Patrick doesn’t slam the door in Jonny’s face, but it’s a near thing.
“I can’t,” Patrick says, instead. “Not tonight.”
Jonny’s face grows harder, even more closed off. Patrick expects him to say something but Jonny just keeps staring at him, standing in the hallway of their hotel in Detroit, both of them still wearing their suits.
“Please,” Jonny says, finally, and it sounds like an order instead of a plea.
Patrick is not in the mood for this. Hasn’t been since Jonny took the penalty that cost them the game and might very well end up costing them the playoffs. Patrick crosses his hands over his chest to keep his palms from curling into fists. Jonny needs something to pull him out of his own head tonight and Patrick needs a night off.
“Jonny--” he starts, but his tone must betray the rest of the sentence because Jonny breaks eye contact, turns on his heel and walks away, down the hallway to his own room, without letting Patrick finish.
Patrick sighs, closing the door. Tomorrow, they can do this. Back home, where Patrick has his bed and his props and space to cool down and think. Tomorrow, when maybe he won’t be so pissed anymore.
It takes less than half an hour for Sharpy to call him. Patrick knows without looking at the clock, because years on the road have given him an internal gauge of how long it takes him to take off his suit, shower, change, climb into bed and really feel comfortable. When Sharpy’s call comes in he’s just about to change into a fresh t-shirt and boxers.
“Hey,” Sharpy says, and Patrick can tell something’s wrong right away. Sharpy sounds serious under his playfulness in a way Patrick’s not used to, and that doesn’t bode well.
“What’s up,” Patrick says, hoping his suspicions will be proven wrong.
“Nothing, just came down to the gym,” Sharpy says, “Thought I’d do a round on the bike, see what Detroit's best four-star had to offer.”
Patrick sits down, cradles the phone in his hand. In the pit of his stomach he knows this conversation’s about to get serious.
“Jonny’s here,” Sharpy says. “Apparently he’s decided to do a workout.”
Patrick swallows. “Good. He’ll probably sleep better.”
“Not that kind of workout,” Sharpy says, his voice quiet and grave.
Patrick rubs a hand over his face. “What do you want from me, Sharpy?”
“I can’t--it doesn’t work like that,” Patrick says, falling back on the bed.
“I don’t know how it works, Peeks,” Sharpy says, “But you’ve gotta help him.”
Patrick shakes his head at the ceiling. Of course he’d have to start explaining this shit to Sharpy, because the world hates him today. “I’m no good to him right now--” he starts.
“What, because he fucked up on the ice and you’re pissed at him?” Sharpy interrupts.
“I think ‘had a fucking meltdown’ are the words you’re looking for,” Patrick says. “And yeah, I’m pissed. And he would be too, if it were me.”
“Tough shit, Kaner,” Sharpy says. “He needs you. Not next game, not next week, now. Tonight.”
Patrick bites his lip. In the absence of a response Sharpy goes on. “We’re all pissed at him. It sucks that he lost his cool out there. But he’s gonna eat himself alive tonight if someone doesn’t pull him out of it and you’re the only one qualified for the job.”
“Trust me,” Sharpy cuts him off. “What I’m seeing can’t be fixed with a beer and a heart-to-heart with Seabs.”
Behind his eyes Patrick can see Jonny’s face that night they first lost a game after he became captain. It was like they’d cancelled Christmas and told Jonny it was all his fault. It took a season before he even allowed himself to go out with the guys after a loss.
“Come on,” Sharpy says, “you can bitch at me tomorrow about how stupid that third penalty was. We’ll have a consolation beer.”
“How bad is it?” Patrick said, rising back into a sitting position on the bed.
“Really fucking bad, Peeks,” Sharpy says.
“Are you next to him?” Patrick says.
“Not right now. You want me to give him the phone?” Sharpy asks.
“No,” Patrick says, standing up and glancing around the room for his slippers. “Tell him I said he should go upstairs and wait for me in his room. Tell him he has five minutes before I knock on the door.”
Patrick had no doubt that Jonny would indeed be waiting for him, maybe even on his knees like a good boy, probably even naked or stripped down to his underwear; freshly showered, because Jonny’s ninja showering skills are legendary.
He’s not surprised to find the door open when he shows up at Jonny’s exactly five minutes after he hung up with Sharpy. Jonny is, as expected, kneeling by the bed in his underwear, looking at the floor, holding a black leather belt doubled over in his hands.
“What the fuck is that,” Patrick says, stopping on his way into the room as soon as he registers the object in Jonny's hands.
Jonny looks up at him, sullen. “A belt.”
“Why the fuck are you holding it?” Patrick says, still not moving.
“I want you to hit me with it,” Jonny says, not breaking eye contact.
“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen,” Patrick says. He can see the muscles of Jonny’s jaw working, can see a cloud settle over his already dark face.
“Absolutely not, no way, not in any universe,” Patrick goes on, because if they’re going to do this, they might as well do this. “We have rules for a reason, asshole.” He adds the last word because it feels right, because Jonny basically fucking invited him here and now he’s doing everything in his power to make sure Patrick leaves without getting either of them any satisfaction.
“Fuck the rules--” Jonny says but Patrick doesn’t let him finish.
Instead he crosses the distance between them and stands next to Jonny, towering over him. “Listen to me, you fucking idiot,” he buries a hand in Jonny’s short hair. “The reason we don’t do that kind of shit before games or during playoffs is because it fucks you up, for days. And you know what’s going to happen at practice tomorrow?” Patrick tugs on Jonny’s hair, makes his grip even stronger, forces Jonny to lift his head even higher and meet Patrick’s eyes. “Your back is gonna be even more fucked up than usual, and you’re going to feel it, and every mistake you make on the ice will remind you that you chose to do this today and you’re going to hate yourself even more for being weak and useless than you already do.”
Jonny holds his gaze, still looking angry and defiant and like he’s the one who’s sick of Patrick’s shit instead of the other way around.
“Give me the fucking belt,” Patrick says, and it comes out closer to a plea than he’d intended.
It takes a moment of hesitation but Jonny finally lifts up the belt and presses it into Patrick’s free hand. Patrick only lets go of his hair when Jonny relinquishes the hold on the belt completely.
Patrick steps away to put the belt back in Jonny’s bag, lying in the middle of a heap of clothes in the corner of the room. When he turns back Jonny hasn’t moved, but he’s looking at the floor again. This time he seems... lost and miserable. Well, at least they’re making progress.
Patrick walks back, cradles Jonny’s chin in his hand, raises it so their eyes meet. “You want my help?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Jonny says, quiet and tense.
“I know you like the pain,” Patrick says, “but I don’t need it to get you where you want to go. There are other ways.”
Jonny closes his eyes and sighs, softly, and Patrick thinks it might be the first real breath Jonny’s taken since they stepped off the ice.
“You’ll be good for me, won’t you?” Patrick says and Jonny nods, tugging on Patrick’s hand.
It’s shocking, how much Patrick wants this. He fetches Jonny’s ties - the one he wore to the game and the spare one - from his bag and ties one around Jonny’s eyes and the other around his wrists, keeping them behind Jonny’s back. Neither one is a perfect replacement for the equipment Patrick has back home, but they’ll do for tonight.
He sits down on Jonny’s bed, spreads his legs, has Jonny kneel between them. It’s like a punch to the gut, seeing Jonny like this, so open and trusting and willing to let Patrick do whatever he thinks will work. Patrick wants to see him unravel, wants to be the one to push him out of his head and back into his body, to take away everything so Jonny is his and then put Jonny back together.
It’s like the anger, the annoyance, the usual terrible feelings he gets after a loss of this magnitude have been subsumed, converted into something else. A desire that’s burning low in his stomach to take Jonny apart.
Jonny was right, pain would work faster, but Patrick’s not pressed for time.
He lets Jonny get used to things for a while, lets him really feel the blindfold, imperfect as it is. They sit for a long moment, Jonny leaning his head against the inside of Patrick’s thigh, Patrick slowly running his hand over Jonny’s hair.
When Jonny’s breathing evens out Patrick figures it’s time.
He grabs Jonny’s hair again, hard as he can manage, making Jonny wince. “You want to suck my cock?”
Jonny nods frantically.
“Good,” Patrick says, “because I don’t really care either way.” He pulls his boxers down with his other hand, taking out his half-hard cock and guides Jonny’s mouth to it.
Fuck, it takes about a second for Patrick to remember how challenging this shit is going to be, if he wants to keep it going long enough for it to work for Jonny. Jonny’s mouth is amazing. Not coming - from a combination of that and the way Jonny looks all bound and mostly naked beneath him - is going to take some work.
Jonny sucks Patrick down on the first try, going nearly all the way to the root. He’s oddly graceful considering he has to rely on Patrick for balance. He slides down and up again, slowly, dragging his lips against Patrick’s shaft. When he starts licking at Patrick’s slit on every upstroke Patrick can’t keep back a moan.
“Fuck yes,” Patrick says, squeezing his eyes shut in a desperate attempt not to come. “Such a good hole for my cock.” It makes Jonny whimper, stutter as he goes down. It makes Patrick feel warmer all over. It’s been a while since he and Jonny have run this scenario and he’s so fucking happy it seems to be working for Jonny as much as he’d hoped it would. It’s certainly working for Patrick.
“Fuck yeah,” Patrick grabs Jonny’s hair ever tighter and directs him, forcing him to break his natural rhythm. It’s a way to remind Jonny he’s not in charge, but also a way of making the blowjob less effective, because goddamn Jonny’s talented fucking mouth.
Jonny tries his best to adjust to Patrick’s rhythm; just tries to breathe and keep his mouth open and his teeth covered and let Patrick do all the work. Patrick uses him like a prop, like a warm, wet toy, driving him up and down his cock, slowing down and speeding up as it suits him.
Jonny’s noises get louder as his mouth fills up with spit. Patrick can feel it dribbling down his chin, staining Patrick’s balls on every downstroke. He’s not giving Jonny enough time to swallow and it’s making the blowjob messier than usual, which feels amazing. Judging by the high-pitched, breathy noises Jonny’s making he’d be jerking himself off right now if he had his hands free.
Patrick has to bite his lip, focus on the small stab of pain to keep off the pleasure. The next part’s going to be the hardest but also the most rewarding, if he pulls it off right. Patrick lets Jonny slide almost completely off his cock and then pushes him down, down, down all the way, past Jonny’s natural resistance, to where he knows his cock has to be choking Jonny and making it difficult for him to breathe.
He counts one, two, three, watches Jonny’s hands remain utterly still in the makeshift handcuffs, and then pulls Jonny’s head up, until he’s only got the head of Patrick’s cock in his mouth. Jonny’s breathing is ragged but his eyes are clear and hungry, full of challenge when he meets Patrick’s eyes.
“Such a good hole,” Patrick says, looking down at him, and watches Jonny shudder and close his eyes. Then he pulls him down again, counts five seconds and lets him catch his breath again while still having Patrick’s cock in his mouth.
He lets it go on like that until it’s unbearable, until the intervals between choking Jonny and letting him recuperate are no longer enough to keep Patrick away from the edge of his own orgasm. Jonny’s flushed red and sweaty and the defiance in his eyes has dimmed a bit but Patrick has no illusions - they’re still pretty far from where Jonny wants to end up. But then, Patrick knew Jonny would outlast him at this.
He pulls Jonny off again, lets him swallow down around the head of Patrick’s cock, saliva dripping down from his chin to the floor in slow, fat drops. “Such a good hole,” Patrick says, hand still buried in Jonny’s hair. “Let’s see what the other one is like.”
Patrick has half a moment of hesitation about how to position Jonny on the bed before he decides on putting him face up. Face down would make it easier for Jonny to get in the zone but Patrick’s resigned himself to nothing being easy tonight.
Jonny pretty much lies in a heap on the bed while Patrick gets lube and a condom from Jonny’s bag - they both travel with supplies pretty much everywhere these days. When he comes back he re-ties Jonny’s hands above his head, wordlessly, and flips him over to his back.
He settles himself between Jonny’s legs, pushing his thighs wide open. Jonny’s dick is red and hard and leaking against his stomach but Patrick doesn’t so much as glance at it. Instead he slicks up a finger and pushes it into Jonny, no pausing, no discussion.
Mouth no longer full of cock - and oh, how Patrick would have ways of fixing that if they were doing this back home - Jonny reacts, groaning and fidgeting on the bed.
Patrick keeps fingering him, pushing his finger in and out, careful not to reach Jonny’s prostate. “I think this hole’s going to be even better,” Patrick says, smiling, and Jonny moans and hides his face in his forearm. Which is fine, Patrick intends to make sure that tactic won’t work for long. Jonny’s buried himself deep but Patrick has experience at drawing him out.
“I think I’m going to like this one,” Patrick says, focusing on Jonny’s hole instead of meeting his eyes. “It’s so warm and tight. I just hope it’s big enough.” Jonny squirms on the bed and whines, sound rolling up from deep in his chest. Patrick is so hard right now he could pound fucking nails.
He puts on the condom, slicks up his dick, slicks up Jonny’s hole and then slicks up his dick some more. He pushes in slowly, spreading Jonny’s thighs even farther apart. Jonny lets out a series of stuttering, increasingly loud moans as Patrick slips into him, inch by inch, no stopping and no breathers. All in one go - they’ve done this a few times but it’s always a stretch for Jonny. His ass really is amazingly, viciously, scorchingly tight.
Which is why Patrick has trouble breathing once he’s buried to the hilt. Jonny’s chest is falling and rising, flushed red all over, nipples hard like little pebbles, and Patrick can’t look at any of it without feeling like he’s about to come his brains out. His balls feel like they’re about to explode, every muscle in his body is screaming to let go.
Fuck, he hoped he’d have more control at this stage, but it is what it is. Patrick grabs one of Jonny’s legs and brings it up so the ankle is slung over his shoulder. It means Jonny’s calf is right next to his mouth, perfect for biting. He sinks his teeth in, gently as he can, and starts shoving in and out of Jonny, feeling his climax build up, as Jonny whimpers and moans and gasps under him.
“So fucking tight,” Patrick says, breathless, desperately trying to hold on. “I should put my fist in there, stretch it out a little for next time.”
Jonny’s breaths get more ragged, his sounds louder and more desperate, vowels spilling out of him like water from a broken pitcher, and Kaner fucks in and out and in and out and then the pleasure ratchets up to beyond his capacity and he feels his body shuddering, his fingers digging into Jonny’s leg, and he comes, yelling something into Jonny’s skin, everything knocked out of him.
It takes him a few moments to get back to himself, get back to the situation. Take in Jonny, eyes desperate, skin sweaty all over, vulnerable and open, all defenses gone. Jonny, a breath away from coming. No, no, that won’t do at all.
Patrick pulls out, gets rid of the condom, takes in Jonny’s sigh of discomfort when Patrick deposits his calf back on the mattress. He climbs over to Jonny, lies next to him on his side, both of them still panting a little.
Patrick wraps a hand over Jonny’s cock and Jonny’s eyes open a little wider, his focus becomes a little sharper. That’s right, now Patrick’s got him.
“You wanna come, Jonny?”
Jonny doesn’t answer, just looks hopeful and pleads with his eyes.
“Use your words,” Patrick says.
“Yes--yes, please,” Jonny says, only managing to make his voice work on the second try.
Patrick starts stroking up and down Jonny’s shaft, slowly. “You want to come?”
Jonny nods. “Yes, please, I want to come.”
“Louder,” Patrick says, speeding up a fraction.
Jonny swallows again, to make his throat work. “I want to come, Pat, please. Please, please I want to come.”
Patrick speeds up again. “More.”
“Please, Pat, I’m begging you,” Jonny says, voice shaky with desire and nerves and everything else they’ve been through today. “Please, I’m begging you let me come.”
Patrick slides even closer to him on the bed, hand speeding up on Jonny’s dick. “No,” Patrick whispers, right into Jonny’s ear and his hand stills, squeezing the base of Jonny’s cock.
The sound Jonny emits is an honest to god sob. He bucks and tries to get Patrick’s hand to move again but Patrick’s got him pinned down.
Patrick gives him a moment - about the space of two breaths - before continuing.
“You’re not gonna come, Jonny,” Patrick says, and Jonny lets out another sob, quieter this time. “You’re gonna let me get the come out of your body my way, and you’re not gonna enjoy it, but you’re gonna be such a good boy for me,” Patrick uses his free hand to stroke Jonny’s hair. Tears are starting to spring up in the corners of Jonny’s eyes. He’s biting his lip, probably to keep himself from crying harder.
It’s a hard thing for Jonny, accepting he has no control. The only way Patrick knows how to play at this - from Jonny and from the few times he tried it growing up - it’s always a mixture of hard and soft, tenderness and brutality. Jonny likes the pain, the humiliation, but Patrick loves all of it. Loves the flow, loves seeing each part work its magic. Jonny will ask to be beaten, restrained, pissed on, denigrated, but he’ll never ask for this. He hates the tenderness and what it does to him only slightly less than he loves it. He wants to fall apart but hates how it feels in the moment.
Which is why it’s Patrick’s job to hold his hand through it.
Patrick lets go of Jonny’s dick, flips Jonny over and climbs up the mattress to untie his hands and re-tie them behind Jonny’s back. He lifts up Jonny’s pelvis, making him kneel with his legs spread, face buried in the bedding and the sob that’s been trying to work its way out of Jonny finally breaks through, wracking his whole body as Patrick lubes up his finger again. He grabs a dish from the bedside table - something designed to hold keys or jewelry and makes sure Jonny can see him place it on the mattress, roughly beneath Jonny’s dick. Jonny can’t stop crying now, tears flowing freely and wetting the sheets he’s rubbing his face against.
Finally Patrick spreads a dollop of lube around and inside Jonny’s hole. “You can make as much noise as you want,” he says, running a soothing hand down Jonny’s back.
Patrick pushes his finger inside, as far in as it will go, until he hears a hitch in Jonny’s breathing and feels his body still, momentarily. They both know he’s hit jackpot.
It takes a while to get Jonny really worked up. It takes Patrick maybe six strokes in and out, six brushes of Jonny’s prostate before Jonny starts panting. He should be making sounds right now, and they both know it, but this is Jonny’s last attempt at being difficult and Patrick’s not going to hold it against him.
It takes a few more strokes for Jonny to start moaning; occasionally the moans are punctuated by a sob. His hands, held in place by the tie, are clenched into fists.
Patrick’s other hand goes to grab Jonny’s dick. He strokes it gently and softly, barely touching the shaft, just enough to give Jonny’s system some help expelling the come. That’s when it really sinks in for Jonny that Patrick means business, apparently.
“Please, please, Pat,” Jonny says, voice broken and tear-stained.
“Shh,” Patrick says, continuing to drive in and out of Jonny with one hand and gently stroking his shaft with the other. “You’re leaking all over, you know that?” Patrick can’t keep the fondness out of his voice. If he could get hard right now he’d want to crawl into Jonny and never come out. “Everywhere I’m touching you is wet and messy and your face is only going to get worse.”
Jonny starts sobbing again, in earnest, words swallowed up into big, heaving breaths, sounds rolling out of him in waves, moans and pleas and curses as Patrick continues to massage his prostate.
When the first drops of come start to dribble out of Jonny his sobs turn to gasps. Deep, desperate grabs for air which would make Patrick worry if they weren’t so close to the end. He keeps massaging, keeps stroking Jonny’s shaft and feeling thick liquid make its way slowly out of Jonny’s body.
The gasping subsides and Jonny groans out, “God, Pat, oh my god.” He starts crying again, after that, more quietly, mumbling something into the sheets that Patrick can’t make out.
“Shh,” Patrick says, and strokes him through it until it’s over, until most of Jonny’s come has dribbled out into the pale green dish underneath him and the rest of it is staining the sheets nearby.
Jonny is still crying softly, still mumbling about God when Patrick removes the dish and presses Jonny’s ass downwards, letting him lie flat on the mattress. He knows Jonny is down - really, fully down - by how he doesn’t even flinch when his cock makes contact with the sheets. Jonny doesn’t even try to rub himself against the fabric; he’ll accept whatever Patrick gives him, no more no less.
Patrick rolls Jonny over, again, untying his wrists. He sits with his legs crossed and cradles Jonny’s head in his lap. They’re both naked and spent and at a point where this intimacy feels closer to the locker room than it does to sex.
Patrick strokes Jonny’s forehead, wipes some of the wetness from his eyes, his cheeks. Between tears and saliva Jonny really is a mess. Patrick watches him try to catch his breath, idly runs his hands down Jonny’s chest, thumbs at his nipples. Jonny closes his eyes and keeps breathing, letting the sensations wash over him.
God, Patrick thinks, if there’s anything more beautiful than Jonny when he’s like this, Patrick’s never seen it.
Patrick’s fingers trace Jonny’s bitten, swollen lips. Jonny opens his mouth for him, lets Patrick push his fingers inside, doesn’t lick or bite at them, lets Patrick make all the decisions.
Patrick picks up the dish full of come with his other hand, and brings it over to Jonny’s mouth. “You’re gonna be a good boy and swallow it for me,” Patrick says, waiting for a response.
At any other point in the evening the question would make Jonny blush or protest or try to come up with something clever, if only in the form of a searing look in Patrick’s direction. But now he only nods and opens his mouth wider, willing to accept whatever Patrick gives him. It’s stunning and gorgeous and it makes Patrick’s heart ache.
Patrick tips the dish over, lets Jonny’s come slide into his mouth, does it slowly, lingers over the visual. Jonny drinks and swallows and doesn’t try to close his mouth or lick his lips, not until Patrick removes his fingers.
“You’ve been so good for me,” Patrick says, when it’s done. Jonny huddles closer to him, buries his nose in Patrick’s stomach and nods, minutely.
They’re going to have to get off the bed at some point. Probably when Jonny stops looking quite so flushed. In the meantime Patrick is happy to sit here and stroke his hair, run his hands over Jonny’s skin. Jonny always gets cold after scenes like this, when Patrick manages to really put him under.
If it happens early enough they might go to Patrick’s room, for the clean sheets experience. If not they’ll stay here - they’re flying out early tomorrow anyway. Patrick checks the clock on the wall - seven hours left before wake-up, but he’s pretty sure neither he nor Jonny would have gotten more sleep if they hadn’t done this.
He looks down again and locks eyes with Jonny. He still looks drugged, loose and open in a way that won’t - can’t - last, but he’s calmer now. Less redness and panting.
Patrick slides down, wraps an arm around Jonny and a blanket over them both and puts his head on Jonny’s shoulder, listens to him breathe.
This won’t fix everything - this stuff isn’t a magic cure - and tomorrow Jonny’s gonna have to wake up and remember how much shit he did on the ice that he shouldn’t have, and it’s going to sting and he’s going to work like he has something to prove all over again to make it up to the team. But hopefully he’ll have this, the memory of this night, and it’ll give him strength and clarity and keep him out of the darker corners of his own head.
It’s certainly worked for Patrick. He’s still pissed about everything - the way Jonny let himself get worked up, the fucking refs during this entire series, fucking Henrik Zetterberg, but he’s also... calmer, now. More himself. More confident, more relaxed. Some of that is definitely the orgasm, but some of it will stick with him tomorrow, and the day after.
Patrick slides out from beneath the covers to turn off the light and Jonny whines pitifully at his absence. It makes Patrick smile. God, if the guys could ever see Jonny like this neither one of them would ever hear the end of it. Thank god that’s never going to happen.
He slides back in under the covers, wraps a hand around Jonny again and kisses the place where his shoulder meets his neck. Jonny shivers, and smiles against him in the dark, and Patrick closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep in no time.