Patrick feels his boyfriend's eyes on him immediately. He's probably a little confused, maybe, wondering why he’s being texted instead of spoken to, given that they’re only a few feet apart, surrounded by their team at a dinner table in some diner in a hidden away part of Chicago. There’s a slight flush, just barely visible, resting on his cheeks from the sweetness of the nicknames that he usually reserves for Patrick. Yet, today they’re being used on him.
It dips down his neck seductively, and god, Jonny isn’t even trying, but he looks so fucking hot it hurts. His mouth is curved into a slight smile, nothing too telling, but his eyes give him away. They’re all soft and fond and loving and adoring, and Patrick feels his heart go all keyboard smash.
And shit, whatever.
Jonny turns to him, almost imperceptibly, and mouths to him, miss you too, you fuckin sap, before turning his sparkly eyes back to Seabs, tongue poking into his cheek to try and suppress the smile on his face. Patrick gets a little lost in his own head, thinking about how fucking lucky he is to be loved by Jonathan Toews, how incredible it feels to have those laser eyes trained on him, always searching for him, those Bambi eyes, always landing on him first, as if he’s the only thing in the world that matters.
The thoughts don’t remain pure for very long, though. He maintains that he cannot be blamed and that it is definitely not his fault. Not when Jonny looks like that. Beautiful and hot and alluring and seductive and so goddamn sinful in his fucking black jeans all tight at the thighs and his white button-up, threatening to burst open from the fourth clasp- because the first three are undone, and his stupid fucking gorgeous smile. Ugh.
I would blow you under the table right now if you’d let me
Jonny glances at his phone and promptly chokes on whatever he was eating, eyes widening as he struggles to keep his entire universe upright. Duncs and Seabs look at him in alarm.
“You right there, Jonny?” Duncs asks, concerned, handing the captain a glass of water.
Another four texts roll in before Jonny can even try to respond.
Patrick is clearly having a lot of fun.
God, you look so good
How the fuck do you look so fucking good
Want you in my mouth
I fucking miss how you taste
Jon clears his throat and blinks rapidly. Firstly, what fucking shit, Jon fucked Patrick til he passed out right after their game last night. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, just went down the wrong way, thanks, sorry, continue…” They seem to accept the less than stellar excuse, and Duncs goes back to talking about his planned vacation with Seabs after thwacking Jonny’s back lightly. Patrick bites his lip and laughs to himself, suppressing a shiver because he’s so going to get it.
Always feel so good in my throat
You should fuck my mouth
Want you to come on my face
All over me.
Thought about it last night
I want it so bad.
You can imagine me on your knees for you while you eat
But I’d much rather be there for real
With your hands in my hair and you gasping above me about how you own me and how I’m so fucking good for you
Jonny drops his phone to the floor in shock. Now Hossa is looking at him strangely too. He reaches down to pick up the phone, but before he can even reach it, Jonny moves to grab it- so quickly you’d think he was superhuman. He almost hits his head on the table in his haste, and Patrick tries his absolute hardest not to burst out laughing.
Sharpy gives him a very amused raised eyebrow, and Duncs looks at him… knowingly. Shawzy smirks, Crow tilts his head smugly, and Hossa looks up at the sky as if pleading for grace. Seabs shoves Jonny’ shoulder with a grin and wiggly eyebrows. Patrick chuckles at Jonny’s responding eye-roll and the satisfied expression that betrays him when he looks away.
Patrick very politely turns his phone over and places it face-down on the table as he continues to chat with Shawzy, expecting to be whisked away at any moment, for Jonny to make some sort of scene, for him to shove him out the door and into his bed.
So, Patrick is used to getting what he wants, when he wants it. The PKane effect, right?
But it doesn’t happen. Because Pat always has to love the ones that make his life hard.
Jonny takes a deep breath and plasters a dangerously calm expression on his face, like the one he has when they’re going to a shootout, and he’s about to embarrass an opposition goalie. He’s such an arrogant fucker, leaving his phone on the tablecloth, face-up, and leans back in his chair. Shifting just slightly, just enough so that his legs are a little more… spread.
The way he’d sit if he was accommodating Patrick between his thighs. So that he could card a possessive hand through his hair gently, letting him get comfortable on his knees. When he drops his left arm to rest against the muscle of his thigh, gripping the seat of the chair between his legs and pumping the veins in his forearms- Patrick knows that Jonny is doing this to him on purpose.
He supposes he did start it…
Jonny hooks his arm over the back of Seabs’ chair and tips his head back, stretching out the knots in his shoulders and neck, eyes fluttering in satisfaction, the way they do when Patrick chokes on his cock and presses him in deeper to hit the back of his throat like the greedy minx he is.
Pat can feel the way his throat contracts involuntarily, and he curses his body for betraying him. He’s not supposed to be the one scraping for decency here. Fucking Jonny, always such a composed asshole. Damn him.
A few waiters come out with their desserts, placing dishes wherever there’s space on the packed table. Funnily enough, Patrick’s plate ends up right in front of Jonny- which amuses him to no end because there’s no way in hell Jon would eat that. Duncs makes to hand it over since he’s closer, but Jonny grips his friend’s wrist gently, and Patrick feels a surge of possession rock through his core.
It’s Duncs- who’s practically married to Seabs, and Jonny isn’t even doing anything remotely sexual, but it's the fucking way his fingers look. Tendons and bones flexing attractively as he places the defenceman’s outstretched hand back on the table... Patrick wants those fingers in his mouth.
Jonny stands up with Patrick’s dish resting professionally on the heel of his palm and wrist just as the waiters disperse to leave them alone. He makes the short walk around the table, before coming to a stop behind Patrick’s chair, leaning over him to put the plate down silently, slipping it onto the tablecloth without a sound, and with an air of absolute composure, bracing himself on the back of Patrick’s seat.
Patrick can’t keep himself from slumping back into the cushioning- because Jonny’ chest is right there, and the cologne he’s got on is flooding all his senses, and everything is too much. He can see the thin links of the chain Jonny is wearing, dangling salaciously from his neck, slipping into the collar of his shirt, and Patrick has to shove his hands under his thighs to stop himself from hooking his fingers into it and pulling Jonny down to his mouth to suck on his tongue. He swallows thickly, ignoring the way his mouth is too dry and how his throat catches around absolutely nothing.
Visibly shuddering when Jonny runs his finger over the edge of the plate is probably not the most subtle move he could have made, but he can’t help it. He forces himself to tilt his head to the left, just slightly away. Unable to ever let Jonny have the easy win, always so determined to prove that he’s unaffected- even if he’s choking with how bad he wants to have Jonny’ chain hanging over his own throat while he’s absolutely fucking railed through the mattress.
His little stunt backfires. Because Jonny is ready for it and stills his head with a finger pressed against his jaw. He leans closer, and to anyone else, it’d look like a man kissing his partner’s temple after bringing them their misplaced dish, but it’s so so far from that because Jonny nudges his nose against the back of Patrick’s ear and fucking hums against the skin. It’s not an outright moan. No, Pat’s familiar with those. (Too familiar, some teammates may attest.)
It’s not that. This is more indulging... private, content and satisfied. Low, raspy, sounding like he would in the bedroom like he does when he first pushes into Patrick’s body, and when the right winger’s nails grapple for purchase in his back, sinking into the muscle desperately as he holds on for dear life. God.
“Eat properly, hm Peeks, keep some on your tongue for me to taste later, yeah?” is all he wishes before leaving a barely-there brush of his lips against Patrick’s hair. Patrick bites back a whimper, but Jonny seems to be extremely observant today because he slides calloused fingers over the nape of his neck, squeezing ever so gently, before standing up straight, leaving Patrick shivering from the sudden loss of contact.
The metal Patrick can taste on his tongue is courtesy of trying to keep himself quiet. He stands slowly, chair scraping against the wooden floor as he turns to excuse himself. Instead, he comes face to face with Jonny, who levels him with a subjugating gaze. It starts being directed at his eyes, but it doesn’t stay there long, languidly drifting down his body- and even though they’re out in public, and Jonny hasn’t even touched him yet, Patrick feels as though he’s being undressed. Like he’s not in control of his own muscles as they respond to Jonny’ observance.
He can’t even say anything, that’s how gone he is, and he’s sure that if he looked into a mirror, he wouldn’t be surprised at just how fucked his expression would be- eyes probably glazed and lip bitten raw, likely excessively red in the one place where he’d incised through the skin wishing that Jonny had his teeth there instead. He opens his mouth, but Jonny raises his eyebrow, and Patrick shuts up, sitting back down without a word. His mouth almost drops open into a gasp when Jonny kisses the shell of his ear with a whispered “so good for me” as he makes his way back to his spot.
Sharpy looks like he’s having a fucking field day,
Shawzy (who’s sitting beside him) looks like he’s about to fall over himself. “Holy shit-” he breathes. “How do you get anything done!?”
Patrick glares at him, half unamused and half (sure… half…) possessive.
The brunet clearly does not take the hint. “I’d just let him tie me to the bed and never leave holy fuck-”
It takes about two and a quarter microseconds for Patrick to smack him with a napkin. Shawzy still does not take the hint. “How did he even do that!? He just- looked, and said like, three words!? What the actual fuck, I would let him do-”
Patrick puts his hand over Andrew’s mouth- in an attempt to keep him quiet and possibly also to strangle him. Seabs bursts into cackles, but Shawzy still looks like he’s about to climb over the table into Jonny’ lap just to spite him.
All Patrick can do is sit there, blood smouldering under his skin, trying desperately not to focus on the way Jonny’ muscles flex and how the lines of his throat move, and convince himself not to break and drag Jon out of there by his shirt. He lifts his fork, jabbing it into his cheesecake as he watches Jonny handle his knife expertly. He thinks he might be a little insane- because he has to convince his subconscious to abandon the idea that Jonny should use a knife to cut him out of his clothes and then fuck him on this very table.
Time moves quickly while he’s in his head. At least, he thinks so because before he registers it, the plate has been picked up from in front of him, and Jonny has got his wrists trapped between demanding fingers. There’s nowhere he’d rather be. He shoots Mutt a haughty grin and receives a cheeky roll of eyes in return.
“Ready to go home, sweetheart?”
Patrick blinks confusedly. Jonny looks too calm, too serene. All Pat can do is nod gently, baffled expression giving way to a gentle smile when Jonny holds onto the small of his back and opens the car door for him.
A true gentleman, if we don’t count the whole part about him subtly dominating the fuck out of Patrick at a goddamn dinner table in front of half the Chicago Blackhawks. Jonny slips into the driver’s seat beside him, revs the engine twice- because he can, and then puts his hand behind Patrick’s headrest to reverse out of the car space. Under normal circumstances, this is already a lot to handle for Patrick- but right now, it’s enough to have him breathing significantly heavier, to have his thighs tensing in anticipation.
“Turn off into the next street,” he grits out- startled by how roughly the words fall from the back of his throat, almost as though he’s in pain. Jonny gives him a concerned glance and immediately turns into the next street and parks. There are no other cars around- no houses either. It seems to be a quiet lane, and that’s a fucking brilliant coincidence because Patrick is one hundred percent sure that if he doesn’t get his mouth on Jonny right the fuck now, he’s going to die.
“Peeks? Babe, are you oka-” Jonny doesn’t even get through his sentence before Patrick’s got his seatbelt off, shoving Jonny’ seat back as far as it will go and slipping into the footwell. His boyfriend is still yet to get with the program, but that doesn’t faze Patrick- already halfway through unbuttoning Jonny’s stupid fucking jeans with deft fingers, tugging them down his thighs determinedly, before letting out a shattered moan of relief.
Patrick curls his fingers into the captain’s shirt, nudging his nose against the toned abdomen hidden under it as he seals the wet heat of his mouth over the head of Jonny’ length, sighing contently and letting his eyes flutter shut. He clenches his hands tighter into the offending material covering Jonny’s torso, but he just can't find the strength to move. Can't find the will to relinquish his hands, and tear the dumb shirt off him.
Especially when he finally feels his boyfriend’s hands slide into his hair and grip possessively. He groans deeply, already half gone, taking Jonny further into his mouth, nudging the brunet’s hands, coercing him to move them, to use the grip on his hair to fuck his face and make him take it.
“Fuck- baby- knew you’d break first- shit- yeah, like that gorgeous, you’re so good- fuck-” Jonny chokes on his words, and Patrick relishes in it, in the power he has, to be able to make Jonny lose his composure like this.
“You don’t fucking play fair,” Patrick gasps, as Jonny’ hands flutter toward the nape of his neck and squeeze gently.
“If you're not cheating, you're not trying hard enough…” Pat would roll his eyes if they weren't already fluttering back into his head, seeing stars behind his eyelids. “And you like it better when I win anyway,” Jonny adds, smirking like the arrogant, yet correct, bastard he is.
Pat makes a whimpering noise of agreement, opening his mouth a little in invitation, eyelashes fluttering over his cheekbones beautifully. He doesn’t startle when Jonny pulls him forward by the grip on his throat, he’d ask for Jonny to be rougher, but he doesn’t want this to end just yet. “God, you’re gorgeous,” Jonny gasps, “you wanted me to fuck your mouth all through dinner, didn’t you?”
Patrick groans around his dick in response, hollows out his cheeks, looks upwards, eyes dazed and glossed over, tears threatening to spill over. The thud of Jonny’ head hitting the headrest as he fucks his hips upwards is everything. “Such a fucking tease, thought about having me take you right there in front of everyone on that fucking table, didn’t you, begging me for it over text, you’re so easy for it. Were you thinking about sinking your nails into my chest while I fucked you? Or were you thinking about letting me ride instead, letting me use you like that?” Jonny brushes some hair back from his boyfriend’s forehead gently, using the grip to push his cock in deeper, nudging the back of Patrick’s throat. “Or was it what I said? How good you are for me, all I have to do is look at you, and you listen. Such a fucking angel, begging me to fuck your face, on your knees for me in my car.”
While Pat would rather be in his hummer, he can’t lie about the attributes of the fucking Tesla Jonny drives. Patrick knows why Jonny bought it. Why Jonny bought a sleek black car, attention-grabbing, that screams ‘I’m sustainable and better than you’ even if he's barely in Chicago to drive it. Because of this. Because of how easy it is to slide the seats back a few inches and get Patrick on his knees. How the sunroof provides an excellent view for Jon to gasp at while Pat fucks him open on his tongue. How the seats in the back are spacious enough for Jonny to hold Patrick down over the centre console by his neck and fuck him til he comes. T wice.
Or suck him until he’s crying, gasping against the leather while he’s able to see himself in the black control screen, mouth wide open and eyes sex hazed. Patrick was present for the decisions made about this car, the test drive, and the spatial tests that preceded.
Pat can feel his lashes clumping together, throat begging to be filled as Jonny presses his head down with controlling hands, nudging the back of his throat again, before pulling away, only far enough that Patrick’s lips are still wrapped around the head. Distractedly, Patrick fumbles to pull at his own jeans, too far gone to think about asking.
“Don’t you dare,” Jonny grits out. “Put your hands back where they were. Right now. I’m the one who’s gonna make you come.”
Patrick sobs around him and arches back- caught between pulling away to contest and staying where he is because it’s so fucking good. Jonny gets the hint, allowing him to pull off. “Y-you-” his voice is so fucked, and all that does is make Jonny want to fuck it up more. “You are- you don’t even have to touch me, just keep talking-”
Clearly, this was the right move because Jonny chokes out a broken curse before shoving Patrick back down on his cock, hands moving to unbutton the first few clasps of Patrick’s shirt. “I’m gonna come all over your beautiful throat sweetheart, fuck, you always look so lovely covered in my come.” That’s the last thing he manages to say coherently before Patrick cries around him and throws his head back in invitation.
It’s messy. So fucking messy, but fuck if he doesn’t love it. Jonny’ eyes darken even further as he takes in Patrick’s appearance. Swollen lips, damp eyelashes, breath wrecked, chest heaving, throat and collarbones streaked wet and filthy- he’s a picture straight out of Jonny’ dirtiest dreams.
“You’re so fucking difficult, but you’re mine, and I love you,” Jonny breathes as he pulls his boyfriend up into his lap and tilts his head backwards with a steady grip around his throat. Patrick’s eyes flutter shut but then fly wide open as he feels Jonny’ teeth and tongue over his chest.
“What- Jon- oh my god-”
“Gonna lick it all off you, sweetheart, while I mark you up properly, so you won’t forget how this feels. Gonna fuck you with my fingers and make you come, right here in my lap.”
“F-fuck, Jonny, you're such a possessive fucker- mmf-” he chokes on his own words as his captain holds his head back with one hand, and tears his shirt open with the other, canines digging into the flesh of his throat, tongue following suit to lick over the taste of them.
"Me!? You looked seconds from stabbing Mutt with your dessert knife..."
"Mmmm. Don't need to. You only want me, but everyone wants-"
Jon cuts him off with a bruising kiss. "Everyone wants you, Peeks, but they don't know that you've already got me."
“ Please- Jon-”
"M'allowed to be possessive of you, fuckin pretty eyes and your mouth fuckin hell Peeks-" Patrick's body is strung so tight, it feels like he's played a double shift and a double-overtime, and everything is just too much. Hearing Jon talk like this, vulgar words but so reverent- god, he's so fucking lucky to be loved by Jonathan Toews. "So gorgeous. Tell me you're mine."
He doesn't even think once. "M'yours, please Jon-"
"You don't need to beg me. I'll give you everything you want."
That tears a punched out gasp from the depths of Pat's chest as he ducks his head to rest it on his boyfriend's shoulder, breathing heavily. Jonny can hardly bear to pull away from Patrick’s throat, insistent on leaving his skin clean, slick with saliva. Patrick’s not a fucking teenager, but he’d fool himself at this point, because the way Jonny’ teeth drag over the tendons in his shoulders, how they tighten snug around his jugular and carotid arteries, that’s enough to send him into another fucking dimension.
Patrick doesn’t have enough air in his lungs to speak anymore, so he settles for looking into Jonny’ eyes, lust-filled and dazed, drunk on desire.
Don’t- don’t wanna come without you in me- fuck me, please.
Jonny gets it. Like he always fucking does. “Desperate,” he smirks, and Patrick only whines in reply. “You wanna ride my fingers, babe?” he asks, and gets his response immediately, as Patrick sucks two of his fingers into his mouth, laving his tongue over them like he did before. “Your fucking mouth Peeks, shit, wasted on anything that doesn’t involve you screaming for me. Like my name's the only thing you can remember.” Patrick rolls his hips at that, letting out a sob of frustration around Jonny’ fingers. “You’re so hot, I’m so fucking lucky. Let me touch you, baby.”
Pat whimpers out a plea, and simply clings to Jonny’ back as the brunet reaches over to pull a small bottle of lube from the glove box. Patrick can’t help himself, he has to watch, because the sensual slide of Jonny’ fingers, intimate and raw and enervating, just reminds him of how much he loves this.
Because Jonny’ hands are unlike any others. Patrick’s had boyfriends, girlfriends, and even dated someone who wasn’t Jonny for a while (complete shocker to almost anyone who finds out)- and honestly, he thought the sex was pretty good. Patrick Kane does not do bad sex.
But no one, no one, gets him like Jonny does. Because Patrick could honestly sink into the feeling of Jonny’ biceps, palms, and fingers, and the way they handle him like he’s precious, working him over meticulously, like it’s the only job that’s ever mattered to him.
No one feels as good around him as Jon does, no one looks better with their head thrown back and mouth open gasping as he fucks them hard. No one asks for it harder, better than Jonny does.
The point is, Pat has never ever had sex that’s just “good enough” with Jonny. Mostly because, once the captain has his hands on him, Patrick’s already in the clouds, head spaced out and brain intoxicated on the drug that is Jonny’ fucking beautiful everything. Vaguely, he realizes that the broken breaths he can hear are coming from his own lungs.
“I know what you need. You’ll let me give it to you, right Peeks? You don’t need to do anything, baby. Just sit here in my lap and keep your mouth on my neck like the possessive little slut you are while I take you apart, hm?”
Patrick’s eyes roll back at the words. Jonny taps his hips, and Patrick lifts up onto his knees so his clothing can be shoved out of the way. Jon doesn’t tease like he normally would. Doesn’t edge his fingers around Patrick’s rim or dip them in softly, gently, kindly, until Pat is so worked up he takes what he wants for himself. He knows what Patrick can take, how much he can take, and he gives it. Pushing two fingers in up to the third knuckle, hooking upwards and curling tight, flexing hard as he pulls Patrick’s head back by his hair. “There you go, can you feel me now?” he asks, only slightly taunting, as he pushes his fingers in further, nudging up against where he knows Patrick needs.
“Please, let me, can I- please tell me I can-”
“Hmm. Why should I? I can just keep you like this.”
“Be- because- I need it. And because you wanted to be the one to make me come. You need it as bad as I do.”
Jonny’ eyes sharpen, and he leans forward to place his mouth over the centre of Patrick’s throat and breathes into the flesh “well then, you sit there and look pretty while I watch you come for me,” and Patrick falls apart, shuddering, crying into Jonny’ mouth as he collapses into his boyfriend’s chest, muscles quivering, his core shuddering from the effort of fucking himself back onto Jon's fingers.
“Jon, take me home, please.”
“Mmm. You want more, babe?”
“Yeah, yeah wanna come on your cock, up against the window, want you to fill me up. ‘Nd then I wanna fuck you too, god your ass Jonny, s'not fuckin fair.”
Jon chuckles softly, kissing up Patrick’s neck and reclining them both back into the seat, turning the media on to a gentle volume, brushing soft hands through his boyfriend’s hair. Pat’s words are meshing together a little, but he sounds very appreciative, and Jon feels a little too in love not to say it. “Love you,” he mutters softly.
“Love you. You make me happy.”
Jonny hums and tucks his hand over the curl of Patrick’s spine, trailing his fingers over the bone, tapping out random rhythms against the curvature. "I don't want you to be anything but happy, Peeks. Except maybe fucked out against our windows..."
Patrick shudders, trying to crawl his way back into the passenger seat- before realising he's struggling to move, giving up and slumping into his boyfriend's chest. God. Jonny's such a piece of work. Pat groans into his ridiculously built shoulder, “Fuckin tease." He lets a smile slip when he hears Jonny's laugh, but it dissolves into a soft whimper as the captain flicks his tongue back over a spot he missed. "Mmf- Jonny. Home. Now,” he groans as he hauls himself back into the passenger seat.
“Yeah, baby, home now,” Jon agrees, leaning over to kiss Pat's temple before turning back to reverse out of the lane. Patrick forces himself to stay put. He does not have to sit on his hands.
He can last a ten-minute drive before he has the inexplicable need to jump his boyfriend again. Surely.
(Spoiler: he cannot.)