Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Here’s some of what Patrick knows:

• He doesn't have a bucket list, but if he did, 'Fuck Jonathan Toews against the Stanley Cup,' would probably be near the top.
• They went two rounds against said Cup and considered another, but they are in their thirties now.
• It's extraordinarily good to be him.

What he doesn’t know:

• Whether or not he's still drunk.
• What Jonny had to do to get the Cup out of the crowds and into his condo undetected.
• Most importantly, why Jonny’s staring at him like he’s just gotten word he’s being traded to Ottawa.

“What’s wrong?” Patrick asks, alarmed, pushing himself up from the mass of pillows and twisted sheets on Jonny’s bed.

“My dick’s gone,” Jonny says, and another thing that Patrick knows is:

• Tequila is rarely a good idea.

“What?”

“My dick,” Jonny says again, very deliberately, his voice high and panicked, “is gone.”

Patrick frowns at him. Blinks slowly. “...What?”

“My dick, Patrick!” Jonny shakes the fist he’s got wrapped tight around the blanket at his waist, which Patrick notices only then. “My fucking dick! My penis is GONE.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Patrick throws his legs off the side of the bed and gets unsteadily to his feet, but when he takes a few steps in Jonny’s direction, Jonny moves backwards as though afraid Patrick’s about to bum-rush him.

“What don’t you get about the sentence, 'my dick is gone?'”

Patrick doesn’t know what time it is, but it’s too early for this shit regardless. “What don’t you get about that being fucking impossible, Jonny? Was your pot laced with something?”

In answer, Jonny turns and starts casting around the room, gathering clothes, blanket dragging behind him like a half discarded toga. “I have to go,” he says, wild about the eyes. “I have to—you have to drive me to the hospital. We have to go right now.” At the mention of hospital, Patrick’s stomach squeezes with sudden fear.

“Are you bleeding?”

“No,” Jonny says, but he sounds sort of horrified about it.

“Then what the fuck!” The tension relaxes in Patrick’s shoulders as fast as it took hold. “What do you mean it’s gone? Where’d it go?”

“You fucking tell me!”

Patrick tries moving towards him again, one smooth step while Jonny’s distracted. “If it’s gone,” he says, nice and measured, as patient as he can muster on the edge of a hangover, “then what’s there?” And at that Jonny stops, one hand still clutched at his blanket, the other strained around two pairs of jeans and a t-shirt.

Patrick senses an opening, chances another tiny step, then chances: “Can I see?”

Jonny’s eyes go steely hard, precisely in the way Patrick hates when he wants something out of him. "No."

“Come on. If it’s bad enough for the hospital at least let me see.”

“No!”

Patrick throws his hands up. “You don’t make any sense! Whatever, don’t show me, but you can’t even tell me? What’s there if your dick isn’t? ” And Jonny’s face does something worrying before it starts to go red. Redder than his panic-induced flush. Blotchy all down his neck.

“What the fuck is wrong, Jon?”

“It’s—” Jonny tries, reluctantly.

“What?”

“It looks like—”

“Looks like what?”

“Like a—” Jonny breaks eye contact and tips his head up towards the ceiling, mouth open in what seems like utter disbelief. “It looks like a pussy.”

Patrick goes very still, the frown frozen on his face. “What?”

***

Jonny is avoiding him. It's impressive, considering the ten-thousand places they’ve gotta be, but he's not known to half-ass.

Patrick bears it until the moment he's drunk again.

You won't talk to me, he sends at 11:53 p.m. from Seabs' patio, four beers in. Directly across from him, Jonny does not take out his phone, so Patrick sends,

You
Won’t
Talk
To
Me
You
Won’t
Talk
To
Me
You
Won’t
Talk
To,

until Jonny looks thoroughly offended and digs behind himself for his back pocket. He sees the screen, shoots Patrick a dark glance, and sends back, Really?

You won’t

Patrick. We’re not doing this here

No? Guess I’ll wait until we’re home so you can ignore me. Or should I wait until you fuck off to Canada so you can really get the job done?

It’s probably not the best way to start off, supporting evidence: Jonny’s face. But Patrick can’t sit tight until this one simmers down anymore, and he can’t fuck it out of him. His options are severely depleted.

Jonny responds with, Upstairs bathroom, 5 minutes, and gets to his feet, less subtly than he’d probably like, but Brinksy and Stromer are having some kind of argument about toilet paper and don’t seem to notice when Patrick gets up either, five minutes later as requested.

He moves through the beer pong in the kitchen, takes the long way to the stairs, and it’s weird even in his own head, but he doesn’t realize how upset he is until he’s opened the bathroom door, locked it behind himself, and turned around to those eyes, Jonny leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

God. Patrick is very upset.

“Well?” Jonny says, sharply honed in on him. “Fucking go ahead.”

Patrick takes a step towards him, but stops there. “Look,” he says, any feelings of righteous annoyance well and truly deserting him in the face of Jonny’s full attention. “I don’t want to fight about this. I know how awkward it is, and I know how fucking pissed you probably are at me, and—no, let me finish—I just. You know it wasn’t on purpose, right?" It is very suddenly completely unbearable if Jonny thinks that. "All I want to know is that you know I would never do it on purpose.”

Jonny’s expression isn’t encouraging, and neither is what comes out of his mouth. “Do what on purpose?”

“Come on,” Patrick says, largely to the sink. "Make the wish. I wouldn't make the wish on purpose. I didn't even know I could." And Jonny hadn’t either. Everyone hears the hush hush rumors—Crosby not leaving his house for a month in 2017, old stories about handfuls of guys from winning teams going MIA for weeks at a time—but nothing anyone would think of as much more than the superstitions surrounding shit like which skate you lace first, or touching the Presidents’ Trophy.

"Wait.” Jonny pushes himself upright against the wall. "You wished it?"

Patrick closes his mouth around his ready defense and pauses, confused. “...Yes?”

“You wished it?” Jonny says again. “You actually wished on the Cup? Specifically said it?”

“I...mean, I can’t remember exactly, Jon. I said—a lot of shit.”

“But you wished it.”

Patrick squints and knows he can’t be as drunk as the turn in this conversation is making him feel. “No, it must have been the neighbor,” he says. “What are you talking about? Why else would you be mad at me?”

“I haven’t been mad at you.”

“You haven’t talked to me in four days!”

“Yes, I have!”

"Fucking—you know what I mean! You haven't been over, you haven't asked me over, we haven't had dinner, we haven't—" And it clicks, slow to trickle past the alcohol in his head. He glances up at Jonny again and says, "Did...you wish it?"

Verbally, there isn’t an immediate answer, but Patrick doesn’t need one to know. Jonny’s jaw clenches, his eyes gone hard, and the steady, creeping blush that spreads out across his cheeks does most of the talking.

"Jon—”

“God—really? Really? We really have to talk about this right now? In Seabs’ fucking bathroom while I stand here like—”

“No,” Patrick says. “We don’t. I wouldn’t even have tried to bring it up if I’d known you weren’t mad at me, but you wouldn’t talk! Was I supposed to just let you sit and think I don’t give a shit that I—”

“So it was you.”

“What? Jonny! Not if it was you!”

There’s a too-long moment then that feels intensely like a one-sided staring contest before Jonny brings his hands to his face and starts to rub vigorously. Patrick watches him at it until he stops to press his palms together over his nose and mouth, redder than he was before.

“I don't know—if it was me,” he says like it’s being squeezed out of him, “but if it—was, it wouldn’t have been because I want—this—instead of my—”

“No—no—”

“You know what we were doing—”

“I know.” Patrick moves further into the room, gets as close as he can without touching. “I know, and I don't think that.” They’ve had this conversation before. Sort of. Less open, more whispered in the dark at three in the morning with aching limbs and a sore tongue. “You know it’s the same for me, right?" he goes on. "If I'm the one who wished it, it’s not because I'm, like, not happy with what you've got going on."

Jonny drags his fingers down to his chin, then further, halfway down his neck before he sighs and releases the tension in his body all at once, drops his hands to his sides. "I didn't think it was you. Obviously." His face resembles the beet smoothies he tries to get Patrick to drink, but his voice is dry when he adds, “Good to know, though, bud."

It takes every ounce of Patrick's willpower to stand there and shrug one shoulder instead of closing the distance between them. "Yeah," he says. "Just saying. Dick's bomb and all."

"God," is the response he gets, and an eye roll, but there's a smile there, too, the tiniest crack of a strain at the corner of Jonny's mouth.

"It is."

"Well, going by all possible information it'll be four weeks before it makes another appearance, so. Hopefully you’ll live."

Patrick smiles a little too, inches his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching out. “You making a joke, Toews?”

“I guess so,” Jonny says, and, to Patrick’s surprise, does the reaching out himself, hooks the very bottom edge of Patrick’s t-shirt with an index finger and tugs, sheepish about it. “I’m still blaming you,” he says as Patrick slides into the slumped line of his body, takes his hands right back out of his pockets to span Jonny’s hips. “Fucking nasty mouth. You started this shit.”

“I’m not gonna deny it,” Patrick answers, and tries not to look too relieved to be back where he likes being most.

They stand there for a few moments like that, foreheads pressed together, until Patrick shifts further forward, noses along Jonny’s cheek to put his mouth to his ear. “I'm sorry if I'm the one who wished it,” he whispers, earnest. “And if you did, you don’t have to be embarrassed about it with me.”

“I’m not embarrassed,” Jonny absolutely one-hundred-percent lies. “It was just—awkward.”

“Well, you don’t have to be awkward with me then.” Patrick dips his thumbs underneath Jonny’s shirt to rub at a little bare skin. “You know I think it’s hot.”

Jonny lets out a quiet snort at that and Patrick thinks he feels him tense up again, his elbows pinching in where he’s rested them on Patrick’s shoulders. “Wasn’t exactly topping my list of concerns,” he says, then adds, quieter, “You don’t know if it’s hot.”

Patrick leans back to be able to see Jonny’s face and there he goes, beet smoothie. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah. And this isn’t that. You haven’t done this.”

Jonny looks very serious as he says it and Patrick can’t help the disbelieving smile that creeps onto his face. “I mean,” he says, and can’t keep the smile out of his voice either, “it’s been a while, but I think I’m pretty familiar with it.”

“You’re not familiar with me," Jonny presses. “You haven’t done this with me. You haven’t—seen it.”

“You didn’t give me a chance to.”

“I know. So you don’t know if it’s hot.”

Patrick doesn’t entirely mean to do it, but he’s still a little drunk, and Jonny is as close as he’s been in half a week, so the lip bite is probably a bit much. “I bet it’s nice,” he whispers, and slides one of the thumbs still in contact with Jonny’s skin along the ridge of his belt.

“It's weird is what it is."

“So is your prostate, and I’d fucking live on top of that thing if I could.”

Jonny rolls his eyes again, but they droop when Patrick dips in towards his mouth. “Not even remotely the same thing.”

“Am I not allowed to pick what gets my dick hard?”

“You haven’t seen it.” It's insistent in that truthful, determined way that Jonny has, but his voice has gone a little deeper, cracky, and Patrick has gotten pretty good at knowing when he wants nudged.

“I haven't seen it,” he agrees, and moves his thumb from Jonny's belt to sweep in towards the skin underneath his bellybutton. "And you know you don’t have to show me, I don't expect it and I don't want it unless you do, but I have imagined it, Jon." He feels more than sees Jonny’s face shift, eyebrows pulling together, and he's kind of glad that Jonny can't really see him at the moment either.

"Pat—"

“Not, like—you being a girl. Just...this," Patrick whispers. "You, exactly like this." He hears Jonny swallow, hears it in his throat and puts his lips there, feels the heat of him, maybe even the thump of his pulse. "When we fuck," he goes on, "when we're doing—whatever you wanna call it, when I'm talking to you like that, I've imagined it. My boyfriend with the prettiest, wettest pussy getting a different kind for a little while."

For a hot second Patrick thinks he’s overstepped, thinks Jonny is pulling away until his hands clutch at Patrick’s back and pull him in instead, sunk as far against the wall as possible.

"God fucking dammit, Patrick,” he says, voice soft and guttural at the same time. “Goddammit.” And he finds Patrick’s mouth like it’ll kill him not to, a rough, fast, searing thing that lights up the gasoline waiting in the pit of Patrick’s stomach.

He kisses Jonny back as rough as he’s getting it, can’t decide where he wants to touch, hands all over the place under Jonny’s shirt before he settles on hauling his hips forward to grind into him, set up a steady, rolling rhythm that Jonny falls into easily.

“God I wanna fuck you,” he says between the slick passes of Jonny’s tongue against his own. “I wanna fuck you right here.”

Jonny looks like he wants to tell Patrick to do it, like he’s on the verge of opening his legs up, and it hits Patrick so suddenly and completely—what that would look like right now, exactly what it would mean if he got Jonny’s pants off him, what it would be like if Patrick went to his knees and—

A swoop of want crashes into him so hard he can’t breathe for a long, shining moment, so sharp his knees feel honest-to-god weak like they haven’t since maybe the first time he got Jonny naked.

“We gotta get out of here,” he gasps. “I gotta lay you out, I gotta get my mouth on you.”

“Oh my god I’m gonna punch you in the face,” Jonny says. “Why do you say shit like that when we can’t—I swear to fuck, Patrick.” He’s red as a brick but it’s arousal now, neck and chest flushed in the way that means his dick’s as hard as it gets—his dick’s—his—fucking christ they need to go.

“You think we can just leave?” Patrick asks, and doesn’t wait for an answer before kissing Jonny again, biting at his bottom lip, but no, they both know they can’t. Not a fucking end-of-season Cup party, not this early, not without making the rounds. They have to spend ten minutes trying to cool down and another torturous fucking hour mingling, Patrick hyperaware of every single shift of Jonny’s legs, knowing he has to be—

The drive home lasts a century.

They’re quiet as they get out of their cars and make their way upstairs through Patrick’s building. Patrick’s keyed up, buzzing, and Jonny sticks close to him—right at Patrick’s shoulder in the elevator, pressed almost entirely against his back while Patrick opens his front door.

Once they’re inside, though, Jonny’s careful. Extracts himself and toes out of his shoes like it requires his utmost concentration, one foot, then the other, and then a neat arranging of them against the wall.

“You want—a glass of water or anything?” Patrick asks when Jonny’s straightened up again, and when he turns and shakes his head he looks a lot more certain than Patrick might have guessed, calm in the line of his mouth while he brings his hands up to the neck of his t-shirt and pulls.

Normally, Patrick would take that as his cue to move forward, slide his tongue into Jonny’s mouth and open his pants for him. Instead, he stays where he is, watches the steady rise of Jonny’s bare chest while he breathes and folds his shirt as carefully as he dealt with his shoes.

“When you said that earlier,” he says without looking up at Patrick, quiet and a little hoarse, “about imagining—did you mean it started only after the wish, or…?”

Patrick doesn’t know where that’s going, but he answers, “Before it,” quiet, too. “I kinda thought you knew.” He’d never been all that subtle about it.

Jonny moves past him out into the dark living room, lays his shirt over the back of the couch, smooths the wrinkles. “I guess I mostly did.”

They’re not ones to hold hands often, never much reason or opportunity, but Patrick reaches out and takes Jonny’s, uses it to cautiously tug him in. “Babe?”

“I used to, too,” Jonny whispers in a rush, like he needs to get it out before he changes his mind. “I mean, I do—I have.”

“Imagined…?”

“Not being a girl.” His skin is so hot, as warm as though he’d walked in from lying out in the sun. “Just—the same as you. I’ve thought of...what you’d do if you walked in and I was just—completely—what it’d look like watching you fuck into me like that.”

“God,” Patrick whispers into the stubble-rough skin at the hinge of Jonny’s jaw. “God, I can’t—do you want to? Right now?”

Jonny tilts his head and finds Patrick’s mouth, kisses him deep and slow and puts his hands to work at the front of Patrick’s pants. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Just let me—let me go first. Give me a second.”

Patrick doesn’t know what he’s talking about until he gets Patrick’s pants to his ankles and then walks away, disappears around the corner towards the bedroom.

Patrick stares at the place where he just was and takes in a deep breath, gets out of the rest of his clothes and braces himself against the couch, dick already heavy and thick between his legs.

He doesn’t know how long ‘a second’ is supposed to be, so he waits a couple minutes, waits as long as he can stand it before following behind, one hand on his cock because he’s so hard it hurts a little to let it bob around.

There are no lights on anywhere, including in Patrick’s bedroom when he steps inside, but even at night the windows are enough to easily make Jonny out where he’s climbed on top of the mattress.

He’s completely naked, almost pale coming off a long season, even more so against Patrick’s dark bedding. He’s got his knees drawn up but Patrick doesn’t try looking right away, instead meets Jonny’s eyes when he turns his head and holds them, makes sure they’re trained on him while he crosses the floor and climbs up too, gets on hands and knees to get to Jonny’s mouth, deliberate in avoiding the rest of him.

“If you laugh, I’m leaving,” Jonny whispers, and it’s light, comes out mostly a joke, but Patrick knows him, knows there’s something sincere enough in it that he has to shove down the brutal rush of affection that takes hold in his throat.

He shakes his head into the lazy kiss he presses forward, draws Jonny into a quiet sigh. “I’m only ever nice to you, Taze.”

“Yeah?” Jonny skims fingertips along one of Patrick’s cheekbones, slides them into his hair. “That’s a new one.”

“Lies,” Patrick answers, and drops more fully onto his front, more fully into the matter at hand, tilts Jonny’s head for a more favorable angle, adrenaline pumping because he knows all he has to do is shift his gaze and—

“Have you—” he whispers, cuts himself off to accept a long sweep of Jonny’s tongue. “Have you...touched it at all? Before tonight?”

He can tell when Jonny starts to blush again, even if he can’t really see it, but despite that Jonny nods. “A little,” he whispers back.

Patrick kisses him again, can’t ever really get enough of it at the best of times, and right now it feels steadying, something to anchor onto because he’s gonna fucking blow it, cream himself without even getting to start. “Have you made yourself nut?”

The suggestion alone seems to do it for him because Jonny moans, soft and raspy, lifts his head to chase Patrick’s lips. “No,” he says, more breath than voice, his eyes all blown and heavy.

Patrick kisses him one more time, smooth, thorough, and pulls himself away, sits up on his knees, a little shaky inside. “Can I look?”

Jonny swallows, and Patrick can tell from his peripheral vision that he adjusts his hips, maybe widens his knees. “You look high,” he says, so flushed up, so absolutely everything Patrick wants with a tiny smile on his face.

“I feel like I’m gonna pass out,” Patrick says, returning the smile, and Jonny nods, bites at his lips and seems to breathe himself into stillness, hands at his sides.

“You can look,” he says.

So Patrick looks.

He can’t really see anything from this angle, not with Jonny’s thigh in the way, but the absence of a hard, waiting dick, all twitchy and warm against Jonny’s belly—that’s weird immediately, even as obvious an absence as it is.

“I’m gonna—” he says, and doesn’t quite wait for acknowledgement before he moves, shifts back onto his hands and crawls down the bed, and this is weird too—situating himself so purposefully. He’s fucking sick with want, feels the ache of it somewhere so deep it’s like it might never go away, but he’s not sure they’ve ever introduced anything into sex that wasn’t carried on desperation.

He keeps the pace, makes his way around and then between Jonny’s legs and doesn’t drop his eyes. Not until he’s caught his breath, not until Jonny’s said, “Baby,” all rough and deep, permissive.

Patrick’s attention snaps up to Jonny’s face where he’s propped himself on his elbows, and swiftly he follows the line of Jonny’s own gaze, past his abs, past the place where his cock should be, down down to this new, plump little part of him, so fucking perfect at first glance Patrick abruptly has no idea what to do with himself.

“Are you kidding,” he says, voice soft, mouth going instantly all liquidy hot. “Oh my god, are you kidding. Baby—fuck.”

It isn’t just perfect—smooth, pretty, dusky pink all over, prominent little clit, hard enough Patrick can already see it—not just perfect, somehow it also makes sense.

This pussy makes sense on this man, fits with him so exactly, like of course this is what his dick would be.

He reaches a couple careful fingers down and traces over the split of him, gets them all slippery with the barest effort. “Oh, baby,” he whispers again, dipping in just a little bit deeper, attuned to Jonny’s breathing, the hitching sounds of it. “Baby, you are fucking nasty wet.”

The only word Patrick has for what Jonny does then is squirm. He drops back down into the pillows and lifts his hips into Patrick’s hand, blown up with furious color, fists bunched on either side of him.

“I’m eating you out,” Patrick gasps, a statement, not a question, his spit gone watery, and he gets down onto his belly faster than he’s done anything else, shoulders pressed up to Jonny’s thighs, head swimming.

He’s even more perfect up close, waxed bare like Jonny almost always is, pussy fat in the way Patrick likes, a whole mouthful. He looks swollen too, looks achy, like he’s been in overdrive during every last second he’s spent turned on tonight.

Patrick’s dick pulses against the duvet cover, his stomach flipping, and he uses two fingers to part Jonny all the way open, see him all shiny, wetness clinging anywhere Patrick touches.

When he looks up, Jonny’s watching again, eyebrows drawn together like he’s hurt, and Patrick makes sure he sees the first silky lick, the first full, flat scoop into him, the taste a little like a bitten lip, salt, warm skin, a sharp sweetness.

It’s so hot, Jonny’s so burning hot inside it’s hard not to feel a little shocked by it. Even normally he’s a fucking furnace, but like this there’s more of him—more for Patrick to put his mouth over, more to burry himself in.

“Shit, oh shit,” Jonny gasps like he can't believe it, reaching both hands down for Patrick’s hair. “Pat—Patrick—”

Patrick wants to ask him what it feels like, wants to know what the scope of sensation is when he moves up to circle his tongue over the stiff, purple bud of Jonny’s clit, work the underside of it with soft, baby rubs, but he can’t even keep his eyes open, isn’t sure he’d be able to string two words together.

The sounds Jonny’s making are enough anyway, his breathing replaced with high, tight whines. He doesn’t pull Patrick’s hair, but he can’t seem to stop his hands moving in it, stroking over it until Patrick can feel it hanging around his face. When he closes his lips and gives Jonny’s clit a hard, sudden suck, Jonny digs into the curls at the back of Patrick’s head, frantic, and drags him in tight against him, closes his thighs and then opens them even wider, feet bunching and twisting at Patrick’s sides.

If Patrick had so much as a finger on his dick he’d come right there, gladly suffocate into his orgasm. He sucks at Jonny even harder, groans into him and glosses two fingers up inside him, and if he was wet before, it’s nothing to the fucking mess there is now. He pumps his arm and it’s so slushy, so sloppy he doesn’t—can’t believe—

“Please not yet,” Jonny begs, panting, still grinding himself against Patrick’s mouth, helpless about it. “Not yet, baby, not yet.” And it takes a couple more hard sucks for it to register, for Patrick to let up, stop fucking him, lift his chin and take an actual proper breath.

“Oh my god, Patrick,” Jonny says, hands stroking over his hair again. “Oh my god, oh my god.” He looks utterly baffled, completely out of his mind, a blush so deep Patrick’s not sure he’s ever seen it like this.

He has to swallow to even try talking, feels the air cool on his face where he’s just—a disaster. “Such good fucking pussy,” he says, low, gravelly, and he can’t resist—stays away from Jonny’s clit but licks back into him where he’s stilled his fingers, then dips lower, presses on the underside of Jonny's thigh to lift him just enough and sweep his tongue in over his asshole. “Always got good pussy for me.”

“You’re so fucking stupid,” Jonny says like Patrick is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his life. “So fucking stupid.” And he’s pulling again, but up this time—pulling at Patrick’s arms until he lifts himself to slide along Jonny’s body, meet him in an open-mouthed kiss.

Jonny's purposeful with his tongue, dirty with it, passes it over the soaked lower half of Patrick's jaw and wraps himself around him with all four limbs, and when Patrick’s cock slips through the hot, sticky mess of him, probably hits his clit, the noise he lets out is almost a sob.

“I have to,” Patrick breathes against him, shaking, already reaching down between them. “Fuck, baby, I have to.”

“Yeahyeahyeahyeah,” Jonny chants at him, letting go of his hold around Patrick’s back with one leg so he can spread himself out and still clutch at him. “God, do it. Do it.”

Patrick drags his forehead against Jonny’s chest and looks down to watch, so sensitive he’s not sure how long this is gonna last. Jonny’s pussy’s gone cherry over the pink now, even hotter against the head of Patrick’s cock than he’d been against his tongue. Patrick lays his whole length against him, nestles himself there for just a few seconds, just to see that contrast, how big he looks. “We’re so hot together,” he says, rocking his hips, transfixed. “No matter what we fucking do, so fucking hot together.”

Jonny groans and flexes himself into the gentle motion Patrick’s started, abs bunching, and Patrick takes it as a nudge to get with the program, gets his cock back in hand. He has the barest thought of prep, of his favorite lube stashed across the room and how isn’t this novel, no lube needed as he lines up and starts to fuck himself inside in one smooth, slow stroke.

It’s absolutely fucking molten, a velvet grip on him, so good it’s almost immediately too much. Jonny’s hands scramble at his skin, nails digging in like he almost never allows himself, and when Patrick bottoms out he makes a sound like he’s drowning, gulps at the air and tenses up so tight Patrick stops moving and lifts his face to see if he’s okay.

It’s hard to tell right away, Jonny’s head tipped back on his neck, mouth open and completely silent, but then he seems to come online in a frenzied rush, takes another ugly, gulping breath and changes the position of his legs again, mounts them tightly against Patrick’s hips.

“I’m so—fucking full," he gasps. "So—full, oh—” He sounds startled, dazed, eyes glassy and black. “I feel—”

Patrick leans forward to kiss him, his arms trembling. “Tell me you feel good,” he says, voice thin with the effort of holding still. “Tell me it’s good.”

Jonny doesn’t. Instead he takes a long, strained moment, taut, taut, and then rolls himself down, lets out a strangled little grunt and winds his arms around Patrick’s neck. Then he does it again. And again. Starts a tentative pace like that, a slow, slow rock, swallowing Patrick’s cock up from underneath, testing, and for an eternity all Patrick can do is let him give it, hands balled into fists, eyes screwed shut.

"Jesus Christ,” Jonny says into his ear, voice slurred, quiet. “Thought I was done getting used to your fucking dick."

It’s dirty pool, hits Patrick square in the chest, and on Jonny’s next rock upwards Patrick lets himself slip out, reaches down to squeeze thumb and forefinger around his balls.

“Nooo," Jonny says softly, genuinely distressed about it, like he can’t take being empty, and that doesn’t fucking help.

“I’m gonna die here, baby,” Patrick says, licking in against Jonny's mouth. He's shivery close, blood-heavy, sitting right on the sharpest edge, but breathing through it takes him back down, and when he feels like he's safe to move he pulls away further, gets upright onto his knees.

The picture Jonny makes alone could probably do it, the dumb lethargy all over him, the thick, solid muscle and his puffed up, syrupy cunt—a few strokes and that'd be it, but Patrick grips him around the thighs, drags him in where he wants him.

Jonny lets out a low-pitched moan, and this time when Patrick sinks inside him he pushes his fingers into the soft, rounded skin above Jonny's clit, starts a firm circling there, a hard, direct pressure.

It looks good for him near instantaneously, Jonny's red, blotchy flush flaring up his neck, and for a little Patrick halts any kind of thrusting altogether, just pins Jonny open on his cock and rubs him off, vibrating every time Jonny squeezes on him.

It doesn't take long at all for him to start squirming again, tilting himself down to take Patrick's dick even further inside him, rolling his pussy into Patrick's hand. "Oh god, fuck me," he whispers, and actually tries to bounce himself down as best he can while he’s stuck like this on his back. "Oh god, tear it up. Fuck me, Pat."

"Holy shit," Patrick gasps, faltering in his rhythm. "God, Jonny, fucking—god." He doesn't trust himself to completely lose it, not like he might fucking Jonny's ass, not on something this virgin new, but he catches Jonny's hip in one hand, grasps at it and uses it to make his next thrust a hard one, their skin coming together in a loud crack.

Jonny shouts out a groan, throws his head back again, breath coming to him in heaves. “Like that,” he says, frantically nodding, expression so upset Patrick would think he was miserable if he didn’t know better.

He tries keeping up the attention on Jonny's clit at the same time as fucking into him, but he's so slippery, sweating and wet, and it's not easy until Jonny moves his own fingers down to help him, picks up the same circling rub and after a minute goes even harder than Patrick, a punishing grind that Patrick swears makes him wetter.

It's so fucking hot Patrick has to drop back down to kiss again, but he mostly achieves moaning into Jonny's mouth, higher and higher pitched.

“I love you so much,” Jonny starts to babble, pained, almost panicked. “Love you so much. So much, baby.”

He’s gone. Lost it. Hand flying over himself, his feet bruising into Patrick's back tighter and tighter. Patrick can feel him clenching on his dick, feels him fever warm everywhere they touch, wetter still, and he wonders if Jonny really might—if he seriously could squirt on him—if he—

Jonny digs the fingers of his free hand into Patrick's shoulder, presses down into his clit so harshly he'll probably feel it later, and Patrick's not sure if what he feels is squirting or if it's his imagination, but Jonny's absolutely coming his fucking head off, thighs trembling with the force of it.

Patrick feels like he’s about to float into space, dissolve through the ceiling. His orgasm starts right there, right in that sweet disconnected place that feels like nothing at all until it crashes into him, rushes through his blood and lights his cock up.

He doesn’t know what to call how good it feels, doesn’t have a word for it except maybe devastating. A devastating fucking nut that takes him fully out for an easy several seconds, body collapsed down against Jonny’s chest.

Even when he can finally open his eyes he’s still all glowy, sappy slow, and he’s not sure he’ll ever move again, isn’t sure he wants to, could spend the rest of time right here listening to the bass of Jonny’s heartbeat, blessing a fourth fucking Stanley Cup.

He lifts his head with a tremendous amount of effort and takes in the relaxed lines of Jonny’s face, almost like he’s sleeping, but he's panting, and next second he cracks his eyes open too, meets Patrick’s and lets out a single painful laugh, shakes his head.

His hair’s sticking straight up where it’s not stuck to him with sweat, and the sight of it sends an extra pang through Patrick’s middle, almost hurts. He leans up to kiss him, a soft one, both of them groaning at the pull it creates where Patrick’s still inside.

“God,” Jonny whispers, sweeping a hand up Patrick’s back. “Sometimes I don’t know where the fuck you came from.” It’s a quip, said with an exhausted smile, but there’s enough sincerity in it, enough marvel that it spills more warmth into Patrick’s belly.

“Buffalo, baby,” he says, and it has the desired effect of making Jonny laugh, his nose scrunched up, one of Patrick’s favorites.

He kisses him again, makes this one long, so long he starts to feel the ache everywhere they’re pressed together, the sloppy wreck between their legs more and more apparent with every passing second.

He has to ready himself for it, but Patrick does eventually lift up out of the cradle of Jonny’s thighs, falls onto his back with a moan.

“Need a shower,” Jonny says, eyes closed again, completely still.

“Need a new bed,” Patrick answers, and turns on his side to look at him, pass a long, lingering gaze over every smooth inch, catching at where he knows Jonny’s full of come.

God. Twenty more minutes and he might offer to do cleanup himself.

“What?” Jonny asks, and when Patrick glances up he’s looking back, tired, lazy, utterly pleased.

"Nothing,” Patrick says, sliding in a little closer. “Just—how soon is too soon to talk about strap-ons?"

It’s the least surprising thing in the world when Jonny brings a hand up to Patrick’s mouth and covers it, the least surprising thing when he takes it away to replace it with his tongue, and all Patrick needs to know is:

• This is it for him.