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mama said knock you out

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Jonny meets Patrick Kane when they’re both thirteen. Kane is the loudest, most annoying person with the ugliest flip flops Jonny has ever met in his entire young life.

It takes—remarkably—a whole ten minutes before Jonny has Kane on his stomach, face first in the carpet, sitting on him to hold him down as he sports a black eye from Kane’s fist. It takes another five minutes for their dads to pull them apart, and then less than three minutes for both of them to be expelled from the competition.

Kane flicks him off as Jonny’s being escorted out of the room, a smirk on his stupid, ugly, face, tongue poking out over a swollen, bottom lip.

It takes another five minutes to get Jonny off of him, again.


They meet again when they’re fifteen. Or, Jonny’s fifteen and Kane is fourteen and still very much a stupid, insolent, child who calls Jonny a dickhead and trips him on his way to his stall.

Jonny manages to knock Kane’s tooth out before their coaches pull them apart. There’s blood dripping from his mouth, staining his jersey, but Kane still looks like a cocky little shit as he grins at Jonny, pleased that he managed to break Jonny’s nose.

They’re expelled from the competition in less than two minutes this time.


It doesn’t even take five minutes into the first period of the USA vs Canada World Junior Championship preliminary game before they’re duking it out at center-ice. Kane loses another tooth, Jonny sports two black eyes and a set of teeth marks, and they’re expelled in less than thirty seconds.


They don’t even make it through the front doors at the rookie combine.


Jonny plays for the Blackhawks and Kane plays for the Red Wings, which is a disaster waiting to happen—they make it through two matchups (Jonny is scratched for the first, and Kane for the second) before they’re trying to bash each other’s brains in behind the Hawks’ net.

It takes two linesman, half the guys on the ice, and Seabs nearly knocking Jonny unconscious to get them apart. Kane is still screaming at Jonny over Zetterberg’s shoulder as he gets carried off the ice, face a bloody mess, missing his two front teeth. Jonny looks no better, blood dripping into his left eye from a scratch on his forehead as both Duncs and Sharpy drag him towards the tunnel. At least he has all of his teeth.

They’re both handed double fighting majors, kicked out of the game, and suspended.


At the fourth and final matchup of the season they don’t try to kill each other on the ice—thankfully—but off the ice is a different story. Jonny gets lost in the tunnels under the Joe Louis Arena trying to find the way to the bus and stumbles right in to Kane.

They’re on the floor trying to kill each other in a blink of an eye.

Usually Jonny ends up on top in these battles. He’s taller, and weighs more, but Kane has this ridiculously ugly Victorian maiden under armour ensemble on while he’s in his game day suit. Kane manages to straddle him about the waist, fingers around his throat as he tries to choke him to death. Jonny bucks up, trying to knock him off, realizing suddenly that Kane’s taken a whole other interest in their duel-to-the-death.

“Huh,” Jonny chokes curiously.

Kane’s fingers loosen. “Shut up,” he growls, grinding his hips down just as Jonny thrusts up. They both make an equally embarrassing noise.

“Fucking hate you,” Kane mutters as he pulls a sharpie seemingly out of nowhere. He yanks up Jonny’s sleeve and scribbles an address hastily on his forearm before he climbs off of Jonny and runs away like the coward that he is.

Jonny saves Kane’s address in his phone before he angrily scrubs the marker off in the bathroom.


Kane’s apartment is in a high rise in the middle of downtown Detroit. It’s decorated so unsightly that Jonny wants to be sick, but he doesn’t have time because Kane is aggressively attacking him with his mouth.

Kane kisses a lot like he fights: recklessly and with the need to draw blood. He bites at Jonny’s bottom lip meanly, re-opening a fresh wound that was surprisingly—for once—not caused by him, before Jonny pinches his side and says, “Where the fuck is your bedroom?”

Kane’s bedroom is a gaudy mess with an actual rug that has an 88 on it. It’s ugly and gross and Jonny gets three fingers inside of Kane and then fucks him on said rug, Kane’s knees against his chest and Jonny’s hands tight around his throat, glaring at each other until Jonny grinds his hips in just right and Kane comes all over his belly without being touched.

Jonny pulls out, strips the condom, and jacks off until he comes all over Kane’s collarbones.

Kane gives him a minute to catch his breath before he barks, “get out.”


The Hawks just barely miss the playoffs and the Red Wings lose in the final round and Jonny doesn’t have to see Kane again, not until NHL Media Day where some idiot decides that it’s a brilliant idea to sit both of them down in a small room and do a ‘playful’ rival interview. They get two questions in before Jonny launches across the table and tries to help Patrick along into meeting his ancestors.

There’s lots of screaming, Jonny chips his tooth, and Kane ends up in handcuffs, but no one is actually bleeding by the time they’re separated, which is a big step forward for them, all things considered.

That night Jonny shoves his cock down the back of Kane’s throat in the middle of his hotel room and watches him choke, tears in the corner of Kane’s baby blues and cock hard between his soft thighs. Jonny doesn’t pull out when he comes, instead keeping Kane’s head still with fingers buried meanly in his unruly curls.

Kane wipes his mouth on the back of his wrist when Jonny finally lets him breathe again, nose snotty. “I hate you,” he spits before he shoves Jonny back onto the bed and rides his face until he comes.


The opening home game for the 2009-2010 season is against the Red Wings. The front office announces Jonny as the new team captain and then he beats Kane’s ass at center ice twenty minutes later.

There’s no time for them to fuck after the game, but Kane does send him a picture at 3am of his hole stretched wide around three of his fingers. Jonny sends back a picture of his hard dick and promptly tells him to fuck off.


They fuck in Jonny’s hotel room the next time the Hawks are in Detroit, Jonny on his back with Kane on top of him, riding him deliberately slow. There’s a bruise on Kane’s collarbone and an impressive bite mark on his thigh from Jonny’s mouth.

Kane looks at him like he wants to kill him, but only just.

Jonny flips them over and pulls out, twisting Kane easily so he’s face down, ass up. Jonny licks at his fucked open hole and squeezes the bruise on his thigh until Kane is grinding back against his face, mouth open prettily, lips red and eyes a bit glossy.

“Tazer, please, you fucking shithead,” Kane begs.

Kane calls him dickhead. Shithead. Asshole. Piece of shit. Never Tazer.

Jonny thinks hmm and buries the littlest, tiniest, smallest spike of fondness at the tip of his toe and slides his dick back in. Kane squeezes tight around him and Jonny comes embarrassingly quickly six strokes later.

He spends the rest of the night eating Kane’s ass to make up for it.

Kane doesn’t call him Jonny when he kicks him out in the morning, but the “go away, shithead,” doesn’t have the usual bite to it.


Jonny only slashes Kane twice the next time he sees him.

Kane glares at him from under his visor, suspicious. “You’re ugly,” he says as they circle around each other near the face off dot. It’s the weakest insult Kane’s thrown his way in the six years that they’ve been trying to kill each other.

“Your mom,” Jonny retorts.

Kane throws his gloves off with a snarl.

Jonny lets him hit him twice before he drags Kane’s ass to the ice. He doesn’t even put up a fight when a linesman pulls him off.

Kane is smiling as Datsyuk helps him get up.


Jonny doesn’t see Kane again for the rest of the season. He doesn’t see any games for the rest of the season because he gets sidelined by a concussion.

He takes all summer to recover and misses a few games at the beginning of the new season, but he’s back on the ice for the second matchup against the Red Wings.

Kane circles around him during a commercial break, bright eyes looking him up and down. He’s filled out a little, doesn’t look so boyish any more, but Jonny’s sure he can still beat his ass. Kane smirks at him before skating away.

They go at it in the third period to no surprise to anyone.

Jonny doesn’t mention two hours later when he’s buried balls-deep in Kane, that Kane suspiciously avoided going for his head.


They really, actually, get pretty damn close to killing each other during playoffs. Seabs has never looked so beyond pissed but proud of Jonny all at the same time. The police, who had to be escorted onto the ice by security, are weirdly impressed that Kane managed to get his skate off and threaten to bludgeon Jonny’s head in with it so quickly.

They don’t fuck at all in fear that they might actually really do each other in.


The Hawks make it to the second round before the Wild knock them out. It’s the furthest they’ve made it in years so Jonny is proud as he settles into the off season.

He settles and then Bowman trades every single draft pick they have, his first born child, his left shoe and a priceless piece of Renaissance artwork to the Red Wings for one Patrick Timothy Kane II.

“I believe he’ll be a solid asset on your right wing,” Bowman explains during a phone conference.

“If I don’t fucking murder him,” Jonny replies and promptly hangs up.


When training camp rolls around, Jonny has resolved himself to being the bigger, better, person.

He’s meditated. Spoken to a therapist. Come close to Jesus.

He doesn’t try to kill Kane when he’s fucking him, so maybe they can find some peace on the ice too. He is the Captain after all. He has to set a good, welcoming example.

“What’s up, dickwad,” Kane says in greeting.

Jonny tries to choke him out in the middle of the locker room on the beloved Hawks logo.


“So, this is the thing,” Sharpy says over lunch.

Jonny can’t eat because his jaw still hurts from where Kane punched him. He glares at Sharpy as he cuts into his steak. He took Jonny to a steakhouse knowing that Jonny can’t eat. The asshole.

“I don’t understand why you hate Kaner.”

Jonny opens his mouth. Sharpy says, “I don’t think anyone knows why you hate Kaner.”

Jonny shuts his mouth.

Sharpy sets his cutlery down. “Do you even know why you hate Kaner?”

“Fuck off,” says Jonny.


He fucks Kane for the first time in months that night.

Kane wraps his legs around Jonny’s waist, mouth soft as he thrusts back against Jonny’s hips. Jonny wraps a hand around his throat, squeezing just hard enough to barely cut off Kane’s airway but not enough to actually really cause him harm. He does it not because he actually wants Kane to choke, but because he knows that Kane really likes it.

“I hate you,” he says as he tightens his grip, watching Kane’s mouth open just a bit wider, eyes fluttering in pleasure. He means for it to come out viciously, but it comes across too softly. He does hate Kane, or at least he thinks he does. It’s definitely not affection he feels every time Kane opens his pretty, soft, pink mouth.

He squeezes Kane’s throat harder. Kane gasps chokingly, pink tongue poking out between his lips, and then he comes, arching his back and squeezing around Jonny’s cock just right. Jonny manages two more strokes before he comes, colorful spots at the corner of his vision.

He pulls out of Kane with a satisfying grunt. He was supposed to pull out before he came, but there’s his spunk leaking out of Kane’s fucked open hole. Instead of punching him like he expects, Kane just closes his eyes and says, “I’m taking a nap.”

Jonny wants to kick him out. Should kick him out. He doesn’t even like Kane.

“You have to leave in an hour,” he says and settles down next to him.

Kane doesn’t leave until the next morning.


“Have you tried fucking him?” Sharpy suggests helpfully after one particularly bad spat at practice. Jonny has a bag of ice against his swollen black eye. The sounds of Q yelling at Bowman about the stupidity of acquiring Kane while knowing the bad blood he has with Jonny float merrily through the air from his office.

Jonny pulls the ice away from his eye. “It hasn’t helped.”

Sharpy’s smirk is sly. “Maybe you’re not trying hard enough.”

Jonny looks at him sideways, eyes narrowed. “Trust me, I am.”


If their fighting was bad when they played for rival teams, it manages to somehow get even worse now that they play for the same team.

Kane is just there, always fucking there, talking and laughing and making so much noise. Jonny wants to kill him and fuck him all at the same time. It’s confusing, and the latter indecent, so he settles on just trying to kill Kane, since that’s so much easier.

Q can stomach the odd scuffle between them at practice. What he can’t stomach is them dropping the gloves against each other when they’re trying to defeat the Blues.

“This is a fucking embarrassment!”

There’s a long pause as Q flaps his hands around wildly.

Kane looks over at Jonny from the other side of the room, bottom lip busted. His face goes from passively aggressive right in to little shit stirrer in a blink of a second. “He started it.”

Jonny throws his skate.


Q doesn’t have the authority to suspend them, but he does have the authority to scratch them repeatedly, playoff chances be damned. All it does is make them fight more and fuck less and after a ten game losing streak Q has no option but to put them back in.

Kesler slashes Kane during the first period, and then again in the second, and then he roughs him up hard enough in the third to knock Kane right off his feet and Jonny sees red.

Kane might be a little shit that Jonny wouldn’t even spit on if he were on fire, but only he gets to beat the shit out of him.

The little tap on his thigh from Kane after he’s done wiping the floor with Kesler’s face is the first time they’ve ever touched on the ice without the pretense of trying to kill each other.

Kane sucks his cock later that night, baby blues locked on Jonny’s. He doesn’t even try to punch Jonny in the balls when he pulls out and comes all over his face.

Progress, Jonny thinks, and lets Kane use his shirt to wipe the come drying tacky off his face.


Hoss comes down with a bad case of the flu during Christmas break and Kane gets promoted to Jonny’s top line. The intention was always to have Kane on Jonny’s line as his right wing, but then Jonny tried to choke him during training camp and everyone decided that it was better to keep them apart. But with Hoss out and Sharpy injured and Bicks nursing the same bad case of the flu as Hoss, they have no choice but to shake the lines up.

Their first practice together ends in an all-out brawl behind Crow’s net.

Their second practice together ends with Kane face down in the ice sporting a nasty black eye and Jonny with a cut from Kane’s skate across his nose.

They don’t make it to a third practice, but Q is so physically done with them that he doesn’t even care if they murder each other and puts them out together against the Blues.

It’s a mess. A giant fucking mess with a lot of screaming at each other and breaking sticks and threatening to kill each other, but Kane throws the puck behind him when they’re down by one in the third with less than a minute to play, knowing somehow, without looking, that Jonny is right behind him. Jonny catches the puck on the edge of his stick and shoots, tying the game with under fifteen seconds to play.

Kane comes flying at him and Jonny thinks fine, I’ll beat your ass before the shootout, but Kane’s fists are down and he’s smiling as he knocks Jonny over with the force of his excitement, laughing in his ear as they fall to the ground.

Jonny’s helmet bangs uncomfortably against the ice and he wants to hit Kane, so he does, gently and without much force, in the shoulder.

Q looks like he wants to cry when they finally make it back to the bench.


Q is literally on his knees praying at their next game when they take the ice for the opening face-off. Only minutes before Seabs had to drag Jonny off of Kane after Kane had insulted his mother so Jonny understands the man’s concerns.

Cullen decides to run Kane into the boards two minutes into the game, so instead of dragging Kane’s ass, Jonny drags the ever living shit out of Cullen instead. He gets a five-minute major fighting penalty and the Wild score two goals on them during that period, but the message gets across—the only person allowed to mess with Kane is Jonny.

Kane gets a hattrick that night; Jonny assists on all three goals. He doesn’t expect a fight when Kane comes flying at him for a celly, just throws his arms open and catches him.

Kane rides him hard and fast that night, and then he rides him again, grinding slow in his lap as Jonny sucks at his nipples. He makes these noises, breathy little moans as he fucks himself on Jonny’s cock, looking dumb and like he never wants to be anywhere else.

Jonny tips him over, Kane’s soft thighs around his waist, and kisses him. Nice and soft and not like he wants to tear his face off with his teeth, but he does pull on his bottom lip when Kane kicks him in the ass with his heel.

“Kaner,” Jonny says very, very softly.

Kane—Kaner—cocks his head to the side, wraps his arm around Jonny’s shoulders, and drags him down into a kiss.


They fuck and they fight, and then they fuck and they fight some more and Kaner twists his ankle and almost misses the rest of the season, and then Jonny knocks his teeth out on complete accident when he runs into him during practice and they brawl so bad that they both spend a night in jail.

And then it’s the playoffs and Kaner still isn’t talking to him—not that they actually really talk, but they fight and fuck without really saying anything. It’s dumb and fucking annoying, but Jonny still drops the gloves when anyone messes with Kaner because if anyone’s going to give Kaner a black eye, it’s going to be him and not a dirty, awful, Flyer.

Kaner scores the Cup winning goal off of a dirty pass from Jonny, Jonny’s wrist still baring teeth marks from where Kaner bit him only fifteen minutes before. Kaner throws his gloves off, exposing the bruises on his wrists from where Jonny held him down and fucked him stupid two days before, biting and punching and kicking at each other like stupid, feral animals.

Kaner throws his gloves off, and then he throws himself at Jonny, screaming into the air about how much he hates him and loves him all at the same time like a giant idiot, and Jonny catches him and drops him and loses him in the onslaught of their teammates.


Jonny is so drunk that he can’t find his left foot, but he can find Kaner, who’s being loud and obnoxious and so fucking annoying on his bed. He won’t stop fucking talking. Jonny is reminded suddenly of when they first met, and he’s overcome with the urge to shove Kaner’s face into the carpet and sit on him like he did when they were thirteen.

He approaches, ready to wreck Kaner’s stupid, happy, face, but Kaner turns his head too quick and drags his lips across Jonny’s cheek and says, “Jonny,” all bright and dumb and happy.

Jonny lowers his fist, eyes narrowed in suspicion, but then Kaner drags him down for a kiss and Jonny feels annoyance slip away from him and feels something else settle low in his gut. Something warm and gross and suspiciously familiar.

In the morning Jonny is groggy and annoyed and way too hot. Kaner is naked and plastered to his side, drooling on his expensive pillows. Jonny elbows him meanly in the sternum.

Kaner is on him in seconds, straddling his waist, hands around his throat, but his fingers are loose. “Jonny,” he says, all groggy and still so tired and probably still drunk too because he never uses Jonny’s given name or even his nickname.

It’s always dickhead. Shithead. Maybe, if he’s feeling reasonable, Tazer. Never Jonny.

Patrick,” Jonny drawls, just to rile him up, get him angry, get a fight going but Kaner moves his fingers, cups Jonny’s jaw, leans down and kisses him. “I’m going to kill you,” he says, but there’s no bite in it as he slides down and tucks his face into the crook of Jonny’s neck, breathing his nasty morning breath against Jonny’s skin.

Jonny digs his fingers into Patrick’s hair and tugs, one hand on his hip feeling the low thrum of irritation and then, underneath it all, a steady stream of messy affection.