pre-come over the head of Jonny’s dick. Jonny’s mouthing at his A again, his tongue lapping at the purple marks on Patrick’s skin.
It doesn't take long at all for Jonny to come; a few quick strokes, twisting his wrist the way he knows Jonny likes it, and then Jonny’s choking back a sob against his skin, one that sounds suspiciously like his name, eyes screwed shut as he spills over Patrick’s hand, warm and sticky. This time, he's the one to rub it all over Jonny's stomach, wiping his hand as clean as he can get it while Jonny pants into his shoulder, his mouth still over the A, breath hot against his skin.
Patrick's not sure how long they stay like that, but it's long enough for Jonny to start thumbing at his A again, the hint of pain going straight to his dick. If they're not careful this is going to be an infinite loop of orgasms and they don't have time for that. Skate’s supposedly optional, but optional isn't a word in either of their vocabulary when it’s related to hockey.
“Shower,” he murmurs against Jonny’s hair, and he feels Jonny nod, looping an arm around his shoulders as Patrick slides off the counter. He turns the shower on, watching Jonny focus on nothing more than the A on his chest, licking his lips as he traces the letter again. “And you gotta stop staring, Taze.”
“Not gonna happen,” Jonny says, breath ghosting against his ear as they step under the spray. “It's fucking hot.”
There are so many things Patrick could say to that, starting with it is fucking hot and ending with you're a possessive freak, but he settles for tilting his head up to kiss the corner of Jonny’s mouth, the center of his lower lip, the scar he's had as long as Patrick’s known him, trying to convey everything he wants to say without words.
When Jonny backs him up against the cool tile, eyes dark and focused on his shoulder, he thinks that Jonny gets it.