Trust Fall Anthology
Author: trademarkgiggle
Date: 2020-01-01T05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: misc fandom; FanFiction; Aftercare; Alternate Universe - BDSM; Anal Fingering; Anal Sex; Anxiety; Ass to Mouth; Barebacking; Begging; Blindfolds; Comeplay; Comfort Sex; Communication; Confessions; Cuddling & Snuggling; Dirty Talk; Dom/sub; Emotional Hurt/Comfort; Facials; Feminization; Friends to Lovers; Gentle Sex; Hand Feeding
Description: In chronological order: 1. Trust Fall 2. Carcanet 3. The Garden 4. Swish Anthology containing: Trust Fall Carcanet Trussed Fall Swish The Garden
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Rights: Copyrights as per source stories

Trust Fall by trademarkgiggle

Series: Trust Fall [1]
Fandoms: Men’s Hockey RPF
AO3 Categories: M/M
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Characters: Jonathan Toews, Patrick Kane
Freeform Tags: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anxiety, Ass to Mouth, Barebacking, Begging, Blindfolds, Comeplay, Comfort Sex, Communication, Confessions, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Facials, Feminization, Friends to Lovers, Gentle Sex, Hand Feeding, Happy Ending, Id Fic, Kink Negotiation, Kissing, Kneeling, Lap Sex, Lingerie, Missionary Position, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Orgasm Control, Panties, Pet Names, Possessive Sex, Protectiveness, Rimming, Rope Bondage, Safeword Use, Self-Esteem Issues, Sensation Play, Sexual Roleplay, Sharing Clothes, Showers, Size Kink, Subdrop, Subspace, Tickling, Topdrop, Trust Kink, Vanilla
Status: Completed
Chapters: 10
Words: 92,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2023-11-16 23:50:00
Summary:

Patrick’s always thought of himself as a difficult sub. What he doesn’t know is that in the hands of the right dom, he’ll melt.

(Jonny is the right dom.)

1. Chapter 1

Author’s Note:

As the tags might suggest, this is more of a gentle BDSM AU where everyone wants to be told how good they are and then held tenderly while being fed chocolate, because you gotta like what you gotta write. Apologies for the liberties taken with both hockey and BDSM - this really is pure id fic.

There’s suggestions in here that Patrick has had some bad relationships and/or sexual experiences, but none of it is explicit. I’ll adjust the warnings if that changes! Tags will be updated as new chapters are posted.

heartstrings made the incredible graphic at the beginning of this chapter (it is!! so!! gorgeous!!!) - please check out the rebloggable version here!

It starts when they’re lying on Jonny’s couch. They just came off a brutal series but have a rare three-day period to recover, which means they’re both slumped against each other, mostly asleep and watching Jonny’s latest retro-modern soap opera (and/or reality show? Patrick isn’t sure) while they quibble half-heartedly.

There’s a certain state that Patrick only seems to reach when he’s really and truly exhausted and sitting on this couch. Every muscle in his body relaxes all at once, and his eyes feel heavy, but not like they need to be shut—more like a dozing cat who stretches out against a favorite human—and his head goes a little spacey. Sometimes, if he’s played really well, Jonny will even pet his hair. Not much, just a slow stroke of fingertips over his scalp. It usually takes him a long time to drag himself back together after an hour or two of that, and more often he falls asleep on Jonny’s couch and wakes up the next morning under an oversized blanket to find a glass of water and a hot cup of coffee waiting on the table beside him.

He’s half-in and half-out of that state tonight, and the half-out is really only because Jonny has a dumb opinion and Patrick has to stay conscious long enough to tell him so.

“Babs can do better.”

“The fuck she can,” Jonny says, and he makes a gesture that’s both ‘everything the light touches is our kingdom’ and very Jonny. He somehow manages to encompass the TV, the water bottle held in the same hand, and the enormous stupidity of Patrick’s argument. “She and Ally are made for each other.”

“Yeah, okay, I didn’t know you were such a romantic.”

Jonny probably rolls his eyes; Patrick isn’t looking at him, but he can sense the disdain. “Why do you like Babs so much?” he asks.

“Uh, I don’t,” Patrick says. “She’s garbage, you saw what she did to Toby last season, and he’s like the one decent guy on the show. I just hate Ally.”

“Ally’s the one decent character,” Jonny says.

“She’s a brat,” Patrick says, and the funny thing, the thing that cuts through his lassitude, is that Jonny stiffens next to him.

“What?” Patrick says.

“What do you mean, what?” Jonny says. Patrick knows how to handle this, though; he waits him out, and a couple of seconds later Jonny breaks and says, “I hate that word.”

“What, what?” Patrick says again, just to be funny.

“No. Brat.”

Patrick squints up at him. “Why?”

Jonny has some weird ideas about subs. The two of them are bros, and they don’t talk a lot about their sex lives (maybe a little less than most bros, to be honest), but when it does come up, Jonny always seems kind of… touchy, about subs.

“Subs aren’t brats.” His mouth has that stubborn set that means his mind’s made up, and god help anyway who wants to argue. “Unless it’s part of a negotiated scene, but the idea that a sub is difficult just because they aren’t comfortable with some things, or they have to work harder to submit, or whatever—”

“Dude, that’s what a brat is. Look, Ally’s always mouthing off, she almost never gets into subspace, she doesn’t like impact play even though Babs is really into paddling… pretty sure that’s the definition of a brat.” Patrick says this all into Jonny’s armpit, probably because he lacks the balls to say it to Jonny’s face.

“If she doesn’t like impact play, she shouldn’t have to put up with it just because it gets her dom off,” Jonny says. (Patrick scoffs.) “And how does not falling into subspace make her bad? Some subs have trouble with it.”

And then Patrick’s brain, traitor that it is, opens his mouth and says, “I know.”

Around anyone else, he probably could’ve gotten away with it, but Jonny says, “What does that mean?”

“Just… you know.” He pauses, and then manages, “I don’t. Or can’t, or whatever.”

Jonny goes very, very still. Christ, why did Patrick open his big mouth? He’s about to change the subject when Jonny says, “Like you have a hard time getting there, or…”

Patrick’s sex life from the inside looks very different than it does from the outside. There aren’t a lot of subs in professional sports, even though Patrick’s dynamic off the ice has absolutely nothing to do with his performance on the ice. He’s not any less aggressive a player, he doesn’t buckle under stress, and he’s learned to tune out the insults people like to fling at him. And he’s never doubted that he’s a sub, either; power exchange does it for him in a big way, so he’s not part of the plurality population of adynamics, and he has no interest in topping.

But sex is… it’s…

Patrick’s difficult.

“I mean I’ve haven’t… you know.”

“Ever?” Jonny says.

Patrick’s about as far from that floaty-sleepy feeling as it’s possible to be when he’s wedged under Jonny’s arm. “Yeah.”

Jonny goes quiet again, which isn’t great, because Patrick can feel his own heart hammering, throbbing right down the middle of his chest to his stomach. The next words out of Jonny’s mouth are going to be “Really?” or “Figures” or “Guess you are a brat.”

Instead, Jonny says, “I bet I could take you down,” and the blood rushes out of Patrick’s head so rapidly he realizes he’s on the verge of passing out. He isn’t turned on; he’s stunned.

He somehow manages to twist around to stare at Jonny, and what gets him is the way Jonny said it—not cocky, or like Patrick’s a challenge to be conquered, but… gentle. Like he’s asking where Patrick wants to eat lunch, and they both know however much he stalls that in the end he’s going to go wherever Patrick wants.

It isn’t that Patrick has bad sex. It’s that he just has okay sex; it’s never mind-blowing, it never takes him out of his own head, and rarely is his predominant feeling anything other than anxiety. The problem is that the one common factor in all those nights of okay sex is Patrick himself. It’s secretly humiliating and the last, the absolute last person he wants to find out that he’s lousy in bed is Jonny.

“What?” he says, because his mind’s still blank.

Jonny looks at him and swallows so audibly his throat clicks, and then he says, “Will you let me try?”

And since Patrick’s brain has checked out of this conversation, he answers, “Yes.”

They sit and stare at each other for probably an hour, and then Patrick manages to croak out, “Tonight?”

Jonny blinks slowly. “No. No, not tonight. Tomorrow? After practice?”

“Yeah, okay.” At that point meeting Jonny’s eyes starts to feel excruciating, so he turns around and falls back into the couch, although this time he’s careful not to touch Jonny. God, this is a bad idea. This is the worst idea he’s ever had. Jonny’s going to know—

And then Jonny tugs Patrick into his side, and Patrick’s tension drains away. He’s too tired to maintain it. Maybe that’s a good thing. If he were less exhausted, he probably wouldn’t have fallen asleep at all.

-

The next day, he lets himself into Jonny’s a little before six. Jonny told him to wear whatever, so he’s in track pants and a t-shirt, the same basic outfit he’d thrown on after practice. It feels a little disrespectful, but this isn’t exactly like any other time he’s scened, and at least when he gets into the living room he sees that Jonny’s wearing basically the same thing.

“Hey.” He gives Jonny a little wave and then sticks his hands in his pockets.

“Hey,” Jonny says. “So I don’t know if you’d rather do a checklist beforehand or just go over the stuff I have in mind, but—”

“Whoa, dude,” Patrick says. “We don’t have to do a full inventory, it’s just one scene.”

Jonny gives him an odd look, but then he nods. “All right. How do you feel about being jerked off?”

Okay, apparently they’re getting right to it. “Uh,” Patrick says. “Good.”

“Do you like being fingered?” And—the way he’s phrasing it, ‘do you like’ rather than ‘are you okay with,’ is—it’s a lot to handle.

“Yeah, that’s… that’s good, too.” Jonny’s living room is somehow even more cluttered than usual. Patrick counts six water bottles on the coffee table, even though a record four of them are completely full and apparently unopened. Back when they roomed together on the road, Patrick used to go around and consolidate them, but Jonny hadn’t ever seemed to notice.

“Do you like being praised?” Jonny asks, and that has Patrick’s eyes snapping back to Jonny so fast he almost gives himself vertigo.

“Y-yeah.” Patrick can hear how his breathing has gone ragged. He clears his throat. “Yeah, that’s fine.” Jesus Christ. There’s no way Jonny’s actually going to praise him, but—

“Good, that’s good,” Jonny says. “You have a safeword?”

Oh shit. “Yes,” Patrick says, but he’s left scrambling, because there’s no way in hell he’s telling Jonny what word Patrick picked for the category of ‘things I’m unlikely to say during sex but that immediately make me feel safe.’ His eyes dart around the room. Water bottle? Couch? Window? Just say something, idiot. “It’s, uh… lamp!”

Jonny screws up his face. “Lamp?”

“I didn’t realize that my safeword wasn’t up to your exacting standards,” Patrick snarks, and then he hears what he just said and freezes. God, it’s been thirty seconds and he’s already mouthing off. “Sorry,” he says. “Jonny, I’m sorry—”

“Hey, whoa,” Jonny says, and then he’s right there in front of Patrick, cupping his cheek in one big hand. “Why are you sorry?”

“I shouldn’t have talked back,” Patrick mumbles.

Jonny’s brow furrows, because he’s literally the hero of a period romance novel, and what did Patrick do to deserve this? Is it a reward or a punishment, because he sure would like to know, and why did he agree anyway?

“No, come on,” Jonny is saying, “don’t apologize, Peeks. For one thing, we haven’t started—we haven’t negotiated that, I would’ve told you if I wanted—and also, I don’t want you not to talk back.” Patrick’s expression must express his bewilderment, because Jonny’s face goes pained and he says, “I still want you to be you, okay?”

God, this is weird. “Yeah,” Patrick says. “Yeah, Jonny, okay.”

Jonny’s thumb traces over his cheekbones. “Anything else you want to talk about before we…?”

“No,” Patrick says. “Unless you think—no, I’m good.”

“All right,” Jonny says, “guess that means we can get started,” and he takes his hand away and steps back, and Patrick drops to his knees so fast they crack against the hardwood. He bites down on his lip to keep from crying out, breathes deeply through his nose, folds his hands behind his back, and drops his head. Okay. Okay, he can do this—

Jonny’s talking. “Christ,” he says, and then he’s down on his knees, too, reaching for Patrick, which means Patrick has already fucked this up again when the one thing he wanted was to be good for Jonny. “Peeks, shit—no, you’re fine, just—come here.” The next thing he knows Jonny’s urging him up off his feet, and he has to stare down in puzzlement when Jonny first runs his hands over Patrick’s knees and then, while he’s down there, unlaces Patrick’s shoes and gently removes them. By the time Patrick’s barefoot against the floor, he’s more confused than he can ever remember being in his life.

“C’mere,” Jonny says again, and then he tugs Patrick over to the couch, where he sits down and then arranges Patrick so he’s straddling Jonny’s lap. Patrick realizes he’s heaving, short fast breaths that never seem to fill his lungs, and he really—he doesn’t want to meet Jonny’s eyes—

But Jonny seems okay with that. He pulls Patrick forward even more, so Patrick’s forehead is nestled against Jonny’s shoulder. “Listen,” he says, “I have two rules for my subs. The first is that I want you to communicate, okay? I want you to safeword if you need to, I want you to ask me for anything I’m not giving you. You got that? Rule number one.”

Patrick must nod, because Jonny keeps going. “Rule number two,” Jonny says, “is that you never, ever have to guess what I want. I’m always going to tell you, and if something isn’t clear, you can always ask. I swear, Peeks. You don’t have to kneel, you don’t have to apologize for making a joke—”

“Sorry,” Patrick mutters.

“And you definitely don’t have to apologize for not knowing something I didn’t tell you,” Jonny finishes lightly. He’s just… the exact opposite of how Patrick thought he’d be as a dom. Jonny’s so exacting out on the ice that Patrick always figured he’d be just as demanding of his subs, and Patrick’s inability to live up to that standard even inside his own fantasy was always just one more way that he fell short. He thought Jonny would be hard. He doesn’t know what to do with this gentleness.

Unless…

Unless Jonny’s going easy on him.

Patrick’s head is spinning from how fast everything is shifting. Thirty minutes ago, he was Jonny’s friend and teammate who just happened to accept what seemed like a casual proposition. Now he realizes tears are gathering in his eyes. What a terrible fucking idea this was. Why did he ever think it would be casual?

Jonny’s petting the back of his neck with soft, feathering touches that tease beneath the edge of his hair; his other hand is low on Patrick’s back, thumb rubbing circles just to the left of his spine. Patrick thinks about sliding off Jonny’s lap, standing up, walking out the door; but despite all the tension that he feels and Jonny doesn’t, the only thing worse than having to listen to Jonny explain how Patrick doesn’t have to apologize would be leaving a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity on a table.

And—who knows. If anyone can elevate sex beyond mediocre, it’s probably going to be Jonny. This may not be casual for Patrick, but he can act like it’s casual, can outwardly comply with whatever Jonny wants this to be: something light and fun, maybe. Jonny is doing Patrick a favor, since he can’t be getting anything else out of this, and he obviously considers the whole thing a no-strings-attached one-off. The least Patrick can do is maintain the pretense that they’re on the same page.

“There we go,” Jonny murmurs, and Patrick becomes aware that he’s melting into Jonny’s chest. Jonny’s hand is rubbing up and down his back now, slowing over the exposed strip of skin between the hem of his shirt and the waistband of his pants. Patrick sighs and shuts his eyes and presses his face a little harder into the crook of Jonny’s neck.

Softly, Jonny says, “Color?”

“Green,” Patrick says.

“Okay, good,” Jonny says. “That’s good.” Jonny’s hands go away, and he shifts; Patrick shifts with him, eyes still shut, and inhales as much of Jonny’s scent as his lungs will hold. This is the opposite of his near-hyperventilation from earlier. He’s breathing in as deeply as he can—

Jonny’s hand is back at his waistband, slipping under it. “Color?” Jonny asks.

Patrick’s breath hitches. “Green,” he mumbles. At this rate, he might not ever open his eyes again. Thank god Jonny can’t see his face.

The hand slides further down—good thing he’s wearing loose track pants instead of leggings—and Jonny’s forefinger, slick with lube, traces his crack before dipping in to touch the rim of his hole. He doesn’t lose his breath so much as let out a small, poorly-contained sob.

“Shh, easy,” Jonny says. “You’re good, Peeks.” He touches Patrick’s hole lightly, tracing around the rim, up above it to his lower back and then back down again to press the pad of his finger against the opening without ever pushing inside. It’s exquisite. Patrick doesn’t even have his pants off.

“How do your knees feel?” Jonny might as well be asking about a tweak from practice; nothing in his tone of voice gives away the slow sweet drag of his finger that never penetrates Patrick’s hole, never exactly goes where Patrick wants it to go.

“Okay,” Patrick manages. He’s not sure if Jonny’s worried about his knees from when he hit the floor earlier or because his legs are folded up against the outsides of Jonny’s thighs, and he doesn’t particularly care.

“They don’t hurt?”

“Mm. No.”

Jonny huffs a little laugh. “I always forget how flexible you are. Let me know if it starts to feel uncomfortable, okay?” He finally presses inside just the smallest bit, and Patrick is too caught up in shuddering to answer. He rocks forward, rubbing his cock against the crease of Jonny’s thick thigh, and Jonny encourages him forward with the hand on his ass. “Good,” Jonny says, and, “You’re tight here, Christ.” His finger slides past the first knuckle; Patrick rolls his hips back, trying to work more of that finger inside (he wants it inside, he’s always wanted—), but he’s trapped, his front against Jonny and Jonny’s hand on his neck, his face tucked against Jonny’s shoulder so his hot breath is caught against Jonny’s shirt, Jonny who is still entirely clothed except for his shoes and socks. Patrick’s arousal came on so fast he didn’t even notice as the water rushed over his head, but Jonny knows how to read the tide.

He turns his head to kiss the shell of Patrick’s ear, and then he works the tip of a second finger in alongside the first. That teasing stretch of shallow width is enough to make Patrick shudder and jerk forward, and he becomes aware that what he’s grinding against now isn’t Jonny’s hip but the huge hard ridge of his dick.

“Fuck,” Jonny says. “Shh, no, you’re okay.” The part of his hand that isn’t buried in Patrick’s hole is cupped up under his ass, and Jonny keeps urging Patrick to roll his hips forward against Jonny’s cock and then back onto his big fingers. The feeling is one of constriction, like he’s all bound up and buried in Jonny. Thank god he can’t see Jonny’s face, or he’d be exposed for the wreck he is.

There isn’t anything overt about what they’re doing: Patrick isn’t kneeling, he isn’t tied up, he hasn’t been told what he has to do. There’s just the two of them folded together, Jonny guiding Patrick as he rocks in Jonny’s lap. Patrick still doesn’t know what Jonny’s getting out of this—this specifically, but also this entire thing. What the hell would he want with Patrick? And Patrick’s overwhelmed and useless even with this small piece of Jonny; he has one arm folded up between their chests with a handful of Jonny’s shirt clutched in his fist, and his other arm is sandwiched between Jonny’s shoulderblade and the back of the couch.

And then Jonny starts talking.

“There you go,” he says, “nice and easy. That’s perfect, Peeks.” One of his fingers, Patrick thinks the middle finger, glides in smooth and steady and starts rubbing. “Good. You’re so good, that’s it”—the hand on Patrick’s neck slides down his back, and Jonny splays his fingers—“you’re so tight here, aren’t you, so sweet, you like it.” He slows down, stops screwing Patrick and gentles him into a motion that barely counts as a grind. “Can you tell me how it feels, Patrick?”

Patrick screws his eyes shut even harder. “Green,” he mumbles.

“Green, huh. It feels green. Is that good?”

“Yeah,” Patrick gasps. “Yeah Jonny, s’good.”

“I’m glad,” Jonny says. “That’s what this is about, you feeling good. You try so hard, but you don’t have to try here, do you? You can stop trying. Let me worry about that. I’ve got you, Peeks—there, just like that—” He’s got two fingers in Patricks as far as they’ll go now. Part of Jonny is inside of Patrick, god, this is insane, Jonny is his captain, they’ve known each other for years, he’s Patrick’s best friend, fifteen minutes ago their relationship had been about as erotic as a handshake and now Jonny’s fingers are wedged up inside Patrick’s hole and for all that he’s still fully clothed this is, hands down, the most mind-blowing sexual experience of Patrick’s life,
and then Jonny says,

“Peekaboo, look at me,”

and as soon as Patrick opens his eyes, Jonny tilts down and kisses him.

The climax slams into Patrick all at once. His vision sputters and whites out, he jerks against Jonny’s hips and Jonny’s cock, and a pure electric crackle arcs down his spine; and the entire time Jonny’s mouth is covering his, swallowing his sobs and his moans and his breath. It’s the first time they’ve kissed. Patrick is quite literally coming in his pants, and Jonny has a finger crooked so it presses into Patrick’s prostate, and when Patrick levers his eyes open, Jonny is still looking at him.

Jonny smiles. “Good?” he says, and Patrick collapses into his chest like his strings were cut.

Jonny chuckles a little and slides his fingers out of Patrick. He gives the rim of Patrick’s hole one final touch, just a kiss of his fingertips, and the hand not covered in lube comes up to stroke the back of Patrick’s curls.

Eventually, Patrick drags himself back together. Jonny’s still hard, so he sits back on Jonny’s knees, still keeping his head bowed so he doesn’t have to look Jonny in the face, and says, “What should I…”

Jonny catches his wrist. “Not tonight,” he says, “that was for you,” and Patrick shudders. He’s feeling so much that he can’t even begin to unpack that—does Jonny not want, or, or, is it going to happen again—

“Okay,” he says, awkward, and then he shuffles back to slide off Jonny’s lap. “Uh, thanks—thank you.” Jonny didn’t get him there, but he’d taken Patrick apart with pretty minimal effort nonetheless, so Patrick is prepared to give him the win and then never talk about it again.

But Jonny says, “Where are you going?”

“Home?” Patrick hazards.

“Without aftercare?” Jonny sounds baffled, and maybe a little offended, but still so soft Patrick is sick with it.

Jonny isn’t the only one confused. (Not to mention—Patrick’s not sure his legs are going to hold once he stands up, so he might as well sit for another moment while they work this out.) “We didn’t,” he says, “I mean I didn’t, you know, go under, and we hardly did… I mean, you didn’t even…”

Jonny’s flushed but he still looks so fucking calm, a confirmation that he didn’t get much out of this at all. “Hey, no,” he says. “That doesn’t matter. Come on, come here.” He still has his fingers wrapped lightly around Patrick’s wrist, and he tugs Patrick back into his lap while he leans forward enough to grab something from the coffee table. A water bottle. When he goes to crack the lid off, he must see that one hand is still coated in lube, so he wipes it off on the side of his pants and wedges the water against his chest so he can crack it one-handed.

“Here,” Jonny says. “Drink.”

He lifts it to Patrick’s lips, and Patrick must not have realized how thirsty he was, because he gulps it down. It’s all so much; this might as well happen. Tomorrow none of this is even going to feel real anyway.

He drinks the whole bottle and doesn’t object when Jonny tosses it aside. Jonny leans forward again, Patrick still tucked against his chest, and when he sits back this time, he cleans his hand off more thoroughly with a wipe and then peels the wrapper from a bar of chocolate.

He breaks off a piece and brings it to Patrick’s mouth, and Patrick parts his lips obediently and eats. Whatever Jonny’s feeding him is a step above a Hershey’s bar. It makes him feel off-balanced and unsettled; he’s more powerless now than he was when Jonny was fingerfucking him breathless. How is he supposed to read this play? No one’s creating any space.

“You were so good for me,” Jonny says, which is such a lie Patrick would make fun of him under normal circumstances. “Hey, shh, I know you didn’t go down, but I didn’t expect you to—this is only our first time.”

Patrick hears that and he can’t help his reaction; it escapes as a sob, not loud, but still torn out of him violently enough that Jonny’s arm goes up around his shoulders.

“Whoa,” Jonny says. “Whoa, Patrick, you’re okay—it’s okay, let it out—” But Patrick doesn’t know how to explain why he’s acting this way, because then he’d have to tell Jonny that hearing he was good for Jonny, that he and Jonny were going to do this again, was simultaneously the sweetest and the most terrible thing he’s ever heard. Instead, he buries his face in Jonny’s neck and takes deep breaths until the knot in his throat recedes.

He pulls back with what he hopes is a smile on his face. “Sorry, just got overwhelmed,” he says. “Sure I can’t…?”

“No,” Jonny says firmly. That’s pretty rough, knowing he got Jonny hard but that nothing about Patrick can satisfy Jonny’s dominance, although he can’t find it in himself to be surprised. “Here, though, come on—” Jonny adds, and he takes Patrick by the hips and guides him off Jonny’s lap. “Gotta get you cleaned up,” Jonny explains, and then he smirks. “Unless you want to drive home with come in your underwear?”

“Gross,” Patrick says, and Jonny grins and takes him by the hand and leads him back to the master bathroom. It’s so fucking weird, Jonny chirping him like normal but touching him so gently, that Patrick feels himself start to shut down; and that doesn’t even begin to cover what happens in the bathroom, where Jonny kneels down and asks, “Can I?” and then, once Patrick nods, guides Patrick’s trackpants and briefs down over his legs and helps him step out of them. Next he uses a warm washcloth to wipe the drying come from Patrick’s dick and thighs, and then he cleans the lube from between Patrick’s legs, too. Finally he takes the clean folded pants on the bathroom counter, shakes them out, and redresses Patrick. He must have planned this before Patrick even showed up.

By the end Patrick is numb; he doesn’t know what to do with what’s happening, with how soft Jonny is, with the reality of Jonny at all. When Jonny finishes by pressing a kiss to his mouth and then brushing back his hair, he can only pray that his face doesn’t show how this is carving out his heart.

2. Chapter 2

Notes for the Chapter:

Continued warning for implied past emotional abuse. None of it is explicit (or between Jonny and Patrick, I could never!!), but that and various terrible societal pressures do inform Patrick’s reactions.

Suggested soundtrack: the part of “Cruel Summer” where Taylor Swift yells, “I LOVE YOU, AIN’T THAT THE WORST THING YOU EVER HEARD?”

“Jesus Christ, Tazer,” is what comes out of Patrick’s mouth when he sees the list. It’s at least five pages, probably more, and there are columns for Patrick to rank not only his interest in a kink but his level of experience with it, plus an additional box at the end for comments.

“What’s the problem?” Jonny says. He’s sitting at his kitchen counter, holding a pen that he’s obviously about to offer to Patrick.

“You printed out the world encyclopedia of kinks.” He’s only half-joking. Not once has Patrick seen an inventory list like this. Typical Jonny—at least he’s finally showing his exacting attitude in the bedroom, too. “You really want me to fill this out? Because then you’ve gotta read all of it.”

“We’re not having sex again unless we do an inventory,” Jonny says. “Unless you don’t want…”

“I guess you deserve another shot.” He’s joking this time. “We can’t let this be the only time in your life you give up on the first try.”

Jonny has that weird look on his face again, the one that Patrick can’t place, but he kicks the stool beside him out, and Patrick accepts the invitation. He settles in and takes the pen from Jonny, but he’s surprised when Jonny leans even closer, studying the paper over his shoulder.

“Do you want me to fill it out now? Or—are you waiting to see if I put down the right answer?” And now he’s not joking, although he absolutely can’t let Jonny discover that. Patrick would cross every single one of his hard limits if it meant one more night with Jonny, and he knows that isn’t healthy, knows Jonny would be appalled if he found out, which makes it all the more critical that he answer without factoring in Jonny’s approval. At least Jonny hasn’t broken down and called him a brat yet.

“What? No,” Jonny says. “No, I can leave you alone if you want, but we’re going to discuss everything anyway—”

“You want to discuss this whole list?”

“Just the stuff we want to do,” Jonny says, which makes the whole experience sound a lot more collaborative than Patrick knows to expect.

He’s obviously not going to win this one. “Fine. Give me some space, though, I’m not going to fill this out with you breathing down my neck.”

Jonny’s lower lip starts to jut out in a pout, but he taps Patrick on the bicep and stands up. “Let me know when you’re finished,” he says, and then he retreats to the living from. After a minute, Patrick hears Game of Thrones start up in the background.

“Don’t watch without me!” he hollers.

There’s a pause, and then Jonny yells back, “Fine!” and switches to something that sounds a lot like a nature documentary.

This continues to be one of the weirdest fucking experiences of Patrick’s entire life, and playing sports on a professional level lends itself to a lot of weird experiences. He could walk out the door right now. He thinks he and Jonny would probably recover; Jonny’s been nonchalant about the whole thing, like he sleeps with teammates all the time. Patrick’s always been wired a little differently, but having sex with Jonny—if you can call what they did having sex—hasn’t awakened in him any new feelings. All that’s changed is that he has a little more fodder for the late nights when he can’t keep himself from kneeling beside his bed to beat off while he thinks of Jonny. He always ends up folded into a ball on the floor in the aftermath, overcome by how much he hates himself for giving in, but at least there’s no way to make that situation any more disgusting than it already is.

That puts it in perspective. Maybe Jonny really can take him down far enough to soothe the itch under his skin; he’d like to experience subspace once, even if he knows the odds of it happening twice approach zero.

Okay.

The list.

He takes his time with it, ticks off a lot more “No” boxes than he really should, but Jonny knows he’s finicky—not like he has to hide it. No to caning, mummification, and strapping; no to latex and infantilization; hard no to being shared. His “Yes” column is scarcely populated: yes to bondage, comeplay, obedience, orgasm control, tickling, edging, and a handful of his other favorites. Checking yes for praise almost feels like he’s asking too much, but that’s another thing Jonny knows he wants already. And then there’s what he wants but considers risky: he ends up ticking yes to those, too, because he doesn’t really have anything else to lose, and because god help him but he trusts Jonny. Once he finishes he flips back over his answers until he hits the end, and after a moment of hesitation, he adds his sole comment: Please don’t humiliate me.

He takes the list with him and pads into the living room; Jonny’s stretched out on the couch with his feet propped up. “Hey,” he says. “Finished?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, and then he finds himself hesitating yet again; he’s feeling… there’s no other word for it: shy. But he takes a seat next to Jonny anyway and drops the list on his lap before he kicks his feet up in a deliberate mirror of Jonny’s posture.

“I need a beer,” he announces.

“No,” Jonny says absently.

“It’s three in the afternoon, you can’t tell me it’s too early.”

“What?” Jonny looks up. “We’re going over your inventory, we can’t—jesus, Peeks, we can’t drink for that.” He looks faintly appalled, but that little crease between his eyebrows is the one Patrick remembers from yesterday.

“You have the weirdest made-up rules,” Patrick says, which is maybe a little more frank than he intended but still universally true.

“It isn’t a made-up rule,” Jonny insists. “No one should drink and negotiate this stuff, especially not in a new relationship.”

Patrick snorts, because it’s better than flinching. “We’ve known each other since we were kids. I wouldn’t call anything about this new.”

“Now you’re arguing just to argue,” Jonny says, and he goes back to reading. Patrick tunes in to the tropical fish drifting gently across the TV screen, but he can’t help watching Jonny out of the corner of his eye. That’s the problem; he never can.

Jonny flips to the last page, and that’s when his intent expression shifts back to something Patrick can’t read. “Okay,” Jonny says softly, “okay,” and then he digs the remote out and turns the TV off. So long, Nemo.

“So, uh,” Patrick says, scrambling mentally to cut this off at the pass, “do I get to see yours?”

“What?”

“Isn’t that how it works? You show me yours if I show you mine?” At Jonny’s blank puzzlement, he adds, “The list, Jonny.”

“Oh, yeah—if you want. There’s a lot of overlap, though, I don’t think we’re going to have any conflicts.” He flips back to the beginning; Patrick half expects him to pull out a clipboard and start making notes. “We talked before about fingering, handjobs—you like rimming?” he confirms, and Patrick nods. “And blowjobs? Anal?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says.

“I should’ve asked—do you like being fucked?”

“I—yeah,” Patrick says. “I like that, you know. A lot. Best.”

“Being penetrated,” Jonny says. The weight of his whole attention is a lot to handle; Patrick’s never been entirely able to manage it without squirming.

“Yeah,” Patrick says again.

“Good,” Jonny says. “Being put on your knees? Having your hair pulled?”

Patrick nods.

“Facials?”

Patrick nods again, even though that’s a weirdly specific set of questions; Jonny isn’t going straight down the list. Just talking about this stuff with Jonny is enough to undo him.

“Can we talk about humiliation?” Jonny asks, and Patrick feels his whole body jerk. “Whoa, hey, no,” Jonny says, “I’m not trying to get you to do anything, I just want to know where your limits start.”

“I—oh,” Patrick says.

“Especially with some of the other stuff you’ve checked off,” Jonny says. “Are you okay to…?”

“Sorry, yeah, that’s fine.” He takes a deep breath. “You’re talking about the roleplaying.”

“Not only the roleplaying.” Jonny’s sitting upright now, body turned towards Patrick, but Patrick maintains his casual slouch and keeps his eyeline fixed on the black TV screen. “Feminization,” Jonny says. “And crossdressing. There’s a couple of others, but you know those often run up against—”

“Yeah, I know,” Patrick says. “We can just ignore them.”

God, he’s getting tired of seeing that look on Jonny’s face. “What? No,” he says.

“I mean, if you’re not into them,” Patrick offers, “and most people don’t—I know it’s more common to—”

“I’m not going to make fun of you,” Jonny says firmly. You could cut glass on his jaw; it’s set like they’re down by two going into the third. “But we shouldn’t avoid something we both like, unless you’re uncomfortable with me specifically in that context.”

That’s such a complicated idea Patrick can’t wrap his head around it. “Nah, it’s fine,” he says. “Just, uh, like I said—”

“I would never make fun of you,” Jonny says again. “What about which words you like, though?”

“What do you mean?”

“If I said I wanted to fuck your pussy,” Jonny gets out, and Patrick shudders so visibly Jonny has to notice.

“Ah,” Jonny says.

“That’s—fine.” Understatement. “Just not in a…”

“Not in a mean way,” Jonny finishes.

“Yeah.” He’s still aggressively gazing at the wall. “I know it’s weird—”

“It isn’t weird,” Jonny says immediately.

“But it’s not just in those situations,” Patrick says. “I don’t want, I mean, I never want. That.”

“That’s okay,” Jonny says. “I promise. Will you look at me?”

Something in Patrick shudders when he remembers the last time he heard that request, but he turns his head and looks at Jonny anyway.

“There we go.” He’s leaning forward with his elbows braced on his knees now; if the full weight of Jonny’s attention was a lot to handle when they weren’t making eye contact, it’s even worse now, with Jonny’s dark patient eyes seeing him. “I won’t ever humiliate you,” he says. “No more than I’d start…” He glances down at Patrick’s inventory. “Caning you,” he finishes. “It isn’t on the table, at all, and it never will be.”

“Okay,” Patrick says, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

“We’ll touch base on more of these as we go,” Jonny says, “but in the meantime—”

“Wait, right now?”

“Not into it?”

“Uh, no, I—now is fine.”

“Okay,” Jonny says. “What’s your safeword?”

Patrick swallows. “Lamp.”

“Good,” Jonny says. “I want you to go into my office. Take off your clothes and kneel by the bookshelf with your back to it.” Patrick is off-kilter, and when he doesn’t immediately respond, Jonny adds, “Now.” It isn’t unkind, but he isn’t brooking any argument, either. Patrick swallows, and nods, and stands up to pad down the hall.

Jonny’s office is next to the master bedroom. He uses it sporadically, but it does get used—unlike Patrick’s office, since he’s more likely to sit at his kitchen table with a laptop when he needs to get work done. It’s sleek, like you’d expect, but Jonny’s shit interferes with whatever designer aesthetic the room would have going otherwise. There are the expected scattered water bottles, and a recent promo calendar from one of Jonny’s charity projects, and the bookshelf packed with books on leadership and organic kale farming. As much as he chirps Jonny about it, though, he’s actually pretty impressed with Jonny’s environmentalism, and as a result knows a lot more about sustainable energy and how much it costs to implement than he would have otherwise. That’s Jonny, though—he elevates the people around him.

He strips without thinking about it, folds his clothes, and leaves them neatly in Jonny’s desk chair. The bookcase is tall, at least eight feet, with wide, deep shelves; Patrick’s not sure what role it’s is going to play here, but he stretches his legs, first out and then back, before he sinks down onto his knees, so close to the bookcase that his toes touch the base. Jonny hadn’t said anything about what he should do with his hands, and Patrick knows he should fold them behind his back; but there’s something a little too vulnerable about waiting like that, so he flattens them out against his thighs.

And then he drops his head, and breathes.

Jonny will be in the room at any minute, and at first that’s all he thinks about: how much he wants to present the picture Jonny wants. After a couple of minutes, though, Jonny still hasn’t shown up, and Patrick starts to get restless. He strains his ears to see if he can hear Jonny coming down the hall, but this part of his condo is carpeted, so fat chance of that; and then he starts to fidget, first working his hands into fists and then reaching up to shove his hair off his forehead. He showered and came over with his hair still damp, but clearly he should’ve stopped for gel on his way out the door. Jonny’s got him way too distracted.

His ankles start to ache a little from holding the pose, so he stretches, first planting his right foot out to his side and leaning into the straight stretch of his leg and then repeating the process with his left. He knows he shouldn’t be doing this, but it’s not like he’s going to get it right anyway, so he might as well do what he wants.

Jonny still hasn’t show up, though—

He has to fight down a brief wave of panic, a what if he isn’t coming wave, but he trusts Jonny, and even if he doesn’t show up, even if he walked out or fell asleep watching an ocean documentary—so what? Patrick can get up and walk out of here whenever he wants. That’s the perk of being space-resistant; if he never falls into subspace, he doesn’t have to tolerate that control being taken from him.

He can leave when he wants. That begs the question: does he want to leave?

What he really wants is to not have to think about this. No, what he really wants is for Jonny to come back and touch him. So maybe if he’s patient enough, Jonny will…

Will what? Come back here and reward him? Tell him how good he is? Say that Patrick has been so patient, he’s been so patient all these years, not waiting, merely enduring; but he doesn’t have to endure any longer, because Jonny—

What he wants is to stop thinking.

Without noticing, his breath has fallen into a cadence, and his body has settled into the pose. It’s been so long since he kneeled for someone that he had hardly noticed the skittering under his skin, but this is… it’s necessary; how had he forgotten that? He’s feeling it most in his hips, in how they open up and let him sink further down. His heels are tucked under his ass, his toes pointed back so the tops of his feet and his shins form one continuous line against the carpet. He might never get so lost in it that he goes away entirely, but that doesn’t mean this isn’t steadying. Fortifying.

And then there are fingers on his face, and he cracks open eyes he hadn’t realized he’d shut. “There you are,” Jonny says quietly. His thumb comes up to trace Patrick’s mouth, and Patrick parts his lips instinctively. “Look at you. Christ.”

Is that good?

“How are your knees?” Jonny asks.

Patrick murmurs against the pad of Jonny’s thumb, but Jonny says, “Say that again, babe.”

“Fine,” Patrick slurs.

“Good,” Jonny says, and then he unzips his fly and pulls out his cock.

Until that moment, Patrick hadn’t been aware that he was hard—that his own cock was jutting up from his naked lap. Seeing Jonny’s dick is an electric echo at first, just a bolt of pure sensation, and then his vision fades back in and he’s actually looking at Jonny’s cock, which is—god, it’s enormous. It’s so thick that the proportions seem off, like it’s wide but couldn’t be very long, but then Jonny tilts Patrick’s head back and takes his cock by the base and lays it across Patrick’s face, and that’s when Patrick realizes Jonny’s dick is the longest fucking cock he’s laid eyes on. In the locker room, he’d suspected—but. Jesus. Jonny is hung.

“Jonny,” he says, helpless, and then Jonny drags his heavy cock down Patrick’s face until the fat head is bussing Patrick’s lips.

Just this is exquisite. With Jonny in front of him and the bookcase at his back, he’s boxed in. It’s submissive in more than just the positioning, with Patrick on his knees before Jonny; like this he’s completely at Jonny’s mercy. It’s everything he hates himself for wanting. The worst part is that he knows he’s going to blow it at any minute—will have to safeword because he loses the pleasure of it and starts to panic because he’s trapped and he’s going to fuck it up no matter what.

Maybe not this time. He just has to stay in control of himself.

Jonny’s thumb drifts up to press at the corner of Patrick’s mouth, and he says, “Open.” Patrick parts his lips immediately, and Jonny feeds Patrick his thick cock.

Fuck he’s huge. Patrick can’t do much but suckle at the tip; even if he was capable of deep-throating, Jonny’s dick is far too big to swallow. He lifts his hand to wrap around it, but Jonny says, very mildly, “No,” and Patrick drops his hand back like it’s a rock.

“Just your mouth,” Jonny explains. He’s cradling Patrick’s head in his big hands—not squeezing or pulling, just cupping, like he wants to be careful—which is unlikely. Doms don’t have to be careful. Patrick pulls off to lick his way up the thick vein at the bottom, and Jonny grunts. “Good,” he says. “That’s good, Peeks.”

Patrick comes off his heels a little bit to get his mouth over Jonny’s cock again, and then he settles back down and sinks into the feeling of Jonny filling his mouth full. Jonny’s literally got him pinned against the bookcase; when Patrick glances up, he sees that Jonny has his hands braced on one of the shelves. The muscles in his arms are standing out in sharp relief, and then Patrick’s gazes slips and his eyes meet Jonny’s.

“Fuck,” Jonny breathes. His hips jerk forward, but a split second later his hands snap upward—one to quickly guide Patrick’s head back so he doesn’t choke, the other to cushion the back of his skull so Jonny’s hand takes the impact of the edge of the shelf. He drags his cock out of Patrick’s mouth and asks, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. He wishes he liked to choke on dick. He wishes—

“Good,” Jonny says. “Now get it wet.”

Patrick blinks, slow. His reflexes are dull, everything’s slow to come to him, but he lets saliva pool in his mouth and then drags his mouth sideways up the thick length of Jonny’s dick. He still can’t wrap his head around the sheer size of it. If you searched the internet for giant cock videos, the top hit might begin to approach what Jonny’s packing.

“Are you hard?” Jonny asks.

When he parts his lips to answer, he drools on Jonny’s cock. It’s one of those things that sits just on the cusp of humiliation, but Jonny catches the drool on his thumb and gently wipes the corner of Patrick’s mouth clean. “Yeah,” he says.

“Then get it wetter,” Jonny says.

And now Patrick’s practically slobbering on Jonny’s dick, mouthing at it like he’s starving; Jonny’s breathing picks up too, and all Patrick can think about is how much he wants this, being under Jonny, having Jonny control him but softly, so softly, all he can think about is how much he needs to be on his knees for Jonny, how much he wants to belong to—

Jonny threads his fingers through the curls at the back of Patrick’s head and uses his grip to pull Patrick off his cock. His other hand starts to strip his dick, slow but hard, and the big fat head bumps against Patrick’s cheek just as he realizes what Jonny’s doing, fuck. Jonny’s going to finish on him. Jonny’s going to mark him.

Jonny grunts and then he comes. He comes all over Patrick’s face. It stripes over his forehead, the bridge of his nose, his lips; he cracks his eyes open while Jonny’s breath is still stuttering and realizes he has come caught in his eyelashes. That alone makes Patrick shudder with arousal, and then Jonny works his cock a last couple of time with the tip resting on Patrick’s parted lips. Patrick can taste the salty non-taste when he touches his tongue to the head. He’s exquisitely aware of his body: the arch of his back, the tight clutch of his eyes, the grip of his hands on his bare thighs. He’s aware that Jonny’s clothed and that he isn’t, that he’s kneeling and small as Jonny stands over him.

Jonny’s cock gives one last pulse. He sucks in a breath, and then Patrick feels a soft cloth against his face. Jonny doesn’t wipe away all of his come, but he cleans Patrick’s eyelids and brows. By the time Patrick blinks his eyes open, he’s almost on sensory overload. He becomes aware that he’s trembling, that the cool air against his bare belly is almost too much to handle, that every point where Jonny’s touching him feels scraped raw, that his face is covered in come that Jonny went out of his way to leave there. He’s shivering. It’s too much. There’s no way out, he’s stuck here, caged against the bookshelf with only his own aching arousal and shameful yearning. It’s too much.

And just as he thinks he’s going to shake apart, Jonny drops to the floor and hauls Patrick into his lap.

“What?” Patrick gasps, and then Jonny manhandles him so he’s sitting between Jonny’s spread legs, his back to Jonny’s chest. One of Jonny’s hands comes up to rest against his throat, and the other slides down Patrick’s belly and stops just short of his hard, flushed cock. Just like that he’s caged in a different way, held tight in Jonny’s arms—not just dominated but comforted.

“I’m going to touch you now,” Jonny says into his ear. “Do you want that?”

“Yeah,” Patrick manages. “Yeah, Jonny, please—” He can feel Jonny’s softening cock against the swell of his ass. “Please,” he says again, and it must work, because Jonny puts his hand where Patrick wants it.

They don’t have lube, but he’s leaking enough that it doesn’t matter. Jonny runs just the tips of his fingers up the length of Patrick’s cock, light and teasing, and it makes Patrick sob. “Shh, it’s okay,” Jonny says, “I’ve got you, babe,” and then he wraps his hand around Patrick and works him with the same firm, slow stroke he used on himself: one, two, three. “Baby,” he says gently, “you’ve got my come on your face,” and he kisses the side of Patrick’s neck, and that’s it. The wave of his orgasm blindsides him. It’s incredible. It’s insane. All he can feel is Jonny around him, caging him, holding him likes he wants—like he needs.

He doesn’t want to open his eyes when he comes back down. His spine is still lit up with a feeling most concentrated at the base of his skull, and Jonny’s warm against his back; he would stay here, in this space and this feeling with this man, for the rest of his life if he could.

But then he feels something soft against his face, and he realizes Jonny is wiping him clean of the rest of the come. “Back with me?” Jonny murmurs.

Patrick clears his throat. “Good effort,” he croaks out, and Jonny laughs.

“You know, we just have to keep the pressure up,” he says, in his best bland presser voice, “keep the pressure up, play it in—”

Patrick starts laughing, too. His head’s tipped back against Jonny’s shoulder, and he feels so loose and relaxed he can hardly settle into it.

“Hey,” Jonny says against hit temple, “that was good. You were good.”

“You too,” Patrick says, because he isn’t sure what to do with that and because it’s true. “Okay, time for a shower,” he adds, and he pats Jonny on the leg and pulls away to stand up. The abrupt lack of contact makes him shaky, but they can hardly sit around on the floor forever. Maybe he can shower in Jonny’s guest bathroom and they can grab dinner. Watch one of Jonny’s crappy TV shows on his crappy couch. If he’s lucky (if he’s good), maybe Jonny will even let Patrick edge into his side.

“Whoa.” Jonny slings an arm around his hips and pulls him back down. “Where are you…?”

“Uh, shower?”

“Aftercare,” Jonny says firmly.

“Come on, I’m fine,” Patrick says. “You don’t have to sit here and cuddle me or whatever.”

“Don’t I?” Jonny asks, which is just great—one more box to tick off the list of what Jonny thinks doms should do. “Maybe I want to.”

What is he supposed to say to that? He racks his brain, trying to figure out the correct response, and settles on, “Aw, baby, you do know the way to a boy’s heart,” which sounds mocking but has the benefit of being true. “Come on, let me up.” His face is starting to feel tacky; he’s going to start blushing if he keeps thinking about it.

Jonny sighs but lets him get on his feet, which means Patrick read that play correctly. He’s a little unsteady when he stands, but he grabs the bookshelf (and now he really does start blushing; he can feel his own cheeks heating up) and goes up on his tiptoes to stretch.

“Mind if I use the guest bathroom?” He doesn’t look at Jonny. Last week, he wouldn’t have asked, just helped himself, and maybe that’s how he should keep acting. He hates this constant guessing. Instead of waiting for Jonny to answer, he heads for the door, one hand close to the wall in case he needs to catch his balance. Fuck. Now he’s aware of being naked.

Before he reaches the hallway, though, a pair of hands settle on his hips. “I was thinking the master bathroom,” Jonny says mildly. “We don’t have to stay on the floor, but you aren’t getting rid of me that easily.”

As if he’d want to. “You’re going to be stubborn about this.”

“It’s important,” Jonny insists. “For doms as well as subs. We need the extra skin contact afterwards, and psychologically—”

“Look, do I get to shower alone or not?”

“No,” Jonny says.

Well, if Patrick’s just going to be one more chore, why not enjoy himself in the process. He tries hard not to lean back against Jonny’s chest and then gives up the fight. “Okay,” he says.

“Okay,” Jonny says back, and then he walks Patrick across the hall and into the master bath. He sheds the rest of his clothes as they go but somehow manages to never entirely let go of Patrick, and in the bathroom, he tucks Patrick against his side while he turns on the water and waits for his frankly ridiculous shower to heat up.

“There we go,” he says, and then he draws Patrick into the stall. He seems content to just stand under the spray, his chest against Patrick’s back, arms around his waist, mouth pressed to the side of Patrick’s head. After a while Patrick sighs and lets himself go slack. It isn’t an entirely voluntary reaction.

“There we go,” Jonny murmurs. “Told you. Aftercare is important.”

“Not for me,” Patrick mumbles. This is almost better than the sex.

“Why not for you?” Jonny’s keeping his voice low, like he’s trying not to break the tranquility of the moment. One of his hands has crept upward to start combing through Patrick’s hair.

“Jonny,” Patrick says. “Come on, you know—”

“Mm, know what?” He manages to shift so that he’s taking even more of Patrick’s weight, which is kind of the exact opposite of what should be happening.

“You know,” Patrick says again. “I mean, I’m… we didn’t really do anything, or not anything hard, and I’m—”

“You’re…?”

Patrick swallows, but he’s pleased when his voice comes out steady. “Practically adynamic.”

“No, you aren’t,” Jonny says confidently.

There is nothing that could’ve prepared Patrick for that response. “I—yeah, Jonny, I kind of am—”

“No,” Jonny says, “you’re not.”

“I,” Patrick says, “I don’t…”

But Jonny runs his hands down Patrick’s arms until he reaches Patrick’s wrists, and then he closes his hands around them and folds Patrick’s arms up so they’re crossed over Patrick’s chest, hemmed in by Jonny’s parallel forearms, by the thick bunch of Jonny’s biceps against the outside of his own. Patrick shudders. He’s caught up fast by Jonny once again.

“Peeks,” Jonny starts, and then he sighs. “You know there would be nothing wrong with you being adynamic, right?”

“I—yeah, Jonny.”

“But you know you aren’t adynamic.” He says it like it’s obvious, like there’s no doubt in his mind that Patrick is anything but a sub, like he can’t believe Patrick would ever question something so foundational.

But Patrick hesitates, and Jonny’s fingers tighten around his wrists. It isn’t even close to painful, it’s barely even restrictive, and it’s still one of the best damn things Patrick has ever felt. He shudders again, and that’s the answer Jonny’s looking for right there. Patrick feels… ashamed, maybe. Seen. Sometimes it’s easier to pretend that instead of being a bad sub he isn’t a sub at all.

He swallows and says, unintentionally soft, “I know.” It almost doesn’t make it past his lips. Maybe it doesn’t make it to Jonny’s ears. Maybe that would be better.

Jonny sways them back and forth a little, hands still locked around Patrick’s wrists, and Patrick doesn’t want him to let go, not now, not ever. “Can I ask something?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. Jonny’s body against his back is this huge solid wall, and he keeps thinking that he could lean all the way back, that Jonny could take all of his weight. It’s a mirror to their pose on the floor earlier, when Jonny pulled Patrick into his lap and caged him.

“When was the time you kneeled for someone?”

Fuck. Patrick forces his body to stay relaxed. Two months ago he gave in to one of those pathetic masturbation sessions where he knelt by his bed, but even if technically he’d been on his knees for Jonny, he knows it doesn’t count. And before that…

He shrugs, plays it casual. “A while.”

“How long is a while?”

He makes himself chuckle. “I don’t know, Jonny. I don’t actually keep a little black book of my hookups, although if you do, no judgment.”

“Okay,” Jonny says, although the way he says it makes Patrick think it’s been on his mind for a while. Is that why he’d offered to…? Or—shit. Maybe he’d noticed Patrick’s anxiety during their conversation about his kink inventory, and he’d ordered Patrick to go kneel in the office so he had time to settle himself. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to feel about that, even if it mostly worked—but no, that can’t be right. Jonny pays attention, but he’d have to reason to be paying that close of attention.

“Okay,” Patrick echoes back, and just for that moment, under the hot spray of the shower, he lets himself melt.

3. Chapter 3

Notes for the Chapter:

Warnings: Patrick has a short anxiety attack during which he briefly dissociates. Next up: 7k of rope bondage and sensation play!

“Let me come over when we get home,” Jonny says.

Patrick had been dozing, head tipped against the plane window, as much of his body as possible crammed under a too-small blanket. Jonny sitting down next to him doubles the warmth of his little box of space.

“No,” Patrick grumbles. “Not until you agree to the bet.”

“I’m not agreeing to the bet,” Jonny says.

“Because you know you’re gonna lose again?” Patrick finally opens his eyes. Jonny’s wearing a knit hat, and even though he’s in a suit instead of what Patrick privately thinks of as the boyfriend hoodie, he looks so soft Patrick lists towards him automatically and has to catch himself before he shoves his whole body into Jonny’s side.

“I’m not going to lose again.”

“You looked great in my colors, don’t lie,” says Patrick. He has to laugh a little at the obstinate look on Jonny’s face. Hockey players in general are almost pathologically competitive, but Jonny really takes things to the next level. Just thinking about Jonny’s reaction to being shoved into a Team USA jersey after their last World Juniors bet had ended in Patrick’s favor is enough to make him smile.

Jonny’s eyes go soft; Patrick wonders what he’s thinking about, but then he says, “Yeah, okay. If you want.”

Patrick sits up straight. “Really?”

“Yeah, Peeks, really,” Jonny says. “If it’ll make you happy, I’ll do it.”

“It’ll make me happy when you lose,” Patrick says happily.

“Does that mean you’ll let me come over tonight?”

“Sure,” Patrick says. “That desperate to catch up on Game of Thrones?”

“No,” Jonny says, and then he leans in and his voice goes low, and he says so quietly that Patrick wouldn’t hear him if his lips weren’t brushing the shell of Patrick’s ear, “That desperate to get you in bed.”

Oh.

“To fuck you,” Jonny adds.

Oh.

Jonny sits back. “If you’re interested,” he concludes.

Patrick shrugs and says, “I guess that would be okay.”

“Yeah?” Jonny says, teasing. “Well, if you’re not into it—”

“I could be convinced to clear my schedule.” Patrick bats his eyelashes at Jonny, just joking around, but Jonny reaches out and touches his cheek, and that, of all things, makes Patrick flinch. Not because of Jonny, never because of Jonny, but because—they’re on a plane with the whole team, and while they wouldn’t be the first teammates to sleep together, they’d still be in a very visible minority if anyone else found out. And obviously Jonny wouldn’t want anyone to know he was sleeping with Patrick anyway, which is in this context actually a reassuring thought; Jonny wouldn’t do anything to signal to other people that he was fucking Patrick, which means that gentle touch on his cheek is either innocuous or invisible.

Jonny pulls his hand away. “Sorry,” he says.

“No, it’s—I just. Work,” Patrick manages.

“Right, of course, I wouldn’t want the team to think—”

“No,” Patrick says. “I know.” God, does he know. He isn’t Jonny’s dirty little secret, just a secret—and actually, Jonny doesn’t treat him like he’s dirty at all. Patrick knows he has hang-ups from being a sub in a professional sports league. He’s worked hard to bury his dynamic, and thanks to some good advice from his parents and a couple of solid trainers, he’s mostly managed; but the time he’s spent around other subs has done nothing to disabuse him of the notion that he’s different in a bad way.

He can keep it in balance, though. All those years of practice have paid off, and now in public he’s just a guy with whatever the normal range of sexual interests are, and in private he just has to do what amounts to dynamic maintenance, the minimum required to keep himself hormonally and psychologically stable. He’s experimented with pharmaceuticals before, all the prescription stuff they give to subs who are anxious or touch-starved or whatever, but he isn’t actually sick—plus the league is already hesitant about allowing subs to play, and he doesn’t want to feed into that bullshit narrative and make it more difficult for other subs to break into the show. He and Segs, the other poster boy, both take enough flak as it is, and they’re respected enough to buy at least some security; there are other subs who play that have it a lot harder.

He clears his throat and changes the subject. It’s maybe a little graceless, but Jonny lets him get away with it. “Sushi for dinner?”

“I wanted to try that Kurdish place,” Jonny says.

“Come on, you can eat Kurdish any time,” Patrick says.

“We eat sushi all the time,” Jonny points out. He’s settled back into his seat, no longer quite so obviously inside Patrick’s space. “We never eat Kurdish.”

“To be fair, I didn’t know it was an option. Which it isn’t, because we’re having sushi.”

Jonny narrows his eyes. “We’ll see,” he says, but when he shows up at Patrick’s place a couple of hours later, he’s carrying takeout from the place on Lincoln that Patrick likes.

“Ha!” Patrick crows. “I knew you were in the mood for sushi.”

Jonny rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I was really in the mood for sushi. Here—eat in the living room?” He sets the bags on the counter and starts divvying up the containers. Patrick goes to get plates, and Jonny says, “No, the bigger ones.”

“Seriously? How much did you get?” But he gets the bigger plates down, and gathers trash as Jonny arranges the platters to his liking. Patrick fills a couple of glasses with filtered water and follows Jonny into the living room. He’s doing an experiment; he doesn’t exactly have the parameters worked out yet, but right now he’s waiting to see how long it takes Jonny to notice Patrick refilling his water from the tap.

They sit down side by side with their plates on their laps, and Patrick puts the Flyers game on low in the background. Obviously it doesn’t stay background for long; after they’ve each consumed their first thousand calories, they start picking apart plays and talking about their own series. It’s a good distraction from the tension in the room, but there is tension, make no mistake. Patrick’s pretty worked up by the end of the first period; he picks at the last of his nigiri and tries not to think about what Jonny has planned for the night. He’d said he was going to fuck Patrick, but that’s never the centerpiece. Is he going to tie Patrick up? Put him in lingerie? Make him wait, like he’d had to wait last time? Patrick’s honestly a little overwhelmed. In isolation he likes all of those ideas, but just the thought of Jonny fucking him feels like almost too much to handle.

“What are we doing tonight?” he blurts.

Jonny halts in the middle of lifting a piece of spicy octopus to his mouth. “What?”

Patrick can feel himself flush. “Nothing,” he mumbles. “I was just wondering…”

“Oh, what we’re going to do in bed?” Jonny smirks. “It’s a surprise.”

“A surprise?” That sounds… probably okay, but historically surprises in bed haven’t turned out well for Patrick.

“I think you’ll like it,” Jonny says. “Trust me? And if you don’t, we’ll try something else.”

“I—yeah, okay.” He hopes it isn’t anything too difficult or complicated. Although Jonny had said they could do something else if Patrick didn’t like it, but what if it’s something Jonny really wants to do?

“If you’re finished eating, I want you to take a shower,” Jonny says. “Take your time, I want you in there for at least fifteen minutes.”

“By myself?”

“I’m going to clean up,” Jonny says, and when Patrick starts to protest, he adds, “Shh, no arguing. Fifteen minutes, take your time, and relax. Think about the last time we were in the shower together.” Patrick must look as horrified as he feels, because Jonny suddenly grins and says, “Not the locker room, Peeks.”

Oh. Oh.

It feels kind of impolite to leave the dishes to Jonny, even though normally he’d be more than happy to let Jonny take care of the extremely arduous task of transferring plates into the dishwasher and packing up leftovers. Patrick has never been a service submissive, and Jonny doesn’t seem to expect it, but there’s still that strain of old-school thinking that pops into his head every now and then—that subs are meant to serve and doms are meant to be served. It’s an easy line of thought to shake off, though; he likes exploring his dynamic in the bedroom and can even see himself exploring it privately out of the bedroom with someone he trusts, someone who wouldn’t mind that Patrick would want to quibble with them about whatever Batman movie they’re watching while he kneels at their feet, but that’s it. His dynamic is between himself and his partner and nobody else.

Maybe that’s not an attitude that’s going to win him a long-term relationship, but he made one extremely demeaning effort to change and called it a day. If doms don’t like his attitude, they can fuck off. It isn’t exactly that easy, but Patrick’s built his career on the back of telling naysayers to fuck off. Maybe he won’t be enjoying his retirement with some perfect jackass who treats Patrick like an equal while putting him on his knees and screwing him until he cries, but since the perfect jackass isn’t part of the picture, he’ll just have to content himself with his family, his friends, and his mountain of accolades and awards. Maybe a high-profile managing job and a private island in the Caribbean, too.

His shower isn’t as ridiculous as Jonny’s, but it still achieves a level of luxury disappointingly predictable for a rich professional athlete. While the water heats, he shucks his clothes into the laundry basket, takes a moment to make sure the bed looks presentable, and pads back into the bathroom before remembering Jonny’s time-limit. Should he set a timer on his phone, or—? After a moment of consideration, he retrieves the clock from his dresser and sets it on the bathroom counter where he can check the time from the shower as a compromise between obeying the letter of Jonny’s law (at least fifteen minutes) and the spirit (relax).

He’s still worked up at first, and he finds himself rushing as he soaps himself up and dumps shampoo into his hair. After he rinses himself clean, he checks the clock to see how much time has passed. Three minutes. Great.

This is the second time Jonny’s made him wait. Not just made him wait, but made him wait by himself. Does Jonny always make his subs… or just Patrick? Maybe it’s a punishment? But Jonny said he would always tell Patrick what he wanted, and why was implicit in that; and this is hardly severe enough to be a punishment, either. Well, it’s a punishment for Patrick in that every minute Jonny could be touching him but isn’t counts as a punishment, but unless Jonny’s learned to read minds, he isn’t aware of that particular button.

Maybe Jonny just needs that much time to work himself up to whatever they’re doing. It has to be weird for him to suddenly be seeing Patrick in an erotic light, so it makes sense that he’d need a few minutes to flip the switch. That’s the most disappointingly realistic explanation, but Patrick can’t fault him for it. There was a moment in the game yesterday when Patrick looked down the bench at Jonny and flashed back to having Jonny’s come in his eyelashes. He tucked it away as well as you could tuck away a bolt of lightning, because he was a professional, and he kept it together for the rest of the night except for a split second when Jonny was snarling in a ref’s face about a penalty he definitely didn’t commit and absolutely shouldn’t be put in the box for.

Mm—maybe that’s what he should be thinking about. He cranks up the water, remembers Jonny yelling, remembers Jonny’s not-entirely-legal check against the guy who slammed Patrick into the boards. He remembers Jonny caging him up against the bookshelf, remembers (again, and always, over and over) Jonny saying, Baby, you’ve got my come on your face and then kissing the thin skin of Patrick’s throat. He remembers the shower after, how Jonny had insisted on coming with him, how Jonny stood there and held him for what must have been at least thirty minutes. His worry over what’s coming next hasn’t dissipated, but it’s faded to a low background thrum, something that doesn’t stand up against the memory of Jonny’s fingers circling his wrists. Jonny told him to think about that shower, and he’s doing what Jonny told him, and in just a minute Jonny’s going to spread him out on the bed and, maybe, if Patrick’s very good, he’ll kiss Patrick—

“Hey, Peeks,” Jonny says, and Patrick, who wasn’t aware he had closed them, opens his eyes and blinks.

He manages to drag himself back together and move his mouth to ask, “Has it been fifteen minutes?”

Jonny smiles. “Yeah,” he says, “it’s been fifteen minutes. Ready to get out?” Patrick nods dumbly and shuts off the water; when he steps out, Jonny wraps a towel around him. It’s warm. The towel—although Jonny is, too. He’d stripped off his shirt at some point, although he’s still wearing his track pants, and after he wraps Patrick in the warm towel (more of a towel blanket, really—was this hiding in one of Patrick’s linen closets the whole time?), he snags another towel and starts to dry Patrick’s hair.

“That felt good,” Patrick admits.

“Good,” Jonny says, satisfied. “And you put a clock on the counter, too—that was smart. I wanted you in here for at least a quarter of an hour, but I didn’t want you to cut yourself off with an alarm, either.” A little happy glow curls into being in Patrick’s chest. Yeah he was smart—he knew Jonny wouldn’t want him to treat it like a race. He was good for Jonny—only a little good, but maybe that would be enough…?

Yes. It’s enough; Jonny must read the tilt of his head, the way his eyes are fluttering shut, because he takes a small, sharp breath, and then he leans down and kisses Patrick. Patrick doesn’t know if this is indulgence or reward, but he was good for Jonny, and now Jonny’s kissing him. It’s what he wants, what he always wanted. He hasn’t been waiting, because that implies a whole host of other things: expectance of eventual reciprocity, or some kind of revolting confession on Patrick’s part, or devaluing an enormously important friendship in which Patrick has drawn himself extremely strict boundaries to make sure he isn’t violating Jonny’s trust. Patrick hasn’t been waiting, he’s just been enduring.

But now he gets a respite in the form of Jonny’s hot mouth covering his own, in the form of Jonny’s fingers catching him by the chin and taking control, in the form of Jonny hauling Patrick up against his big solid body like he’s as swept away by this as Patrick is. It’s good. It’s so good. Of course it is; Patrick was good for Jonny, and now Jonny’s being good to him.

Except then Jonny pulls away. Patrick goes up on his tiptoes to chase Jonny’s lips, but Jonny says, “No.” It’s only the third time they’ve kissed. Patrick jerks back so hard he slams into the glass door of the shower behind him, and Jonny swears and hauls him forward and says, “Whoa, I didn’t mean it like that—hey, babe, you’re okay.” He tugs the towel back up over Patrick’s shoulders. “You’re okay,” he says, “shh, you’re so good.” And then he guides Patrick’s face into his shoulder and cups a hand over the back of Patrick’s neck. “You’re okay,” he says again, “you’re okay, Peeks. You’re good. You are so good.”

Why is he—?

“Shh, baby, I’m sorry,” he says, “I didn’t mean you couldn’t kiss me, that you were bad for kissing me.” He presses a kiss to the top of Patrick’s head as proof and starts to card his fingers through Patrick’s damp hair with the hand that isn’t wrapped around his waist. “I only told you no because I had a plan, and that plan was about to go out the window in favor of fucking you up against the bathroom wall.” His voice is so low, low and warm, but a little… the word isn’t there. It’s how he sounds after cap trades and family losses. “Not exactly what I imagined for the first time we…” He cuts himself off. Why is he—? “But we’ll get there. You’re okay, baby.” Soothing. Or—gentling. Like you’d gentle a high-strung horse. “You’re okay, Peeks. We’re okay.”

Patrick snaps back into his body. He’s shaking. Fuck. “You’re so good for me,” Jonny is saying, and Patrick grits his teeth and forces himself to be still. His body fights him the whole way. It’s like trying to convince himself to stop shivering when he’s naked outside in a snowstorm, but he throws the force of his will into it and finally, finally, he makes himself stop quivering.

“Sorry,” he says, hoping he doesn’t sound like he’s overcompensating and coming off as too bright. “Guess I just got startled—”

Jonny pulls back a little so he can look at Patrick’s face, but he’s still entirely too close; their foreheads are almost touching. “What?” he says. “You don’t have to apologize—”

“For freaking out?” Patrick snaps, and then he flinches at his own temerity, and something in Jonny’s face strengthens.

“No,” he says in a voice that brooks no disobedience, “you don’t have to apologize for freaking out.”

“I… okay.”

“Patrick, you don’t have to…” He looks away, sighs. Fuck, Patrick’s just fucking it up all over the place. “You’re allowed to have any reaction you have,” he says, and then he makes a face at himself and looks Patrick dead in the eye. “I encourage you to let yourself have whatever reaction happens naturally. You don’t have to… try to shut yourself down, or apologize because you think…” He closes his eyes. “Because you think you aren’t giving me what I want.” His eyes open again, and Patrick, who sometimes find the weight of Jonny’s regard too much to bear under ordinary conditions, almost blows apart from the gravity of that attention. “You always give me what I want,” he says, firm. “You are always what I want. Okay?”

Patrick swallows. He isn’t sure about anything, but Jonny—he trusts Jonny. “Okay,” he says.

Jonny exhales. “Okay.” He bumps his forehead against Patrick’s to lighten the tension, and then he says, “Wanna watch the new Batman movie? You can talk as much shit as you want.”

What? “Aren’t we…?”

“Probably not a good idea,” Jonny says. “You get some clothes on, and I’ll—”

“No,” Patrick says.

Jonny raises his eyebrows. “No?”

“No,” Patrick says, his voice strengthening. “No. I still want to—I want to go to bed. With you. I want you to fuck me.” He meets Jonny’s gaze and adds, “Please.”

“Please, huh.” Jonny steps into him, pressing him gently up against the wall. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. He just… he wants this, and to hell with what he’s supposed to do. He isn’t going to let reflexes drilled into him by by the outside world steal this from him. This is his. And what really helps is that he can’t look at Jonny this close without eventually cracking, but when he smiles, Jonny smiles back.

“Yes?”

Patrick bumps against him. “Yes, you perfect jackass.”

“Are you steering the ship now?”

“Steering the ship—I’ll steer your ship if you don’t hurry up,” Patrick threatens. “C’mon, Jonny Hustle.”

“Rude,” Jonny says, but he bends down and steal a swift, sure kiss—their fourth kiss—before he tugs Patrick into the bedroom. “Okay, Peeks, you win.”

“Hang on,” Patrick says, “my hair—”

“Nope, we’re both going to have to deal with your hair not being plastered to your head.”

“Ugh, fine,” Patrick says. Jonny’s still walking them backwards in the direction of Patrick’s bed, and after a moment of hesitation, Patrick lets the towel drop. Something kindles in Jonny’s eyes, and he says, “What’s your safeword?”

“Lamp,” Patrick answers obediently. Well, it’s his safeword now.

“And you’re still okay with not using a condom?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “Yeah, definitely okay.” They’re both clean, and saying he prefers it is an understatement.

“Great,” Jonny says, and then he leans in and kisses Patrick for a fifth time. Patrick still isn’t sure where this is going, but he lets Jonny kiss him. Jonny’s hands settle on his ribcage and then slide down to his hips, and he tugs Patrick forward so Patrick’s cock bumps into his thigh. Jonny’s hard, too, and when Jonny starts laying a row of kisses down his chin and jaw, Patrick groans and says, “Pants?”

“Huh?” Jonny looks stupidly dazed, his hair sticking up in clumps, eyes heavy; so Patrick wraps his arms around Jonny’s neck, asking wordlessly for a sixth kiss, and Jonny obliges. What was he… right. “Pants,” he gasps into Jonny’s mouth, and Jonny says, “Oh, right,” and together they manage to shove his pants down before they fall together onto the bed in a not entirely graceful tangle of limbs and other body parts.

Patrick rolls all the way onto his back and pulls until Jonny settles on top of him. He draws his knees up, making more room for Jonny, and Jonny says, “You like that, babe? Me on top of you?”

“Maybe,” Patrick said, feeling coy, and he stretches his hands up above his head. He can watch Jonny’s eyes dilate from this close; it reminds him that Jonny is getting something out of this, too, even if it isn’t the same as what Patrick’s getting out of it. He sometimes has to remind himself that doms like this—like seeing a sub laid out for them, like calling the shots, like building a scene and having someone at their mercy. They get off on it, Jonny gets off on it, in the same way that Patrick gets off on being at someone’s mercy. Seeing Jonny’s pupils blow wide with arousal like that, even if it’s more the situation than Patrick himself, is quite literally something out of his dreams.

Jonny doesn’t let the moment stand for long; he drags his cheek against Patrick’s so their scruff rubs together, and Patrick laughs and shoves at his shoulders. “I’m going to have beard burn tomorrow, asshole.”

“Aw, baby, we were both going to have beard burn anyway,” Jonny says, and then he bites Patrick’s shoulder. Patrick feels his body ripple in response, and he knows, he just knows, that Jonny’s hiding a smirk. He bites Patrick’s collarbone—not hard, just a nip—and then lays a sucking kiss at the base of Patrick’s throat, and then he nudges under Patrick’s chin and opens his mouth and sets his teeth over Patrick’s windpipe. And Patrick—Patrick just tips his head back further, offers himself more; when he swallows, he can feels his throat move against Jonny’s teeth. Fuck.

Jonny drags his mouth up to peck Patrick’s chin and then kisses him deeply on the mouth. “What am I going to do with you?”

Patrick steals another kiss for himself. “You said you’d fuck me,” he reminds Jonny, this time not coy at all. He’s afraid he’s going to sound too sincere one of these days, and the game’s going to be up, but Jonny did say that.

“I did, didn’t I?” Jonny says. “Where do you keep your lube?”

“Up, please?”

Jonny kisses him again. “Since you asked so nicely,” he teases, and he rolls to the side so Patrick can flip over and crawl up the bed. His lube and a couple of his favorite toys are in the bottom drawer of his nightstand, and he flops down on his belly and yanks it open. He half expects Jonny to slap his ass, purely out of reflex, since in the spirit of sportsmanship they already slap each others’ asses half a dozen times every day, but Jonny surprises him by crawling up behind him and settling the full weight of his body on Patrick. “Find it?” he asks, pressing a kiss to Patrick’s shoulderblade. His cock is pressed between Patrick’s cheeks; Patrick tries not to think too hard about it, because otherwise this evening is going to be over immediately.

He digs out the lube he wants. “Yeah, here.”

“What else do you have in there?”

Patrick pulls the drawer the rest of the way open. “Nothing too exciting,” he says. A dildo, a plug, a vibrator, a couple of other different kinds of lube, and two lengths of rope he uses for self-restraint.

“Is that bamboo rope?” Jonny asks.

“Yeah,” Patrick says, a little surprised, although he guesses he shouldn’t be; Jonny had said that most of their interests line up, and that means Jonny’s probably pretty into rope bondage.

“Have you tried silk? It isn’t good for suspension, but I like the give.”

“No, I haven’t,” he says. “Haven’t tried suspension, either.”

“Think you’d be into it?”

Patrick has to consider it. Even with regular bondage, as much as he likes it, he tends to get antsy; he rarely allows his partners to tie his hands, and he always insists on having a pair of shears in sight. With the right partner, though, someone he really trusts? “Yeah,” he says. “I think I might be.”

“We’ll try it sometime, then.” Jonny kisses his ear and then reaches down to steal the lube. “C’mon,” he adds, and he takes Patrick by the hips and rolls him over.

“Oh, now you’re impatient?” Patrick says. He splays his legs again. There’s something incredibly satisfying about seeing Jonny framed between his thighs.

“Did you want me to make it last?” God, Jonny’s a cocky little shit when he wants to be. “Because I can drag it out.” He runs his hand from the crook of Patrick’s knee down the back of his thigh. “I can make it last until you’re begging. Until you’re crying.” He smirks. “If you want.”

Patrick swallows. “Maybe sometime,” he croaks, and Jonny chuckles. He gets his other arm under Patrick’s other leg, too, and rocks him back and open. “Oh fuck,” Patrick says. His dick jumps against his belly.

“What am I going to do with you,” Jonny says again. His gaze is fixed between Patrick’s legs, and Patrick can feel his hole twitch. He realizes this is the first time they’ve been naked together like this, and he starts to flush.

“Apparently just look at me,” he says, and he slides his hand down over his belly and skims lightly over his cock, which likes Jonny just looking, and then down to his ass. Jonny has the lube, but Patrick’s ready to get this show on the road—or at least, he is until Jonny catches his hand.

“Nope,” Jonny says. “I’m doing that.”

“Yeah? What if I want to open myself up?”

“You won’t,” Jonny says, confident.

“Why?” Patrick says, pushy in a way he normally wouldn’t be in this position. “What are you gona do about it?”

“Nothing,” Jonny says. “Because you want to obey me. Don’t you?” He isn’t even looking at Patrick’s face.

Patrick sucks in a breath. “Yeah, Jonny,” he says.

“Yeah,” Jonny says, “I know you do,” and then he cuts the tension by stretching Patrick’s leg up and smacking a kiss to his anklebone. He leaves Patrick’s foot propped against his shoulder while he opens the lube and pours it on his palm. Patrick’s momentarily derailed when Jonny doesn’t jump straight to fingering him open, but then he realizes that Jonny’s warming the lube between his hands, and that, oddly enough, does make him flush.

“You’re gonna need more lube than that,” he announces.

“Why’s that?”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “If you want me to take that thing…” Jonny smirks and jacks his cock a couple of times, which has exactly the effect he wants in that it reminds Patrick exactly how large Jonny’s cock is. Patrick groans. “Of course you’d get off on how big your dick is.”

“Nah,” Jonny says, and just like that he slides a finger into Patrick. Patrick gasps, and Jonny adds, “But I get off on you getting off on how big my dick is.”

“You fucker,” Patrick breathes.

Jonny just smiles and nudges a second finger against Patrick’s rim. “Relax for me,” he coaxes, and Patrick, who doesn’t want to do anything but obey, feels his body give. Taking a second finger so fast is—it’s not too much, not by a long shot, but it gives the stretch a sweet sharpness.

“Good, Peeks,” Jonny says. He withdraws to add a little more lube and then dips his fingers back in. “I love seeing you like this.”

“Any time you want,” Patrick gets out.

Jonny laughs softly. “Shouldn’t make an open-ended offer like that.”

“That’s why I have an agent to negotiate for me,” Patrick jokes, although it’s getting increasingly difficult to keep up the banter. The world’s starting to get a little fuzzy around the edges, and he starts to reach for his cock and then stops. “Jonny,” he says, “can I—”

“Yeah, babe, you can touch yourself,” Jonny says. “But don’t come until I’m inside you, okay?”

“Okay,” Patrick says, and right when he wraps his hand around his cock, Jonny works a third finger inside him. He strokes himself a couple of times, just little teasing touches, nothing too firm because he’s throbbing and he has to be good for Jonny.

He isn’t sure how long they stay like that, Jonny sliding his fingers in and out while Patrick loses himself, but eventually Jonny says, “Touch your nipples with your other hand.” Jonny crooks his fingers, and Patrick jerks but manages to reach up and tweak one of his nubs. He’s having trouble paying attention to anything but Jonny and Jonny’s four fingers being inside him now and Jonny’s huge cock that’s going to be inside him soon, but the bite of his fingernail against the bud and then a soft touch feels good. Not as good as if Jonny bit and then sucked on his nipples, but—

“Does that feel good?”

“Yeah,” Patrick agrees.

“Are you sensitive there?”

“Think so,” Patrick says, and then Jonny takes his fingers out. Patrick responds by making the most embarrassing sound, an involuntary whine that he cuts off as soon as he realizes it’s coming from him.

“Shh, just a minute,” Jonny says. “Patrick. Patrick, look at me.” Patrick blinks at him, and Jonny says, “Listen, baby, okay? I take more time opening you up if you want—”

“No,” Patrick says. He’d kind of zoned out there, but Jonny’s already been—it’s been, god, at least ten minutes of Jonny slowly working him open, probably more.

“Okay,” Jonny says. “Then I need you to stick with me until I’m in. I’m going to go slow, and I don’t think it’ll be a problem, but you have to let me know if it hurts. Can you do that?”

“Yeah, Jonny,” he says, and then, “I can take you,” which might be overconfident given Jonny’s size, but he just—he knows. Patrick’s built an entire career out of training his body to read and react to Jonny. He knows. Jonny’s gonna fuck his big cock into Patrick and it’s going to be amazing, for them both. Jonny will see how good he can be, and if Patrick’s already ruined for anyone else, maybe he can ruin Jonny a little bit right back.

“All right, baby,” Jonny says, and then he lets go of the leg Patrick still has stretched straight up against his front and gets his arms under Patrick’s knees. When Jonny bends forward Patrick is folded almost in half, and he loves it, fucking loves it, almost as much as he loves that first push of the head of Jonny’s cock into his hole.

“Jesus fucking christ,” Jonny swears, “how the fuck are you this tight—” but Patrick doesn’t have the words to tell him that Jonny’s just that big. He’s too caught up in everything else, in how Jonny’s already the thickest thing he’s had inside him, in how he’s pinned under Jonny and loving it, in how he’s completely Jonny’s to use however Jonny wants. He’s trembling again, just like he was in the bathroom earlier, but this time he’s overcome not by something bad but something so good he’s barely able to contain it.

And then Jonny’s in him, Jonny’s inside of him, Jonny’s driving so deep in the tight clutch of Patrick’s hole that Patrick’s shaped around him. This is what he was always meant for. Nothing else—just this, because this is who he was always meant for.

“Jonny,” he says, helpless, and Jonny says, “God. Baby. I know,” and shoves that last inch in. He holds himself there, like that, even though Patrick can tell he’s shaking almost as much as Patrick himself.

“Okay?” he asks.

Patrick can’t even pull himself together enough to answer, but he reaches up and touches Jonny’s face, and without breaking eye contact, Jonny twists and presses a kiss to Patrick’s palm.

“Yes,” Patrick says, “okay.”

“Okay,” Jonny agrees, and he hikes one of Patrick’s legs up around his own hips and braces his now-free arm next to Patrick’s head so Patrick is opened up in an asymmetric stretch. At this new angle, their height difference is great enough that Jonny’s mouth is level with Patrick’s eyes; if he wants to kiss Jonny, he has to tip his head back and up to the same degree as when they’re standing. He waits like that, back overarched, until Jonny tilts down and kisses him at the same time he slides out and back in.

“Jonny,” Patrick begs again, and Jonny fucks into him again. “Jonny,” he pleads, and Jonny says, “Knew you’d be like this—I knew—” and Patrick thinks about working a hand between their bodies to pump his cock, but Jonny’s pressed so heavy on top of him, barely pulling out before he grinds back in, and Patrick’s cock is caught between them, rubbing and bumping against Jonny’s abs. And it hardly matters—he’s stretched open so wide, wider than he’s ever been before, and he didn’t even know he’d like it this much, but he does: he likes how Jonny opens him up and takes him. Jonny can have whatever he wants. He can have it even if he doesn’t want it.

Jonny isn’t talking now, because they don’t need words, or—Patrick doesn’t have words. It doesn’t matter. They’re pouring themselves into each other, Jonny taking and Patrick giving, Jonny’s hips rolling into him and filling Patrick up. He has to drag his cock out of Patrick’s hole because it’s so desperate to cling to him; Patrick can feel the drag, the way his body wants Jonny inside so badly, the way his rim is stretched as wide as possible before the sweet bite edges into pain. From above Jonny would be covering him, and maybe that’s the right word, cover, not just because Patrick’s enveloped but for the husbandry of it, too. Jonny’s grinding his giant dick right into Patrick’s hole, dragging right over Patrick’s prostate, and even that delirious pleasure pales in comparison to the knowledge that all of this feeling and sensation is because of Jonny. Jonny’s moving over him, and Patrick—Patrick isn’t going to last, but he’s trying so hard, even though—even though Jonny hasn’t said he can—

And that’s when Jonny grabs Patrick by the back of the hair, drags his head back, and growls, “Come.”

As Patrick hurtles over the edge, he has just enough presence of mind to watch in shock as his body shakes apart in a way it never has before, and then that last scrap of awareness is blown away, too. Someone is screaming, but it can’t be him, because he doesn’t make noise like that when he’s having sex. It can’t be him, because he’s been taken apart by a tidal crash.

And the water starts to recede a little, enough that he remembers having a body—

And he remembers that his body belongs to Jonny—

And he realizes that Jonny is still moving in him—

And Jonny says Patrick’s name and comes inside of him—

And the white tide rolls back in and rips Patrick apart again.

-

Jonny’s kissing him when he finally surfaces, a sweet kiss completely at odds with the way he devoured Patrick before. Patrick blinks again, and the fuzzy oval of Jonny’s face resolves into a soft smile.

“Hey,” Jonny says. “Back with me?”

Patrick stares up at him. “I didn’t know missionary worked like that.”

Jonny laughs. “Maybe you’ve been having sex with the wrong people,” he teases, as if Patrick didn’t already know that. “Feeling okay? Didn’t pull anything in your legs?”

Patrick’s still feeling absent, so it takes him a minute to recall having legs. He stretches a little, spreads his toes out; he feels, as inadequate as the word is, good.

“Don’t think so,” he says. “Jonny.”

“Yeah?”

“Jonny, that was…” He doesn’t know how to express what he’s feeling, how much he hopes that tonight was at least a fraction as good for Jonny as it was for Patrick, but then he feels something wet dripping out of his tender hole—a different consistency than the lube. Thicker, stickier. “You came inside of me,” he says, probably sounding even dumber than he feels.

“Yeah, Peeks, I did.” Jonny’s propped up on his side, his free hand flat against Patrick’s ribcage, but he slides the hand lower until it smears over the come on Patrick’s stomach. His own come, because Jonny’s come is a lot further down. “Will you be okay for a second?”

“Why?”

“Gotta clean you up,” Jonny says, and Patrick must make some noise of dissent, because Jonny adds, “Trust me, baby.” And Patrick does, so he waits right on the verge of sleep as Jonny retrieves a warm washcloth and a bottle of water. He coaxes Patrick into drinking a little, and then he wipes down Patrick’s stomach and over his pubic hair and soft dick but, crucially, not between his legs. Then he goes away again, and Patrick starts to feel his absence keenly enough to cut through his drowsiness, but the lights cut out and the bed dips. Patrick’s played games where he was on the ice for twenty-four minutes or more that were less satisfying and less exhausting than this.

Jonny pulls the covers over them and then rolls Patrick into the warm curve of his body. “All right if I stay?”

Patrick grabs blindly at his hand. “Don’t go,” he says sleepily, and then, “What was the surprise?”

“Huh?”

“Surprise in bed,” he says, although part of that gets swallowed by a yawn. The room is dark and cool, and Jonny’s so warm; and he must have been good, because Jonny’s still here. “It was nice of you to change your plan after I. You know.” Freaked out, he doesn’t say. He isn’t sure he could’ve handled anything difficult or demanding. This, the laughter and the gentleness and then the intensity, was exactly… perfect. He’ll have to remember to tell Jonny when he wakes up.

And he’s never been kissed on the mouth so many times before in one day by another person. Jonny had kissed him so often that he almost lost count—kissed him over and over and over again, sipping him, drinking him, swallowing him; but Patrick hadn’t lost count. Jonny’s kissed him twenty-eight times tonight, and with the two kisses from before, that brings them to an even thirty.

The last thing he hears before he drifts off to sleep is Jonny’s voice. “Baby,” Jonny says softly, “I didn’t change a thing.”

4. Chapter 4

Notes for the Chapter:

Recommended listening: Just Say Yes serves much better as a Jonny POV than anything I could write.

“Do you have one of those little screwdrivers for eyeglasses?” Jonny says from the other room. He isn’t quite yelling, but Patrick lowers the volume on the TV anyway; he’s watching Minnesota at Ohio State while he reads, but not with any real attention. It sounds like Jonny’s rummaging through the kitchen drawers, which can only mean one thing.

“I’m not even sure I have glasses at this point,” he calls back. A couple of seconds later Jonny’s head pops around the wall, and he says, “Is that a no?”

“You can check under the bathroom sink where my contacts are,” Patrick offers, “but if you’re trying to fix the watch again—”

“I just have one more thing I want to try before I give up,” Jonny says, which is what he’s been saying for the past three months. He has about six different watches and no real attachment to this particular watch, but some YouTube video he found online convinced him he could fix it in under ten minutes. He couldn’t, but by that point Jonny versus the watch was an established struggle, and obviously Jonny wasn’t going to let the watch win.

“Uh huh,” Patrick says, and Jonny narrows his eyes before he vanishes again, presumably in the direction of the bathroom. Patrick rolls his eyes and turns the TV back up again.

It’s been almost a week since they had sex, long enough that Patrick’s starting to wonder if they’re finished with that interlude. He’d been sore the next morning, and Jonny had produced a little tube of ointment and told Patrick to put his arms above his head and leave them there; then he’d gently and shallowly fingered the ointment into Patrick while giving him a blow job that definitely knocked a couple of screws loose in Patrick’s brain. It was the second time he’d had sex so good it almost made him cry, and the first time had been only the night before.

Since then they’ve been on the road for most of the week, and both of them have been fighting colds, but Jonny still hasn’t made any overtures. There were a couple of nights when they fell asleep in the same hotel bed, but that wasn’t unusual. Patrick never invited himself into Jonny’s bed, but if Jonny scooted over and made room for him, he didn’t say no; and occasionally they dozed off like that together. Patrick would always jerk awake a couple of hours later and creep back to his own room, but two nights ago he woke up in Jonny’s arms, thought, Fuck it, and let himself fall back asleep. When he woke up, Jonny was still holding him. No wonder they’d caught the same cold.

Patrick looks back down at his tablet, winces, and looks back up again. He’s not sure why he keeps doing this to himself, but the headline caught his eye. If they’re saying something about Tyler—

“No luck,” Jonny announces.

“Would tweezers work?” Patrick wonders out loud.

“Tried that,” Jonny says. He grunts as he drops down on the couch next to Patrick. “This last night’s game?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. He tosses the remote in Jonny’s lap and uses the motion to cover how he settles back into the corner of the couch so his screen tilts away from Jonny. The last thing he needs is Jonny seeing this and getting worked up or, worse, wondering if some two-bit pap site could be right.

‘SEGUIN BOTTOMS OUT’ is the article title, which is a pun so terrible and demeaning Patrick isn’t sure how they got away with it. The first paragraph or two at least make an effort to talk about Segs’ point production, but by paragraph three the piece is openly speculating about his wild sex life and how it affects his on-ice performance. Patrick doesn’t doubt that some of it’s true, because Tyler deals with being a sub and a professional athlete in ways that are far less healthy than Patrick’s more even approach; instead of being publicly neutral on his dynamic, Tyler’s solution is apparently to let every dom in Texas take a turn tying him up and then make sure he strips down the next day so the cameras catch not only his fuck-me abs but also the dark bruises coloring his skin that just skirt the edge of what is contractually acceptable for the amount of damage he can allow to his body outside of the rink. If bouncing from one dom’s bed to the next makes him happy, Patrick supports him, but there’s a look he sometimes gets when they meet up, one Patrick doubts Tyler allows any doms to see, that suggests he isn’t.

Either way, none of that has anything to do with how Segs plays. He doesn’t deserve this shit. It pisses Patrick off. And, of course, towards the end of the article, the writer turned from speculating about Tyler to speculating about Patrick. Patrick knows it’s sensationalist garbage, but it still makes a small, ashamed part of him want to curl up and hide. It’s all the same old self-contradictory shit he’s been hearing for years, if less threatening than what people say to him on the ice: that he lacks the ability to play a physical game, that no dom wants a sub with bruises they haven’t put there themselves, that someone needs to force him to his knees and make him choke on a cock.

“We should go to a Bears game next week,” Jonny’s saying. And then he’s right there, leaning into Patrick’s space, because Patrick doesn’t bother hiding anything on his screen from Jonny and hasn’t in years, even when he’s reading some lurid teen romance that’s only barely a step up from the kind of paperback with a waifish sub in a sorcerer’s robe swooning against the boot of a faceless dom on the cover. Jonny sometimes makes fun of Patrick by calling him a closeted romantic, and Patrick hopes to god Jonny never figures out how close to the truth he is.

He tries to flip apps, but he’s too late. “Peeks,” Jonny says. “What are you looking at?”

“Come on, Tazer, even you give in and google yourself every now and then,” Patrick says, but even he knows it’s a weak effort. “A Bears game sounds good, we haven’t been in a—”

Jonny takes the tablet right out of his hands. “What’s this?”

Patrick snorts. “Garbage. I hate when they drag Segs through the mud.” Maybe Jonny won’t read the whole thing. Maybe, if he can tell Patrick’s upset, he’ll think Patrick’s just upset for a friend (even if ‘friend’ doesn’t exactly encompass Patrick’s relationship with Tyler; they’re more like friends who are also in the same foxhole). “Want me to look up tickets?” he tries, but then this thunderous expression crosses Jonny’s face, and the game is up.

“They’re talking about you,” he says. The hard way he says it is enough to send a chill down Patrick’s spine. Some part of his animal brain always responds when Jonny uses that tone.

“Yeah, well. It happens.”

“Why are you reading this shit?” Jonny snaps, and that same animal instinct, the one that’s way too attuned to Jonny, tells him that he’s done something wrong, that he’s made Jonny angry, that he’s worthless unless he makes this right.

Because someone sent it to me, Patrick doesn’t say. All things considered, Jonny is pretty great in public about letting Patrick fight his own battles other than the literal ones. It ticks him off when people minimize Patrick’s accomplishments, but he seems to be aware that continually and aggressively jumping to Patrick’s defense would only reinforce the idea that a sub had no place in the Blackhawks locker room. The key words there are in public. Behind closed doors, Patrick has seen Jonny try to murder reporters through TV screens with the sheer strength of his rage. That’s just how he is as a captain, willing to treat the problems of every one of his teammates like they were his own; and on Patrick’s side, it always feels good to let Jonny be angry for him. Patrick has to stay calm, keep an even head, let his talent speak for him. Jonny’s reactions give him a much-needed, if vicarious, catharsis.

The worst part is that Jonny has scrolled back up and is reading the whole section that talks about Patrick. “‘On the other hand, we hardly ever see the NHL’s other favorite sub on his knees,’” Jonny quotes. “‘We’re still not sure Kaner’s really a sub, though—otherwise, he’d let himself get boarded a lot more often. Does it really count as a penalty if the guy getting hit is also getting off?’”

Patrick can’t help it. He hopes Jonny doesn’t see, but he can’t help but jerk when he hears those words from Jonny’s mouth. He knows Jonny doesn’t mean it, but—

“Don’t. Please,” comes out of his mouth.

“I can’t believe anyone believes a word of—” And Jonny looks over. “Oh, baby.”

“It’s fine,” Patrick says. He has himself under tight control: still, patient, featureless.

“It’s horseshit,” Jonny counters, but at least he isn’t using that hard-edged tone anymore. “Hey, come here.” He lifts his arm, and Patrick…

Part of him thinks that giving in and accepting the comfort Jonny is offering would be tantamount to an admission. He isn’t sure what he’d be admitting, but he knows he doesn’t want to admit it. The other part thinks he’s a moron; he’s feeling shitty, and Jonny wants to hug him, so why not let himself be hugged? Maybe all that sex really is wearing down his walls, because he gives in and lets Jonny wraps him up. Jonny settles his chin on Patrick’s head, and after a moment, Patrick hears himself sigh.

“I didn’t realize it still got to you that much,” Jonny says.

“I’m used to it,” Patrick mumbles into Jonny’s chest.

“You know it’s bull, all that trash about how you can’t play. Christ, Peeks, you’re one of the best players of our generation. In thirty years no one is going to remember anything but your name and your records and how you carved out a space for subs in the league.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, “it’s not—it’s not that.”

Jonny’s voice reverberates through his chest and right into Patrick’s head. “What is it, then?”

“Nothing,” Patrick mumbles. “I mean, I know I’m a great player, and fuck them if they don’t.” He’s never doubted that, not once.

Jonny goes quiet. Patrick can’t decide if he wants Jonny to put together the pieces he’s obviously collecting, and he feels a little mad at himself for saying anything. It’s not Jonny’s job to put up with Patrick’s self-pity, and yet he’s probably still going to try to comfort Patrick—to make Patrick feel better regardless of the truth of the situation.

“Peeks,” Jonny starts. “Do you…” Patrick rarely hears him so careful.

“I know I shouldn’t let it bother me,” Patrick cuts in.

“No, babe,” Jonny says, “you’re allowed to let it bother you.” He stops, takes a breath, starts again. “I think… that a lot of people have spent a long time trying to convince you that you’re a bad sub. Or bad for being a sub,” he amends. “Both, actually.”

“Don’t,” Patrick says again, but with a sharper edge of warning. He cannot have this conversation with Jonny, because Jonny doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.

“Fine.” Jonny sounds angry, but his arm stays around Patrick. Patrick twists his body and turns his face more fully into Jonny’s chest. He’s aware that trying to hide from Jonny by burrowing into Jonny is probably a pretty dumb tactic, but no one has ever accused Patrick of being a genius when he’s not wearing skates. Sometimes he has instincts he doesn’t understand, and often those instincts surface around Jonny. Now that he’s older, especially, he wishes he’d spent more time around other subs. Everyone else in his family is adynamic.

“Can I at least throw your tablet out the window?”

“What?” Patrick says. “No!”

“It would make me feel better.”

“Until I make you go out and buy me a new tablet.”

“Worth it,” Jonny says.

“You’re a nutcase,” Patrick says. He rubs his cheek one last time against the front of Jonny’s boyfriend hoodie and pulls away. “Still want to go to a Bears game?”

“Yeah, okay,” Jonny says. He keeps his arm slung over the back of the couch while Patrick buys tickets. On the TV, Minnesota scores shorthanded. They’d talked about going out tonight, but it’s currently snowing and Patrick’s still dragging from the cold, to be honest.

“Wanna watch a movie?” he asks.

“Actually,” Jonny says, and that’s how fifteen minutes later Patrick is sitting on the floor in his bedroom while Jonny sorts through lengths of rope. Unlike Jonny, who has a dedicated room like a lot of doms, Patrick doesn’t have a place specifically for scening; he never saw the point in wasting resources, but he kind of likes having Jonny fuck him somewhere as intimate as his bedroom anyway.

“Go ahead and stretch for me,” Jonny says. “I want you warmed up.”

“I… yeah, okay,” Patrick says. At least he understands now why Jonny had him sit on the floor. He runs through a couple of basic stretches and then sinks into Warrior I and arches his back as far as he can. He feels his front open up, all the way down from the lines of his arms to his belly, especially after he switches legs; and then he settles back down on the floor with one leg in front of him and the heel of the other foot snugged up against his groin.

When he walks his hands out so his forehead touches the knee of his outstretched leg, Jonny says, “Jesus.”

Patrick’s ears must be turning red. He isn’t… not showing off. He switches legs without looking at Jonny and goes into another flat forward bend. After a count of thirty, he tucks both legs under him, sits back on his heels, and looks up at Jonny. “Good enough?”

Jonny’s staring down at Patrick, his mouth open. “Uh, yeah,” he says. “Come on, come here.” He offers a hand to Patrick and pulls him to his feet, the same easy gesture they’ve made a thousand times before while hauling each other off the bench or bumping together in celebration. When Patrick’s on his feet, Jonny strips his shirt over his head and then unceremoniously strips Patrick of his pants, too. While Patrick was stretching he rearranged the bedding, leaving only two pillows at the head and folding the blankets to the very foot of the bed. “Kneel for me in the middle of the mattress,” he says.

When Patrick’s settled in position, he watches curiously as Jonny continues pulling things out of his canvas bag. Patrick hadn’t even realized Jonny brought any gear with him; he must have planned this, unless he regularly carried a rope kit with him, but Patrick doesn’t think Jonny’s sleeping with anyone else right now. He would’ve told Patrick for safety reasons, if nothing else.

Next to the rope on the dresser Jonny puts a set of medical shears and then a lacquer box about the size of a shoebox, followed by what Patrick can tell are some kind of chocolate bars. When everything’s arranged to his liking, he asks, “Do you like being blindfolded?”

Patrick’s not normally a fan, but with Jonny… “I think I would,” he answers truthfully.

Jonny looks over at him, sharp. “Has nobody ever blindfolded you?”

“I don’t like it with other people, but I, uh—I think I’d like with, you know.” Fuck. “With you.”

“Okay,” Jonny says. His voice is neutral. “We’ll try that. And being gagged was on your list of limits, right?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. He doesn’t want to explain that he learned the hard way how much not fun being gagged is when you’re anticipating using your safeword, even if you’ve set up another signal with your dom.

“Good,” Jonny says. He finally approaches the bed holding a couple of bundles of white rope. “I’m going to rig you first and then blindfold you,” he says. “What’s your safeword?”

“Lamp,” Patrick says, and then Jonny starts binding him. He starts with Patrick’s right leg, wrapping a loop around and around Patrick’s folded thigh and shin and then threading the separated strands of the tail between the back of Patrick’s thigh and his calf. His hands are quick and sure; he’s obviously done this before, a lot, but as always, Patrick’s biting shame at his own entitlement is enough to push back the surge of jealousy.

“This is raw silk rope,” Jonny says. “Feel how soft it is?”

“Yes,” Patrick says.

Jonny slips two fingers beneath the tie, checking the tension. “Feel okay?”

“Feels good,” Patrick admits.

“This is going to be a longer scene than I normally try when it’s my first time doing this kind of stress position with a sub,” Jonny says, “but I trust you. Numbness, tingling, even if you’re just uncomfortable in a bad way, let me know. This is new rope, and I checked it over, but if anything catches, let me know. If you safeword, I’m cutting you free. Okay?”

“Yes, Jonny,” Patrick says.

“Good.” Jonny switches side then, and binds his left leg, too. When he’s finished, Patrick’s in a frog tie, quite literally trapped on his knees until Jonny decides to free him. If Jonny so much as breathes on his cock, he’s going to come. “Hands behind your back,” Jonny instructs.

Patrick blinks slowly. There’s more? He crosses his wrists at the small of his back, but Jonny rearranges him so his hands meet his opposite elbows. It isn’t uncomfortable, but neither is it a position that feels natural.

“Do you know what I’m doing?”

“A box tie?” Patrick hazards.

“Good. Yeah, this is a box tie.” He passes a length of cord around Patrick’s upper chest, tests the tension; most of what he’s doing Patrick can’t see, even if he could twist his head around without ruining the balance of the pose, but that only builds his anticipation. When he looks down at his lap, his cock is flushed and rosy and wet.

When Jonny is done, Patrick’s hands are secured behind his back, his nipples framed by parallel lines of rope both above and below. Jonny slips two fingers into his hand and says, “Squeeze twice.” Patrick does. “Good.”

If Jonny left him like this long enough, Patrick thinks he could probably come without even being touched, just from the knowledge that Jonny’s knots are restraining him. He writhes a little, testing the security, and then tries to close his legs, but Jonny, who climbed off the bed and circled back around to Patrick’s front, says, “No, baby. Keep them open.”

“Okay,” Patrick says.

Jonny’s looking down at him, his gaze boring into Patrick. “Look at you,” he says, and he takes Patrick gently by the chin, lifts his head, and brushes a thumb over his lips. “Those eyes… maybe I shouldn’t blindfold you.” Patrick blinks, confused, but Jonny says, “I think it’ll be worth it for your reaction, though.” He takes his hand away and turns back to the dresser; when he comes back, he slips the blindfold around Patrick’s head, and that’s it—Patrick is completely at Jonny’s mercy.

Normally his heart would be racing at this point, too focused on getting this right, on getting out of his own head, on worrying about what his dom is thinking and what they’re going to do and how he’s going to push through this when he can’t trust that they’ll take care of him, but now it’s pounding for a different reason. Anticipation. No, that’s not exactly right. Eagerness.

The mattress dips in front of him, and he finds himself straining towards Jonny’s presence. Jonny chuckles a little, low, and then he says, “Easy, Peeks.” Patrick tries to make himself settle, but it’s impossible despite the security of the ropes. When Jonny kisses him, he almost explodes into some kind of shimmering cloud.

He can’t see Jonny, and he’s bound in a way that means he can’t press his front against Jonny, so Jonny’s mouth against his is their sole, isolated point of contact. Jonny kisses hard, and then he sets a gentle hand against Patrick’s throat, and then he kisses harder. Patrick’s mouth is going to be bruised tomorrow; between that and the rope marks, he’ll be reminded of Jonny every time he looks at himself. And other people might see the marks, his lips, his arms, and they won’t know Jonny put them there, but they’ll know that at least for one night Patrick was owned.

“What do you think I’m going to do to you first?” Jonny says against his mouth.

“Hopefully get this show on the road,” Patrick retorts, and—fuck. “Sorry,” he says. “Sorry, I didn’t—”

“Peeks. Baby,” Jonny says. “Baby, it’s okay, shh. We talked about this, remember? You talk back all you want.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “Yeah. We talked about this.”

“We did,” Jonny says. “I know you want to be good for me, but you’re so good already. So besides getting this show on the road…” He drops another kiss on Patrick’s mouth and then stays close enough that Patrick can feel the curve of his smile, “what do you think I’m going to do?”

Patrick considers. He isn’t really sure. Other than the rope, it didn’t look like Jonny brought anything else big with him, and Patrick’s not really in a position to be fucked, or even to suck Jonny’s cock. In the absence of any other clues, he’s left only with what he wants to happen. He thinks about asking Jonny to kiss him again, but Jonny just did that, which leaves…

“My nipples?” he asks.

“You want me to touch your nipples?”

This feels like a trap. What if he answers yes, and Jonny punishes him for it? But Jonny had said he’d never make Patrick guess what he wanted, so Patrick says, “Yes,” and then he remembers his manners and says, “Please.”

The next thing he feels is the brush of Jonny’s fingers against his jaw, and then Jonny splays his fingers in the narrow crevice between Patrick’s upper arms and his sides and brushes his thumbs over Patrick’s nipples. Patrick shivers at the pure, short, sweet sensation, and he sighs.

“Like that?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says.

Jonny moves his thumbs in circles around Patrick’s buds. “What do you say when someone gives you what you want, Peeks?”

“I, oh,” Patrick says. “Thank you.”

Jonny kisses him, the best kind of reward. “You’re welcome,” he says, and then, out of nowhere, he glides his hands down to Patrick’s flanks and starts to tickle him.

Patrick gasps and squirms. He can’t kick, can’t escape, can’t go anywhere; all he can do is struggle and take it. Jonny’s merciless, tickling over Patrick’s body and up the middle of his torso, stopping to tease his stiff little nipples, before tickling him under the chin. He tries to resist at first, but he can’t keep it up, and before long he starts letting little spurts of laughter escape until he’s outright giggling. “Jonny,” he gasps, and Jonny manages to get the creases of his hips and up until he’s tickling so, so lightly over Patrick’s erection, “Jonny—”

“Yeah, Peeks?” Jonny says. He sounds amused, maybe in sympathy, maybe in pleasure at Patrick’s predicament; and then he shifts around to Patrick’s side, so now at least part of Patrick is pressed against Jonny’s front. Patrick can feel Jonny’s dick pressed up along his hip, and then Jonny tickles the sole of his foot, and he starts squirming against Jonny’s cock. Jonny keeps one hand moving against Patrick’s feet and then reaches the other one around to brush over Patrick’s erection again, just these little fleeting, teasing touches that leave Patrick straining against the ropes because he aches so badly for Jonny’s touch. He feels out of control of his own body, twisting involuntarily, overwhelmed in a way that has nothing to do with pain.

Jonny’s hand leaves the soles of his feet and moves upward, fingers wriggling against Patrick’s bottom before they tickle over his exposed hole. “Fuck!” Patrick says, completely breathless, and he tries to jerk up off his heels, away from Jonny’s fingers, but he can’t. He wants—he wants more of that touch, but he also wants it to stop, and he’s just—he can’t—

He finds that he’s pressing himself harder into Jonny even as he writhes. “Jonny,” he says, helpless. “Jonny, please.”

“Please what, baby?” Jonny says.

“Please—”

Jonny’s hand goes even further underneath Patrick, until he’s gently tickling Patrick’s perineum and the back of his balls. “You want me to stop?”

“I,” Patrick gasps, “I don’t—”

“Or maybe you want me to touch you harder,” he says mildly, and then he works one dry finger into Patrick’s hole. Not far, just the tip to the first knuckle, but it’s what Patrick wants.

“Yeah,” he says. “Like that.”

“Like that, huh?” Jonny says. “You like me touching you here?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says again.

“How does it feel?”

“Empty,” Patrick says, hoping that Jonny will listen to him again, that he’ll fill Patrick up.

“Your poor little hole,” Jonny says, and he kisses the side of Patrick’s head. “It is empty, isn’t it?” His finger stays wedged inside of Patrick, and Patrick’s body clutches at it. Patrick can’t explain the duality of being aware how tight he is down there, with Jonny having to work just to get part of his finger inside of Patrick, while also being desperate for Jonny’s huge cock, for that closeness and the enormity of it.

“Yeah,” Patrick agrees. “I’m empty. Maybe you… maybe you could…?”

“You want me to fuck you, Peeks?”

“Yes, please,” Patrick says. He’s still so aware of how helpless he is, how he couldn’t get away from Jonny even if he wanted to. Instead of the usual spike of apprehension, he just feels safe.

“Not yet,” Jonny says, and then he draws his finger out of Patrick. Patrick whimpers and then bites it back, but it’s too late; that sound, that neediness, is out in the world.

Jonny doesn’t respond, just slips his fingers into one of Patrick’s hands. “Squeeze twice,” he orders, and Patrick does. “Good,” Jonny says. He kisses Patrick’s cheek, and then he’s gone.

Patrick whimpers again; he can’t help it, even though he hates the noise, hates how revealing it is. “I’m right here, baby,” Jonny says from behind him. “We’re going to play a game. How does that sound?”

“What kind of game?” He stops himself from saying his next comment, swallows, remembers Jonny told him it was okay, and says, “Is it the kind of game where you fuck me?”

Jonny laughs, and Patrick can picture his face when he does: the way his eyes go bright and soft, the crinkle at the corner, the way his grin unfolds across his face. “Eventually,” he says. “I know you want that. You want that the most, don’t you? Me fucking you? And we’ll get there, but first…” The mattress dips again, this time behind Patrick. He starts to list, unable to catch his balance, but Jonny gets an arm around his waist and keeps him upright, and then he rearranges Patrick so his legs are no longer spread but pressed together.

Jonny turns Patrick’s head and kisses him. “I’m going to touch you with something,” he says, “and you’re going to tell me what it is.”

Patrick frowns, not sure about that; the rest of him, his skin especially, feels more sensitive in the absence of sight, but he isn’t sure he can distinguish between sensations that easily. “I’ll try,” he says.

“I know you will,” Jonny says. “My good boy.” And then he lays something across Patrick’s lap. It weighs his cock down, pressing it against his thighs, a long, heavy, cool line that crosses his lap and drapes off the sides.

“What is it?” Jonny asks.

“A chain?” Patrick hazards. But a bigger chain, more the kind for bikes than for jewelry.

“Good job, baby,” Jonny says. Patrick was good. He didn’t think he—but Jonny was confident, Jonny knew he could do it. “I want you to keep that right there, okay?” Jonny says. “It isn’t attached to anything, so you’ll have to hold still.”

“No,” Patrick says, “what if I can’t—” If he moves too much, if he starts squirming again, the chain might slide down to his knees or slip off one side. “If I can’t, are you going to…”

“No, Peeks, I’m not going to punish you,” Jonny says. “I won’t have to. You’re so good for me, and you’re going to hold still while I make you feel nice, and then I’ll fuck you. All you have to do is keep that chain where it is.”

“Okay,” Patrick says. He wishes he could see Jonny, but there’s something incredible about this, too, about being completely cocooned with Jonny taking care of him.

“You can do it,” Jonny says.

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “Yeah, I can do it.”

“I know you can, baby,” Jonny says, and then Patrick feels something brush against his hole again: firm, not soft but not really rough, either. “What’s this?”

Patrick tries to concentrate. It feels familiar… “Your finger?” he guesses.

“Good job,” Jonny says, and he kisses the side of Patrick’s jaw and then his ear. “That is my finger. Do you want it inside you again?”

“Yeah, please,” Patrick says.

“Not yet,” Jonny says, but he rubs against Patrick again, a firm pressure with the tip of his finger that stops just shy of breaching Patrick’s hole. Then something touches the head of Patrick’s cock, just the tip, past where it’s held down by the heavy chain. It’s soft and so light, lighter than when Jonny tickled him, and it grazes up towards the chain and then down the crease where his cock lays against his leg. Patrick realizes that he’s quivering with the effort of keeping still.

“What is it, Peeks?” Jonny murmurs in his ear.

Patrick gasps and forces himself to think. A brush… but too soft to be a toothbrush… “A paintbrush?”

“Good, baby,” Jonny says. He brushes it against the tip of Patrick’s dick again, just over the slit, and Patrick worms backward against the finger still pressed against his hole.

He tries to turn his head to follow Jonny’s voice. “It’s,” he says, “that’s—Jonny, that’s a lot.”

“I know, babe,” Jonny says. “But it feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. I like it.”

“I know you do,” Jonny says. “Shh, baby, I know.” Both of his hands go away, but then Patrick feels something new; Jonny drags it across his belly button and then over the base of his cock. “How about this?”

It’s less concentrated than the paintbrush, a little more coarse, but still soft. For some reason Patrick can’t stop focusing now on his shoulders, the way they feel with his arms restrained behind his back. It’s a good, solid feeling.

He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“No?” Jonny says. He brings it up and draws it down Patrick’s cheek and then his lips. It has give, and it’s about the size of… maybe a bottle cap. Jonny drags it down the crease of his ass next.

“A cotton ball?” Patrick guesses.

“Good,” Jonny says. “You’re being so good, Peeks. Can you do two more?”

Two more is… it’s going to be a lot. He’s having to struggle not to come just from the weight of the chain over his cock and thighs and the knowledge that Jonny’s looking at him, but he says, “Yeah. Yeah, I can do two more.”

The cotton ball goes away, and then Patrick feels something so exquisitely light against the head of his cock that he keens. “Ah!” he says, and the little tendrils drag down and back up. Jonny pulls it up so it brushes over the chain and tickles him through the links. It lifts and then comes back behind his ear, whisper-light as Jonny runs it down his neck. Patrick is outright shaking, legs straining as he fights to keep them still and make sure the chain stays in place, and then, just like he both hoped and feared, Jonny brushes whatever he’s holding from Patrick’s toes to the soles of his feet and then drags it over his hole.

“What is it, baby?” Jonny asks, low and insistent.

Patrick tosses his head. “I don’t… I don’t… “

There’s no pressure whatsoever, not even the barely-there pressure of the paintbrush, but his skin is lighting up in tiny little tendrils anyway.

“Jonny,” he says.

“You can do it,” Jonny says. “Focus, baby. What does it feel like?”

“A… is it a…” He just wants Jonny to put a finger back in him, give him something to rut against, but instead he gets the feather-touch again, driving him higher and higher but offering no relief, making his hole flutter around nothing— “A feather,” he pants. “It’s—”

“There you go,” Jonny says, “I knew you could do it.” The feather finally withdraws, and part of Patrick thinks: what if Jonny teased him with that until he came? But Jonny promised to fuck him—

Jonny slides his fingers into Patrick’s grip again. “Squeeze for me,” he says, and Patrick squeezes his fingers twice. “Good,” he says, and then he hears the pop of the lube cap. This time, when Jonny touches Patrick’s hole, his fingers are slick.

“Your fingers again,” Patrick says, because he’s allowed and because he wants to see if he can make Jonny laugh.

“Smartass,” Jonny says, his voice warm, and he kisses the back of Patrick’s neck. He spends long enough fingering Patrick, stretching him open, that Patrick’s sure Jonny’s finally going to fuck him. He fights his urge to press back, focuses on making sure the chain stays in place, but it isn’t enough.

“Jonny,” he says. “Jonny, I’m gonna come.”

“No, babe, you aren’t,” Jonny says. He’s carefully avoiding Patrick’s prostate while he opens him up. Patrick takes a deep breath and concentrates, trying to fall into the same zoned-in-zoned-out mindset he gets when he’s on the bike. When Jonny finally takes his fingers out, he kisses Patrick’s neck again and says, “Ready for the last one?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “‘M ready.”

“I know you are, baby. You’re being so good for me, so good and so patient. I think you’ll like this.” The touch comes first against his lap, something spread out and soft—cloth. Before he can focus on the feeling, it vanishes and then reappears, gliding across his ass and then bunching against his rim.

“Fabric?” Patrick guesses.

“Keep going,” Jonny encourages. He presses the fabric inside Patrick just a little; it’s soft on one side and more textured on the other.

Patrick’s almost panting. He feels sensitive, so sensitive there, tender even though Jonny has yet to fuck him. And the texture… oh. “Lace?”

“Good job, baby. Almost there.”

Lace, but also soft… almost like the rope. Silky. Fuck. “It’s—” Patrick’s heaving. He can’t remember the right word. “It’s something for me to wear—”

“Good boy,” Jonny says, and then he stuffs the panties in Patrick’s hole, lifts the chain, puts his hand over Patrick’s cock, and says, “Now come.”

Patrick climaxes in a white-hot blast like he’s a puppet on Jonny’s string, jerking, spasming, as much as the rope binding him allows, but he doesn’t even get a chance to—he’s—he’s still spurting, and Jonny—

Jonny shoves him forward so he’s on his knees and chest, ass up, back impossibly arched, arms still locked behind him, and he pulls the panties out of Patrick and with one hard push drives his cock in. Patrick keens and shouts and blacks

“Fuck.”

completely

“Fuck.”

out.

“Baby.”

His body’s gone, his mind’s gone, he’s just a container for pleasure. Maybe Jonny’s still driving into him, but he’s gone as high as he can go, there’s no peak, just a plateau in the stratosphere. On one level he’s aware of his body all bound up safe and on another he’s aware only of the delicate sensitivity of his stretched, tender opening and on the most fundamental level the only thing he can hold in his mind is Jonny Jonny Jonny.

“God—fuck. You’re dripping with me.”

He doesn’t feel like a person, only a collection of nerve endings. Not a person, but all Jonny’s. Hasn’t he always been Jonny’s? And now he knows that Jonny can light him up in the most gorgeously filthy ways, and with anyone else he would feel ashamed and maybe later he’ll feel ashamed but right now he can only feel astonishment and the wash of pure electric light that thrums in his chest in time with his heartbeat.

“Peeks.”

He can’t—he can’t believe—Jonny shoved those panties inside of him, all the way up in his hole—and when Jonny took them out, the drag of the lace and silk pulling out of him against the strain on his chest, his back, immobilized with his legs spread and his hips canted up as Jonny yanked the lacy panties out and then—and then Jonny was in Patrick, that huge cock splitting him open—

“Come back to me.”

Patrick blinks. There’s something in his hand.

“Patrick, baby,” Jonny says. “I need you to wake up now.”

He feels unbearably incredible. If he felt like this more than once in his life, he isn’t sure he could handle it. Maybe it’s a good thing he doesn’t really belong to Jonny; he couldn’t stand right now, much less play hockey. Feeling like this on a daily basis would ruin his career.

“Squeeze twice for me,” Jonny says. Patrick thinks for a second and then squeezes Jonny’s fingers. “Good, babe,” Jonny says. He’s… he must have rolled Patrick on his side, because he unties Patrick’s legs, working with those same sure hands to check Patrick over. He stretches Patrick’s legs out slowly, first one and then the other, and then he lifts Patrick up to loll against his chest and he first takes the blindfold off and then unties the ropes binding Patrick’s arms and chest. He’s murmuring the entire time, telling Patrick how gorgeous he looked, how patient he was, how much Jonny loved feeling him, and that more than anything is beyond what Patrick can bear. He feels a sob catch in his throat, and that’s what brings him back to himself. He absolutely cannot cry.

Jonny’s running his hands down Patrick’s arms, opening his fingers, looking over the rope marks. “Feel okay?” he asks.

‘Yes’ isn’t really the right answer to that. Patrick feels horribly vulnerable, but he knows Jonny’s asking whether he’s hurt. “Yeah,” he says. “Little sore, but not… not bad.”

Jonny wraps his arms around Patrick and says, “You are incredible.”

Patrick shivers. “I can’t,” he says, “that’s, it’s, it’s too much.”

“Okay, baby,” Jonny says. He settles them back against the nightstand, and he must have moved things around while Patrick was out of it. There are wet wipes on the nightstand, and he cleans his hands while still holding Patrick and then cleans Patrick, too. Water, a big bottle—he makes Patrick drink, and then waits a moment for Patrick to decide if he’s still thirsty, and then he finishes the rest of it himself. And then, finally, he feeds Patrick the chocolate. It tastes so good, rich and sweet on his tongue, and even better when Jonny kisses it off his lips. He helps Jonny drag the comforter up to where they’re settled against the headboard, and Jonny doesn’t say anything when Patrick pulls it high enough that it almost covers his head. After the blindfold, after all of it, the world seems so bright.

“Are you okay?” Jonny asks, cupping the back of Patrick’s head. Patrick has done nothing in his life to deserve how sweet Jonny is to him.

“Yeah,” he says. His voice is rough; he still can’t believe Jonny can make him scream. The vulnerability is losing out to his lingering white pleasure and the warmth of Jonny’s arms around him. “It was… really good.” He draws back enough to look Jonny in the face, because Jonny deserves to know he means it. “Really, really good.”

“But a lot?”

“A whole lot,” Patrick says, and he tips forward to hide his face against Jonny’s neck again. He can’t even think too hard about it, because it’s that overwhelming. He’ll have to take out one piece at a time to look at it later. “I’ve never…”

Jonny’s fingers start moving through his hair.

“I’ve never felt like that,” Patrick admits. “I know I didn’t go all the way down”—he’d been too attuned to every little thing Jonny did to lose himself—“but. God.”

“For me, too,” Jonny says. “It was… I’ve never experienced anything like that.”

Patrick rolls his eyes where Jonny can’t see him. He’s touched by Jonny’s attempt to comfort him, but he’s also seen some of the people Jonny’s dated. “Uh-huh.”

Jonny sighs. “You could at least try to pretend you believe me.”

“Smartass,” Patrick teases. “Want to watch that movie now? Since you made me come so hard I blacked out, I’ll even let you pick.”

Jonny snorts. “You’d let me pick anyway,” he says, utterly confident. It’s a good thing he’s an asshole sometimes; otherwise he’d be too perfect for Patrick to stand.

Notes for the Chapter:

Hey I’m now on Tumblr & Twitter!

This is the rope Jonny uses, and here and here are visuals for the box tie and frog tie respectively.

I pretty transparently left myself a backdoor here in case I want to write Bennguin D/s fic. The hypothetical plot would involve Tyler going “hey Jamie we should buddy-fuck I don’t have any limits and you can do whatever you want to me :)” and Jamie being like “well that’s total bullshit” and also they’re secretly in love.

Up next in 1988-land: rookie/captain roleplay, because if you were finally sleeping with the love of your life but he’s been badly hurt in the past and doesn’t seem ready to hear how much you adore him, you too might invent a roleplaying scenario in which you get to take care of him and tell him that he’s safe and protected and cherished and that nobody ever gets to hurt him again, and maybe you’re pushing it a little far but he’s your “rookie” and he’s probably (?) not going to see through it (???). Jonny’s got this shit handled.

5. Chapter 5

Patrick’s brushing his teeth when Jonny comes up behind him and drapes himself over Patrick’s back. He’s been doing that a lot lately—holding Patrick, being handsy, touching him in ways that can’t be misconstrued as merely friendly. “Hey,” he says. “Wanna have sex?”

Patrick spits, only mostly on purpose. “What?” he says. “Now?”

Jonny makes a face and says, “Not now-now. Later? After we get back?” They have a charity thing today, meeting a couple of kids and their families at a local school. Seabs was making noises about tagging along, but something came up with his family (Patrick heard the phrase “one of the kids is sick” and automatically stepped back ten feet), so it was just the two of them for the day.

“Wow, I guess all the spontaneity does go out of the marriage after the first ten years,” Patrick deadpans.

“We’re only staying together for the kids at this point,” Jonny agrees. He slings an arm across Patrick’s belly and nuzzles into his hair—goddammit, Patrick just got it to lie flat—and he looks so much like someone’s boyfriend Patrick almost does a double-take. He studies their reflection with little darting glances while he rinses his toothbrush; Jonny taller by at least half a head, with his dark neat hair and a jawline straight out of a superhero comic, and Patrick, whose most prominent quality is having the best fucking hands in the entire league. They don’t look like they belong together. Even relaxed and half-asleep, Jonny has this presence that radiates confidence and competence. Patrick can read the jittery undercurrent in his own eyes, how he can’t quite figure out to occupy his own body in the intimacy of Jonny’s embrace. He doubts any of Jonny’s real subs forget how to move just because he’s touching them.

“Anyway,” Jonny says, “we should be home by early evening.”

“What do you have in mind?” Maybe Patrick should look into specialty toothpaste. The kind that helps with dry mouth.

Jonny kisses the side of his head. “You,” he says.

“I figured,” Patrick says.

“Me.” Another kiss, this one to the top of his earlobe.

“Mm, interesting.”

A third kiss, dropped in the middle of the back of his neck. “Roleplaying.”

“I’m listening,” Patrick says, even though he has absolutely no idea where this is going. What kind of roleplaying is Jonny into? Patrick barely even knows his own tastes; he hasn’t experimented with it much, and he doesn’t know how much he likes the idea of becoming someone else entirely. He thought, maybe, with Jonny, they could come up with something fun, something that didn’t require them to try and keep straight faces—one of them as the pizza boy, maybe, or a gym trainer, or Jonny would pretend to be a vampire just to see if he could piss Patrick off, and then they’d tumble into bed together and Jonny would hold him down, maybe even tie him down, and they’d forget about the roleplay.

Jonny, as always, is determined to blow the curve out of the water.

“At first I kept thinking about you as a stripper,” he says. Patrick’s on the verge of laughing when he adds, “Maybe at night, lights off, in front of the windows.” Patrick knows the windows he means—the big bank of them in Jonny’s own condo. “Have you ever worn heels before?” Jonny asks. “You’re so fucking flexible, I almost had a stripper pole installed, but I decided that having you straddle me and give me a lapdance would be better.”

Patrick clears his throat. “I wouldn’t know what to do with a stripper pole anyway.”

“No?” Jonny says. His smile is half-hidden in Patrick’s hair. “Maybe not. So then I thought: what if we were drafted to different teams?”

In reality that’s Patrick’s nightmare, or one of the primary ones, but where Jonny’s taking it—

“The media would play it up as a rivalry,” Jonny says. “At first it would be just a soundbite, but then you’d do something to get under my skin, skating circles around me, grinning at me with that damn mouthguard hanging out of your mouth, and I’d start feeding into it, and maybe you’d get pissed off at me, too, and any time we played against each other there’d be fireworks.” Yeah. Yeah, Patrick can see it, the two of them as they were, hungry for it, loathing each other but loving that they’d found someone else with the same skill and passion.

Jonny’s hand has crept upward as he talks until he’s gripping the back of Patrick’s hair. “Can you picture it?” he says, and he drags Patrick’s head back. “We’d tell everyone we couldn’t stand each other, but I can’t imagine a world where I’m not completely fucking fixated on you, so I’d come to your hotel room after games. We wouldn’t say anything, we wouldn’t even make it to the bed, I’d hold you down and fuck you right there on the floor, and you’d tell me you hated me, but you wouldn’t, would you?”

Patrick’s as caught in the fantasy as he is in Jonny’s grip. He’d be—he can’t imagine hating Jonny, but he can imagine having nowhere to funnel that attraction, that fascination; he can imagine being so fucking desperate for Jonny’s attention that he’d do anything to have it.

“Would you, baby?” Jonny prompts.

“No,” Patrick croaks.

“No,” Jonny says. “We’d need each other too much.”

Patrick wonders what happened to the pizza boy scenario.

“But then I decided we should start with something a little more classic,” Jonny concludes.

The whole situation with Jonny was bad enough before Patrick had confirmation that Jonny could take him apart as casually and effortlessly as he does everything. Patrick has to work his mouth a couple of times before he manages to get out, “What do you mean?”

In the mirror, Jonny grins. “Wanna be my rookie?”

-

He’s nervous, which is crazy—he’s been to Jonny’s enough times that he knows where the forks are kept in the kitchen, but this is still uncharted territory. Jonny had taken Patrick under his wing from the first day, before they even knew about their crazy chemistry on the ice; Patrick thought it was probably because he wasn’t billeting with one of the older players, but he’d had enough of living with other people now that he finally had the money to live on his own. Now that they know how well they play, they’re spending even more time practicing together, learning each other, talking over games. Jonny hasn’t had a stable line in a long time, especially since Sharp retired, and even though he’s good enough to work with anyone on the team, Patrick isn’t too green to recognize that what he and Jonny have is special.

Jonny’s in his pajama pants when he lets Patrick inside. “Hey,” he says. “Did you eat yet? I just finished dinner, but—”

“No, thanks, I had some Korean a couple of hours ago.” He’s hungry all the time, which Jonny says is normal for a professional hockey player and even more normal for a professional hockey player who’s also a teenager, but he doesn’t want to make Jonny go to any trouble. (Patrick’s given up hope that he’s going to get any bigger, but at this point he’ll settle for keeping on weight.) “Did you still want to watch the Flyers reels?” he asks.

Jonny kind of winces. From afar he’s incredible—an amazing player, a great leader, and really (Patrick can’t emphasize this enough), really hot—but the more Patrick gets to know him, the more he realizes that Jonny’s even better as a captain and a mentor and a friend. He’s intense, thoughtful, quicker to smile than Patrick thought he’d be, and a massive dork. Patrick knows so much about electric cars now.

“I’m kind of burned out,” Jonny says. “I really just want to put on a mindless movie and relax.”

“Did you want me to go?”

“You’re welcome to stay,” Jonny says. “Or stick around for a little while if you want to go out later—”

“No, I’ll stay,” Patrick says quickly, before Jonny can retract his offer. They’ve started doing this, too, just hanging around, watching a movie or playing games, sometimes going out to eat with only the two of them. He kicks his shoes off in the hallway, takes the smoothie Jonny offers him (he was in the middle of making them when Patrick arrived, and even though his own is kale-colored, Patrick’s protein powder and whatever else is disguised by strawberries), and follows Jonny into the living room, where the obscenely large and advanced TV is counterbalanced by a couch that’s probably as old as Patrick.

“Here,” Jonny says, and he drops the remote in Patrick’s lap, “you pick.” When he sits down and sprawls out, he’s closer to Patrick than Patrick thinks is normal.

There’s just something so… this is dumb, but so dominant about him, more than any other dom Patrick has met. He never treats Patrick like he’s lesser for being a sub, takes him seriously when they argue, lets him stand up for himself but makes it clear that Patrick has the whole rest of the team backing him up. He just has this easy confidence that he wears like it’s settled into his bones, like it’s something innate to him, and it cloaks a will like iron; he doesn’t take control, because he doesn’t need to. He’s just in control, all the time, and it makes Patrick want to go to his knees every single time he meets Jonny’s eyes.

They get about ten minutes into a Will Ferrell movie before he realizes that he’s rigid with the effort of not creeping into Jonny’s side. His smoothie is all gone, and he tries to get absorbed in the movie, which is about as mindless as they come and also cracks Patrick up every time he sees it, but Jonny is right there and he smells so good and Patrick can’t help it when he blurts, “Will you kiss me again?”

Fuck. He has zero self-control.

Their first kiss was a week ago. They were hanging out at the rink in the players’ lounge well after everyone had gone home, talking about the ‘83 draft, laughing about… something, and then Patrick had looked up and Jonny was so close and then they were kissing, soft at first, until Jonny backed him up against a wall and the kiss went from soft to deep. No—soft to passionate, like Jonny was trying to stake a claim, like Jonny was trying to devour him. He’d gasped, though, and Jonny had torn himself away. The next day he’d apologized for taking advantage of Patrick, and Patrick had done his best to make it clear that he was absolutely willing to be taken advantage of. They’ve kissed twice more since then, and Jonny hasn’t apologized again. Patrick isn’t sure why Jonny’s letting this continue, because he’s so far out of Patrick’s reach that Patrick’s basically playing in a beer league, metaphorically speaking, but he’s going to keep asking for it until Jonny tells him no.

Jonny sighs. “Peeks,” he says. “We shouldn’t do this. I’m old—”

“Thirty isn’t old,” Patrick objects.

“If I were unselfish, I’d tell you that you should be with someone else.” He leans forward, braces his elbows on his knees, and looks over and back at Patrick. “I know what you’re going through, how hard it is to play hockey and be a sub, and the last thing I want to do is take advantage of you.”

“I don’t want anyone else,” Patrick says, miserable, knowing there’s no way this is going to end in his favor. Even if Jonny gives in, he figures he’ll have a season at most of Jonny’s attention, which is honestly more than he deserves; but he can’t do anything but tell Jonny the truth. “I just want you. I know you don’t, I mean, I know that I’m—”

“Patrick,” Jonny interrupts. His dark eyes are liquid, and they catch Patrick and suspend him. “Patrick, I never said I wasn’t selfish.”

“What?” Patrick says, and then Jonny’s kissing him.

It’s even better than the first time, with Jonny pressing him up against the back of the couch. Patrick’s hard immediately—was already mostly hard, if he’s being honest—and he can feel his dick leaking, smearing fluid over the inside of his boxers. He arches up into Jonny as best he can given the awkward angle, and Jonny catches him by the waist and drags him even closer.

“Jonny,” he says, “Jonny, please.”

“Shh, baby, I’ve got you,” Jonny says, and then he lifts Patrick up and hauls him into his lap.

Patrick’s head falls back against Jonny’s shoulder, baring his throat, and he realizes he’s sitting on Jonny’s cock—not sitting-on-it sitting-on-it, but his ass is cradled against the big, hard line running down one side of Jonny’s pajama pants. He rolls his hips instinctively, trying to get Jonny where he wants him even though the only things Patrick’s had inside him are his own fingers and, now that he has a salary, a really expensive dildo that he’d estimated was about the size of Jonny’s dick, even though Patrick’s estimation feels like it falls a lot short.

“If we’re doing this, then nobody else is going to touch you,” Jonny says. He slides one of his hands down Patrick’s front until he’s cupping Patrick’s erection, and then he rubs his palm down it, massaging it, encouraging Patrick to grind against him. “Nobody else touches you,” he says, “because you’re mine.”

“Yeah, Jonny,” Patrick gasps, “I’m yours.”

“That’s right, Peeks,” Jonny says. He drags his lips up Patrick’s neck and then nudges his nose into the hair curling down over Patrick’s ear. “Know the real reason I call you that?”

“N-no,” Patrick manages. He’s never known. Jonny’s never told him.

“Because when we first started playing together,” Jonny says, “you’d look up at me with your fucking ridiculous eyes through your fucking ridiculous hair like you were playing peekaboo.” And—oh, Patrick’s breath stutters even though he knows it can’t be true, knows it must be because of his initials or because he was joking around with—but Jonny keeps talking. “This hair,” he says, “I love this hair.” His fingers creep up, probing Patrick’s scalp, and they tangle so gently in the curls at the back of Patrick’s head.

Patrick bucks, shoving his cock up into Jonny’s hand, and realizes he’s pleading. “Please, Jonny,” he’s saying, “please, will you please…”

“Shh, I’ve got you,” Jonny says. “What’s your safeword, baby boy?”

Patrick can’t believe this is happening. He can’t believe—and Jonny’s right there, spooned up against him, holding Patrick like he matters; and when he opens his mouth, he almost says—

He catches himself in time. “Lamp,” he tells Jonny.

“Good, Peeksy,” Jonny says, and he lays a wet kiss on Patrick’s shoulder and then opens his mouth and sucks. Patrick’s going to have a bruise there, and maybe teeth marks, and he knows he won’t be able to tell anyone, but that secret’s the best secret he’s ever going to have in his life. “Are you sure about this?” Jonny asks.

“Yes,” Patrick says. He covers the hand Jonny has pressed to his stomach and slides his fingers between Jonny’s. “Yeah, Jonny, of course I’m sure.”

With his other hand Jonny cups Patrick’s jaw and turns his face so they can kiss. “Good, baby,” he says. “I’m going to take such good care of you,” he promises, and his voice is this low, whiskey-rough rumble in Patrick’s ear.

“You always do,” Patrick says, his own voice blown low in response.

“Do I?” Jonny says. He slides a hand back down to Patrick’s dick and then lower, until he’s cupping Patrick’s whole groin possessively, wrist against Patrick’s hard, leaking cock and the base of his palm against Patrick’s balls and the tips of his longest fingers just pressing the seam of Patrick’s shorts. If he presses any harder, his fingers will be rubbing against Patrick’s rim. “Remember what we talked about on the plane yesterday?”

Patrick, who just discovered the correct angle to press Jonny’s cock up into the crease of his ass, doesn’t even remember what a plane is. “No,” he says. When he grinds down just right, he can feel Jonny’s dick jump even through two layers of fabric.

“We talked about setting goals,” Jonny reminds him.

Right—Patrick remembers. “I can’t, I can’t think about training right now,” he says, even though he’ll try to think about training if Jonny wants him to.

Jonny chuckles. “No, baby, not goals for training. What if we set a goal like… here’s a good one. I want you to come on my dick tonight.”

Patrick’s probably going to come in his pants before Jonny’s dick gets anywhere near his ass, but he says, “Okay.”

“Okay?” Jonny says. “You like that plan?”

“Yeah, Jonny. I really like it,” Patrick says. Jonny slides his hand back up, and he plucks at Patrick’s nipples through his thin t-shirt. His other arm is still locked around Patrick’s waist.

“Gotta set a goal for you, too, baby boy.”

“Oh,” Patrick says. “I don’t—that feels really good.”

Jonny grazes the side of his nail over one of the hard little buds, and Patrick jumps. “Jesus,” Jonny swears, “you’re so sensitive all over.”

“Sorry,” Patrick says.

“No, baby, that’s not a bad thing, don’t apologize. I love it, love how sensitive you are for me.” Jonny nuzzles against the side of his face, and Patrick can’t believe any of this, can’t believe he’s sitting on Jonathan Toews’ lap, can’t believe his captain is about to fuck him, can’t believe Jonny thinks he’s even good enough to touch. “Gonna give me a goal?” Jonny asks.

“Oh, yeah.” Patrick’s goal is for Jonny to never stop touching him until they both die, but since that’s both embarrassing and unfeasible, he says, “I want you to—you could come in me,” he offers, emboldened by Jonny’s big hands on his body.

“You want me to come inside of you?”

“Yes,” he begs. “Yeah, please.”

“Okay, baby,” Jonny says. “I want you to choose. You’re going to tell me how you want it.”

“Now,” Patrick says immediately.

“Now?” Jonny says, and then, “Here?”

“I can’t wait any longer,” Patrick admits.

Behind him Jonny laughs, but he sounds a little strained, too. “Sure you don’t want to wait? We could make out a little more, maybe go back in the bedroom—”

“Jonny.”

“I’m just kidding, baby. Here, sit up for a minute.”

Patrick sits, struggling for a moment to catch his balance with his legs spread so wide over Jonny’s thick thighs, and Jonny strips Patrick’s shirt off. There’s a moment when Patrick’s arms are over his head, his wrists tangled in his shirt, that he feels so exposed he almost curls into a ball, but then Jonny catches him around the waist and leans them both forward so he can dig around in one of the coffee table’s drawers to get—oh, he’s getting lube. He settles back against the couch again and arranges Patrick in his previous position, ass snugged up in Jonny’s lap, legs spread wide, head tipped back against Jonny’s shoulder, and they work together to push Patrick’s shorts down his legs. When they’re finished, he’s completely naked, his dick so flushed and plump it’s twitching incrementally. Jonny sets the lube on his belly and says, “Open it up.”

Patrick isn’t sure where this is going, but he pops the cap obediently. “Good,” Jonny says, “now get some on your fingers. More than that, baby.” Patrick’s fingers are dripping with lube now, and he spares a thought for the couch, or for Jonny’s clothes, what if he gets some on the carpet—but then Jonny says, “Slide a finger inside yourself.”

It’s a little awkward at first; Patrick has to shift until he finds the right arrangement, but Jonny holds him steady, and then Patrick’s forefinger is pressing against his rim. This is supposed to be easy, something he’s done dozens of times before, but now he’s doing it because Jonny’s telling him to do it. Jonny slides one hand up Patrick’s chest to frame the base of his throat with the right angle of his thumb and fingers, and Patrick isn’t into breathplay, but he likes what it suggests: that Jonny’s over him, in charge of him. Jonny’s other arm is still wrapped around Patrick’s waist, and Patrick likes that, too, because it makes him feel like Jonny doesn’t want to let go of him.

He presses the tip of his finger inside. “How does it feel?” Jonny asks.

Patrick presses deeper, past the first knuckle. “Good,” he says. “Not as good as if you were doing it, but…”

“How do you know that?” Jonny teases. “I haven’t touched you there yet, maybe you won’t like my fingers as much. Put another one in.”

“I’ve thought about it,” Patrick says. It takes him a minute to get a second finger up inside himself, to press up against the clench of his rim until it gives way. “I, oh—that’s—”

“You’ve thought about it, huh?” Jonny says. “Fuck your fingers into yourself, there you go. Were you touching yourself while you thought about me?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. Thank god he’s too preoccupied with his own arousal to be embarrassed right now. He’d never planned on telling Jonny that. He spreads his fingers a little, feeling how his hole refuses to yield, and wonders why he hadn’t bought a bigger dildo.

“Fuck,” Jonny says, “that’s hot, thinking about you in your hotel bed, me just on the other side of the door. Maybe that’s why they gave us adjoining rooms, Peeks, and someday I’ll let myself in, and you’ll be on your knees fingering your sweet little hole while you choke back my name. And you know what I’ll do?” His hand glides down over the crease of Patrick’s hip and then further, until he’s covering Patrick’s hand with his own and one of Jonny’s big fingers is nudging up against Patrick’s tight hole. The suggestion is incredible, and then it isn’t a suggestion: slowly, smoothly, Jonny presses his finger up until it rests against alongside the two of Patrick’s own fingers already in his ass.

Patrick hiccups, on the verge of sobbing.

“Focus, baby,” Jonny orders him. “Give me some more lube, there you go.” Patrick fumbles to find the lube one-handed and then dumps way too much of it over his and Jonny’s joined hands, but it does the trick, and when Jonny slowly pumps his finger out and back in, it’s slick enough that he doesn’t have to push quite as hard.

“What would I do if I saw you fingering yourself like that?” Jonny prompts.

“You… Jonny, it’s so, I’m so full… oh, fuck. Maybe, maybe you’d fuck me?”

“Yeah, baby, I’d have to fuck you, wouldn’t I?” Jonny says. “But maybe I’d take a minute just to look at you first. I bet your hole’s such a pretty pink, just like your nipples and your cock. I can’t wait to see it, can’t wait to look at you there. Will you let me, baby?”

“Yeah, Jonny,” Patrick says, because Jonny can have anything and everything of Patrick’s that he wants. “I’m really,” he says, “I’m really full.”

“Are you?” Jonny says, and without any warning, he pushes another finger inside of Patrick.

“Oh, god,” Patrick said, and despite the shock he rolls his hips into it rather than away. “God, fuck—Jonny.”

“You okay, baby?”

“Yeah, I’m, just—” He sucks in a breath.

“I know, Peeks,” Jonny says, and then he hikes Patrick up by the fingers hooked in his hole. Another of those not-quite-sobs punches out of Patrick when their fingers, all four of them, two of Jonny’s and two of Patrick’s, curl into his prostate. He’s gonna come, and Jonny isn’t even in him yet, and if this is Patrick’s one chance—but Jonny had said Patrick was his—

“Jonny, you’ve gotta fuck me, please,” Patrick says. “You said I could pick, you said…” He tilts his head so he can mouth along Jonny’s jaw.

“I did say that,” Jonny says. “You sure you can take me?”

Patrick grinds his ass down into Jonny’s lap, against Jonny’s cock. “No,” he says, “but I wanna try.”

Jonny groans. “God, you’re gonna kill me,” he says, and then he draws both their hands out of Patrick. “Sit forward, babe.”

Patrick feels like he’s shoving himself into taffy; his body doesn’t want to leave the warm cradle of Jonny’s body, but Jonny helps him sit up and balance across Jonny’s thighs while he… he’s shoving down his pants to take out his cock, Patrick realizes, and somehow that snaps him to an awareness of where he is, of the room lit only by the TV, of Jonny’s bare feet against the rug and Patrick’s own feet; his toes don’t quite reach the floor.

Jonny’s hands still, and then Patrick feels a soft touch against his asscheek; Jonny’s cupping him there. “Up a little more,” he says, and Patrick splays himself even wider until he can get his toes on the ground and raise himself up a little. Something bumps against his ass and nudges into his crack and oh fuck—that’s the fat head of Jonny’s cock, just kissing his rim. Maybe he can’t take Jonny. What if Jonny’s disappointed? Patrick probably should’ve mentioned that he’s never been fucked before, but he didn’t want Jonny to think he was inexperienced, even though he is inexperienced. His planning skills clearly aren’t the greatest.

Then he feels something slippery down there—Jonny’s fingers—and he realizes Jonny’s adding more lube, slicking up his dick. “Ready, baby?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, with a bravery he doesn’t really feel. “Come on, captain, give it to me.” Jonny groans again, more in pained amusement than anything else, and Patrick decides to take some initiative. He shoves himself backward and drops from his toes so Jonny’s cockhead pops past his rim. Jonny grunts. Patrick freezes. It feels—it feels—

“Shit, Peeks, you’re gonna hurt yourself,” Jonny says. He grips Patrick by the hips, immobilizing him; Patrick’s rigid with the effort of not crumpling. It doesn’t, it isn’t bad, it just feels like… like it could hurt, if he shoves down again, like he’s already full to saturation with Jonny, but it’s, he thinks it’s going to be good, thinks it might be incredible if he can get past the starburst shock of it.

Jonny sounds so calm. He sounds like this is hardly affecting him at all. “Take your time,” he’s saying. “Shh, take your time, let me know if it hurts.”

It shouldn’t, but the evenness of his tone and the vulnerability of Patrick’s exposed position make him feel suddenly, horribly raw. He must look like an idiot in front of Jonny. Jonny’s one of the greatest hockey players of his generation. Patrick grew up idolizing him. What the hell would he want with Patrick?

“Easy, Peeks,” Jonny’s saying. He shifts one of his hands from Patrick’s hip, and the next thing Patrick knows, Jonny’s rubbing gently at Patrick’s delicate, stretched entrance. “Go slow, baby, it’s okay if you can’t take it all.”

“I can”—Patrick gulps—“I can take it, Jonny.”

“Okay, baby,” Jonny soothes him. “Okay. I know you can. I just need you to be careful.”

Patrick squirms a little, wriggling side to side to test the feel of Jonny inside of him and to work up his nerve, and then he lets himself drop again. Just gravity doesn’t do the trick; he has to actively bear down, has to work to let Jonny in.

Jonny’s cock punches in another inch. “Fuck,” Patrick says. “Oh god, Jonny, it’s—it’s really, it’s really big.”

“Patrick, babe, you have to take your time,” Jonny says. He might as well be taking a stroll for how winded he sounds. His fingers are still petting Patrick’s hole gently, tracing the rim where it’s tensed around his own fat dick. He urges Patrick up, just a little, and Patrick resists at first, but then Jonny guides him back down, up and back down, up and back down; and together they work Jonny into Patrick in increments, bit by bit. Jonny stops him at least once to add more lube. It takes forever. It takes long enough that Patrick no longer feels connected to his body, but he blinks, and he’s fully seated on Jonny’s cock.

“You okay, baby?” Jonny asks. He has one hand on Patrick’s stomach and the other folded up to stroke Patrick’s hair. If Patrick cried during sex, he’d be crying, but Jonny doesn’t sound undone at all.

“Do—” His voice comes out sounded wrecked, and not just because there’s no room left in him because Jonny’s taking it all up. “Do you even, I mean—” There are tears beading his eyelashes, and he pulls Jonny’s hand down from his hair and twists his face away.

“Whoa, Peeks, what is it?”

He can’t think, not with Jonny so big inside of him, with small sudden bursts like pop rocks going off where Jonny’s rubbing against his insides. “Sorry,” he says. “Sorry, it doesn’t, it isn’t important.” Jonny’s going to think he’s an idiot—no, Jonny’s going to know how much this means to Patrick, and then Patrick’s going to have to see him every single day, he’s going to have to deal with Jonny looking at him with either disgust or pity. Patrick can’t decide which would be worse. And he can’t stop himself from grinding down, either. It’s all too much, he’s overwhelmed from every angle: he’s in disbelief, he’s ecstatic, and he’s so, so ashamed.

He can hear Jonny breathe, slow and even, and he wonder’s if Jonny’s about to ask for his color; but then Jonny says, “It’s important, baby. Will you tell me?”

Patrick wavers—

“I want to hear,” Jonny says, firm, and he wraps his other arm against Patrick, too, and drags him even closer, holding him with a pressure that’s just the right side of constricting.

Patrick doesn’t even know how to say it, doesn’t know how to explain, but if Jonny wants to hear… “I don’t know how,” he starts, and then he has to stop to shudder. He’s sitting on Jonathan Toews’ dick, and they’re stopping to have a conversation. “Do you even,” he tries, “I mean, it doesn’t seem like you—”

Jonny’s voice, right in his ear: “Baby, it’s okay.”

“I,” Patrick says, “Jonny, I can—I’m hardly holding together, and it doesn’t seem like you, like you want—or like you feel like—”

“You think this isn’t affecting me,” Jonny says, flat.

“Sorry,” Patrick says. “Sorry, I know it’s not, it doesn’t mean the same for—”

“Patrick,” Jonny says. He reaches down and takes Patrick’s right hand and draws it across his body, coaxing him into reaching up over his own left shoulder, and then Jonny flattens Patrick’s fingers out and presses their joined hands down over Jonny’s heart.

It’s hammering. It’s pounding like he’s just come off a shift, a hard, fast throb, unmistakable and undeniable. Patrick jerks back and stares at Jonny even though they’re still so close that their noses are almost touching.

“Oh,” he says, “I thought…”

Jonny brings Patrick’s right hand up to his mouth and kisses the fingertips. “My job here is to stay in control,” he says. “Patrick… baby, you’re so new at this, and taking care of you is more important than how much I want to hold you down and fuck into you until you’re screaming for me.”

“Oh,” Patrick says again. Now that he’s still, he can feel a tremor work through Jonny’s body. “I thought—” If he could possibly blush anymore than he’s already blushing, he’d be doing it. “I thought you were just being nice, or—”

“Nice,” Jonny says. “You think I’m doing this because I’m nice.”

It sounds stupid when Jonny puts it that way, but Patrick still can’t shake the feeling that Jonny’s doing him a favor. “Sorry,” he says again. “It’s just, you’re careful with me, and you don’t have to…” He’s fucking it up again.

Jonny sighs, and Patrick feels it through his whole body, all the way up to where Jonny’s seated inside him. “Yeah,” he says, and his voice is even rougher than before. “Yeah, Peeks, I am careful with you, and that’s not going to stop, but I promise—” His voice breaks. “I promise I’m not doing this to be nice. I’m doing this because I want you.”

“I,” Patrick says. “Okay.”

Jonny shifts and then, slowly, he starts to roll his hips up into Patrick. “I don’t know what I can do to convince you,” he says. “I want you so much, baby. You don’t have a single fucking clue how much I want you.”

Patrick can’t—he can’t wrap his head around that. “Okay,” he says, and then he gasps as Jonny rolls into him again. They’re playing make-believe, there’s no point in arguing.

“Say it,” Jonny says, and he starts grinding up into Patrick even harder.

“What?”

“Say it,” Jonny says. “Say that I want you.”

“Jonny, what—”

“Say it,” Jonny growls.

“I—” Jonny snaps his hips up. “I, yeah, okay, Jonny, you—” Fuck. He can’t say it.

“Say it.”

“You want me,” Patrick chokes out.

“Good, baby,” Jonny says. “Shh, that’s my good boy. Yeah, I want you. Because you’re mine, aren’t you? We talked about that.”

“Yeah, Jonny,” Patrick agrees. “We talked about it.” He’s breathing open-mouthed now, unable to catch his breath; his head keeps jerking back involuntarily when Jonny fucks into him, because he loses control of himself every time Jonny hits his prostate.

Jonny reaches down and takes Patrick in hand to rub his thumb over the wet, aching head and smooth Patrick’s precome down over the rest of his cock. “That’s right, baby boy,” he says. “I want you, and you’re gonna let me have you. Reach down,” he tells Patrick, “come on, I want you to feel where I’m in you.”

Patrick’s breath hitches again, but he reaches down like Jonny told him, past where Jonny’s hand is holding Patrick’s cock, all the way down to where Jonny’s moving in him. His rim’s even tighter than he realized, and when he spreads his forefinger and middle finger to frame Jonny’s shaft, he can barely stretch them wide enough to span it.

“Feel that?” Jonny says.

“Yeah, Jonny.”

“Everyone was talking about you,” Jonny says. He’s still flexing his hips, making a home for himself inside of Patrick as he talks, but now that Patrick knows to listen for it, he can hear how frayed Jonny’s control is. “When you got drafted, the guys were already calling you my rookie before we played our first game together. You know for the first few weeks they only called you Kaner to your face? Behind your back, you were just Jonny’s boy.”

Patrick groans and tosses his head back. They’re both so hot, sweat’s starting to pool along Patrick’s back where he’s pressed against Jonny, and Patrick can’t take his eyes away from the sight of his own cock jutting out of Jonny’s big hand. Jonny’s not even pumping him, just holding him, dragging his thumb over the slit and the underside of the head. “We all knew you were coming,” Jonny’s telling him. “I was waiting for you, baby, and then—playing with you, it was even better than I dreamed. You’re so good, it’s like you were always meant to be there next to me, like that space was yours all along.”

“It was,” Patrick says. “It was, that’s mine.”

“Yeah, baby boy,” Jonny says. “That’s your space, isn’t it, right there by me. I told myself I wasn’t going to touch you”—he’s speeding up a little now, and Patrick’s breath is coming out in little punched gasps in time with Jonny’s thrusts—“I told myself I wasn’t going to fuck you, but here I am, and maybe this is my space, maybe right here inside of you is where I’m meant to be—”

Patrick can, fuck, he can feel his hole flutter around Jonny. “God,” Jonny says, and, “Fuck!” And Patrick, Patrick can feel how Jonny’s straining, how Jonny’s breath is coming in the same harsh pants as Patrick’s, and he starts to think that maybe Jonny really is just as overwhelmed as him, maybe Jonny’s been desperate to pull Patrick into his lap and kiss him senseless and nudge his cock up into Patrick’s body, maybe he wants to teach Patrick everything Patrick doesn’t know. Maybe Jonny wants him enough to keep him; maybe Jonny’s going to keep Patrick, keep him on his knees, keep him in Jonny’s bed and on Jonny’s cock.

“You’re mine,” Jonny says. His nose is nuzzled against Patrick’s ear, his breath hot against Patrick’s neck. “You have no fucking clue how much I want you. You have no fucking clue how often I’ve thought about this, we’ve spent so much time on this couch, and every single time I see you—” Patrick cries out, and Jonny hauls him even closer with an arm around his waist, and he grinds his hips so his big, big cock surges up into Patrick, and he says, “I want you to come for me, baby boy.”

That’s it; Patrick’s gone. He comes so hard he spasms, jerking up first until his back arches as far as it can go and then curling into himself as he spurts over his belly and Jonny’s hand. His hole is rippling around Jonny—his entire body is rippling around Jonny—and Jonny plants one hand at the base of Patrick’s throat and shoves up and back, forcing Patrick open again, forcing him to take Jonny and take him and take him until he surges into Patrick one last time and spills in him.

Yeah, Patrick thinks; yeah, I am Jonny’s, and he collapses into the warm curve of Jonny’s body. He lets himself relax. He lets himself melt.

Jonny pets his hair back off his forehead and kisses his ear. “Good?” he asks.

Patrick turns his face and nuzzles into Jonny’s neck. “Perfect,” he admits.

“Good.” Jonny sounds as satisfied as Patrick’s ever heard him, not smug but still pleased with himself and with the current arrangement of the world. “Stand up for me, baby boy.” Patrick whines when Jonny urges him forward. “Shh, baby I know,” he says, but it doesn’t make up for the way his thick, softening cock slides out of Patrick when all Patrick wants is to keep it inside. “Spread your legs,” he says. “Keep them straight. Wider—there, just like that. Now bend forward, hands on the coffee table.” Patrick lets himself go into a full forward bend. He didn’t think… after what they just did, he didn’t think he could be self-conscious again so immediately, but he’s still twitching with the aftershocks of his orgasm and his cock and stomach are sticky with his own come and now he’s bent over, his ass raised, his sore little hole on display.

His breath hitches. “Jonny,” he says, and it sounds plaintive even to his own ears.

“You’re being so good for me, Peeks,” Jonny says. “Just wait like this for a minute, okay? I’m going to be right back. Say it for me.”

“You’re going to be right back,” Patrick repeats obediently, and Jonny slips out from behind him and pads out of the room. He’s all alone now, and even if he wants to curl up into himself, he’s not going to move. Jonny told him not to move. He’s so exposed, though—all those things he said—

And then he feels Jonny’s ejaculate trickling down his leg. He can’t see it, because the lights are too dim, but he knows it’s dribbling out of him, can trace the rivulet that must be running down his skin by feel. Jonny said he was going to come back. He’s gotta hang on to that and trust Jonny.

When the lights come up he’s torn between relief that Jonny did come back and a shock of shame that he’s so visible. “Hey, baby boy,” Jonny says. He sits down again on the couch behind Patrick and runs his hands up Patrick’s inner thighs, dragging the smear of come back up, before parting the cheeks of Patrick’s ass. “You are pink here,” he says, “I was right.” He sounds even more satisfied. Patrick’s just happy he came back at all.

He rescues the still-open lube from the floor by Patrick’s feet. Through the parted vee of his own legs, Patrick can see his hands turning something over: a gold-colored butt plug, not large but solid-looking. Jonny’s holding it by the wide ring at one end while he coats it with lube, and that’s when Patrick realizes—that plug’s going inside of Patrick. Jonny smooths a little more lube over Patrick’s hole with his thumb, too, and then Patrick feels the press of the plug as Jonny works it so softly past his rim. It’s a cool, but not in a bad way; in fact, it feels almost soothing. The size is nothing compared to Jonny’s cock, but Patrick’s body closes around it even so. “There we go,” Jonny says. “Comfortable?”

“It’s good,” Patrick says. “I like… it feels heavy.”

“It’ll warm up, too,” Jonny says. He sits back, and Patrick has a heartbeat to wonder how long Jonny’s going to make him stay like this before he’s pulling Patrick down to sit sideways across his lap. He drags a throw over them, making sure to tuck it around Patrick’s legs, and then he burrows his face into Patrick’s hair.

“Do the guys really call me that?”

“Call you what?” Jonny asks.

“You know. Call me your… your…”

“Yeah, baby boy, they do. You like that?”

“Yeah, I like it,” Patrick says.

“You’re going to be hell on my self-control. I really thought I could keep my hands off you. You’re twelve years younger than me, you should get to have the experience of figuring out what you like with someone your own age.”

“That’s dumb,” Patrick says immediately.

“You won’t feel that way when you’re—”

“Don’t you dare say when I’m older,” Patrick says. “I’ve been working for most of my life towards playing professional hockey. I know what I want and how to go after it.” God. At least Jonny isn’t looking at his face; he’s probably lit up from ears to nose.

“Yeah?” Jonny says, and he laughs a little. “All right.” Patrick can’t believe it’s that easy—actually, he doesn’t think Jonny really gets what Patrick is saying, the depth of what Patrick wants—but he’s certain there isn’t anything on the face of the planet that could ruin this moment.

He’s wrong. “I do have one question, though,” Jonny says. “Baby, why didn’t you tell me you were a virgin?”

Patrick stiffens. Fuck, oh fuck. “I’m not,” he tries.

“Peeks.”

He turns his head into Jonny’s chest and mumbles, “How did you know.”

When Jonny sighs, Patrick can feel it through his whole body. “I didn’t when we started,” he says, “or else we’d be on a bed, not this shitty old couch.”

“I like this couch,” Patrick says.

“Yeah, well, I would’ve…” Jonny huffs at himself. “I would’ve liked to see your face for your first time.”

“But how did you—”

“I don’t know, baby, it was just—I realized how you were reacting. You’re so fucking tight, like a little vise, and that doesn’t necessarily mean anything, but it felt like you didn’t have any muscle memory of being fucked.”

Patrick groans a little. “I can’t believe you figured it out,” he says into Jonny’s bare skin.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.” Jonny rubs his hand over the top of Patrick’s thigh down to his lap, and then he gently pets Patrick’s soft cock. They way he’s touching Patrick’s body is so casually, confidently possessive that Patrick shivers. “Or that I didn’t figure it out sooner,” he adds.

“I just,” Patrick says, “I didn’t want you to think I was… inexperienced. Or, you know. Bad in bed.”

“I don’t think you and I could have bad sex if we tried, babe. And you are inexperienced, but there’s nothing wrong with that.”

Jonny hasn’t actually slept with Patrick enough times to know if Patrick’s bad in bed or not, but for once, Patrick doesn’t point that out. “I guess not,” he says. “It’s just, I’ve seen the kinds of people you hook up with, and they’re all…” Runway model subs, maybe? The last guy Jonny had dated had dark skin and the most striking blue eyes and seemed exactly, perfectly yielding; nine times out of ten, Patrick has week-old scabs and the kind of half-skittish, half-belligerent body language around doms he doesn’t know that usually gets him labeled something nasty.

“Peeks, you have to trust me when I say that they have nothing on you.”

That’s nice of Jonny to say. Patrick doesn’t really want to talk about this anymore, though.

“And we can figure out what you like together,” Jonny says. “Work our way down the list… maybe I can tie you up, eh?”

“Number one on my to-do list,” Patrick mutters. It makes Jonny laugh, and Patrick hears himself chuckle, if a little reluctantly.

“All right,” Jonny says, “we’ll put tying you up at the top of the list. And I’ll take you to a football game.” Patrick likes that idea; he has yet to see the Bears play. “And then take you home and dress you up in something pretty,” Jonny says. “We can keep doing all the cheesy tourist stuff, too, and I can take you to Vieux.” Patrick jolts. “Not the public floor, baby, neither of us would enjoy that, but you should see the cabaret show at least once.” Patrick has never set foot in Vieux; it’s an upscale club for allodynamics, the first floor housing a bar and stage and the lower levels devoted to public and private play areas. “And restaurants—we could go to Alinea, and Goosefoot, and Thatcher’s—”

Patrick bolts upright. Vieux would be one thing, that could easily be passed off as two teammates out for a night of fun, but Thatcher’s—how does Jonny not grasp— “That’s a date restaurant,” he says.

“Thatcher’s?” Jonny frowns. “What about it?”

“People would see us together.” Jonny doesn’t get it, Patrick has to make sure he knows— “They’d see us together,” he repeats. “They’d think, you know, that…”

“That we were dating?” Jonny says. There’s a furrow between his eyebrows, and his gaze is like a branch. “Does that matter?”

“Jonny, come on.” He can’t let Jonny put himself on the line. “You don’t want to be seen with, you know, with—”

“God, baby,” Jonny says. He sounds… “Do you think I’d be ashamed to be seen with you?”

That’s not, it isn’t exactly what Patrick—it’s just that he has a reputation— “N-no,” he says, “but we should consider—”

“Consider what?”

“I,” Patrick says. He’s definitely lost control of this conversation.

“Because I can’t imagine being anything but proud to have you on my arm,” Jonny says.

“I—okay,” Patrick manages.

“Unless you’d mind being seen with me?”

“No!” Patrick says. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind.”

“Then we’ll go to Thatcher’s,” Jonny says. “You’ll like the steak.”

Yeah, Patrick definitely lost control of that one. He slumps into Jonny again and starts chewing his lip. This whole evening has been very confusing. Maybe that’s what having your fantasy come true is like: incredible, but also confusing.

“Ready to shower?” Jonny asks.

“Yeah. Am I leaving the…”

“It stays in,” Jonny says. “Up—there you go.” He guides Patrick up by the hips and then readjusts the blanket around his shoulders before starting to lead him slowly down the hall by both hands. “You okay, baby?”

“Well, the plug feels a little different,” Patrick says dryly, and Jonny grins. He almost walks into the wall, and Patrick tugs lightly on his hand to straighten him out. “Maybe, uh…” He knows he’s turning red, but he can’t stop himself from trying to look up at Jonny through his eyelashes. It probably doesn’t even come close to flirtatious. “Maybe we could try the bed next time?”

“Bondage and the bed,” Jonny says. He should be joking, but he sounds perfectly serious. “Dinner after. What else?”

Patrick opens his mouth to answer, but he finds himself stopping dead in the hall instead. They’re passing Jonny’s dom room. The door is cracked.

“You can look inside,” Jonny says.

Patrick’s eyes snap up. “Really? You’re sure?”

“Go ahead, baby,” Jonny says. “Have you ever been in one before?”

Patrick slips from Jonny’s grasp and pushes the door the rest of the way open. “No,” he says. He’s walked past here a couple of times, sometimes caught a glimpse of what’s inside, but he’s never entered the room. It would’ve felt… inappropriate, maybe.

“Help yourself,” Jonny says, and Patrick steps inside.

Instead of more traditional colors, the room is a dark slate blue with a soft gray ceiling. The floor’s a warm walnut, although there’s more than one rug, too. Jonny’s got an electric fireplace in the middle of the wall to the right and a big bank of windows with the heavy curtains drawn back opposite. Towards the back is the typical dom’s bed—smaller than Patrick would’ve expected, but with the usual four posts, solid upper frame, and heavy lattice headboard—and a big chest, and a bondage chaise, and a huge leather armchair with an ottoman that actually looks like something Jonny would’ve picked out himself, unless most of the rest of his furniture; but what really catches Patrick’s attention is the centerpiece. There are five big anchors set into the high ceiling, and from each one cascades a doubled length of rope.

He’s drawn to touch them; they’re less elastic than silk or bamboo, and they’re all either incredibly soft or interestingly textured. When he looks over his shoulder, Jonny’s leaning against the doorframe and watching him.

“You really like ropes,” he says.

He expects Jonny to laugh, but instead Jonny pins him with those dark eyes. “Yeah, baby boy,” he says. “I do.”

Patrick swallows and lets the rope fall from his hand. The bed’s interesting, but he’s seen beds before. The chest, though… when he opens it up, there’s more rope inside (Jonny really likes ropes), and some other restraints, including a spreader bar with thick cuffs made of butter-soft leather. He doesn’t open the smaller drawers underneath, even though this might be his only chance to look.

The chaise is gorgeous; it’s made of a deep burgundy fabric so soft that Patrick wants to rub his whole body over it. There are multiple connection points along the sides, but what he really likes is the way it’s shaped, with a hill the dips into a low valley and then rises again in another, higher crest.

Jonny crowds up behind his back. “Like that?”

“It’s a couch.” Patrick shrugs. “Been there, done that.”

Jonny laughs. “Yeah?” he says, and then he turns Patrick around, forces him backwards until he loses his balance, catches him, and lowers him to the chaise. The blanket falls open, and just like that Patrick’s sprawled under Jonny. His shoulders are supported by the larger slope and his hips are canted up by the smaller slope, molding his body into a curve; if Jonny fucked him like this, he’d be forced to watch Jonny’s dick drive into him.

Jonny crawls between his splayed knees and braces himself with a hand next to Patrick’s head. “Look at you,” he says. “I didn’t know you’d be like this.”

“What do you mean?” He has to crane his head backward to look at Jonny.

“You’re so…” Jonny shakes his head, and then he leans down to put his forehead against Patrick’s. Sometimes when he looks at Patrick, it’s too much—he can hardly stand the force of it. Jonny’s the most viscerally present person Patrick has ever met, and having all of that intention and focus directed at him is almost more than he can bear.

“You’re so submissive,” Jonny says, and then he huffs a laugh at himself. “It sounds stupid when I say it like that that. The way you yield, though, and how you react to even the littlest things—like right now. You like me on top of you, don’t you?”

“I like it a lot,” Patrick admits. He hopes there isn’t anything wrong with that. Maybe Jonny’s taking it as another sign that Patrick’s too inexperienced—getting turned on by something as simple as Jonny looming over him.

“I can tell, babe. Your pupils are huge.” He kisses the side of Patrick’s face, and then the notch of his jaw, and then his Adam’s apple. “And you don’t yield like that at all out in public. You’re so brave, baby—all that shit they throw at you, and it just makes you hold your head higher.”

“Is that…” Patrick has no clue where to go with this. “Is that okay, or…”

“Okay? Peeks, it’s incredible. There’s not a single damn thing that can force you to your knees, but with me, you’re choosing… no, that’s not even right. You want to go to your knees for me, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. He wants it; he wants it so much. He wants it every day until the day he drops dead, and if there’s an afterlife, he’ll want it every day there, too.

“Yeah,” Jonny echoes. “You want to be good for me. My sweet boy.”

Patrick flushes and turns his face away, too shy to tolerate more. He doesn’t know how to say that it’s all too much in a way Jonny will understand without safewording. Jonny saying all those things, and acting like Patrick belongs to him—

Fortunately, Jonny takes him by the chin and turns his face back and kisses him hard and deep on the mouth. It’s whatever the opposite of a sipping kiss is—a quenching kiss, a craving kiss. Patrick feels his body start to respond; how can he not?

“Are you gonna,” he mumbles into Jonny’s mouth.

Jonny pulls back. “Am I gonna what?”

“Fuck me again,” Patrick says. He’s eighteen. His refractory period is roughly equivalent to his experience—that is to say, zero.

Jonny sits back on his heels, takes Patrick’s legs by the ankles, and forces them apart. Patrick gasps; he thought he was through with being embarrassed, but this is yet another layer of vulnerability. Jonny’s teaching him all sorts of things tonight.

“Hmm, baby, I don’t know,” Jonny says. “You look a little sore.” He bumps a knuckle gently against the end of the plug, and Patrick jolts.

“Not too sore,” he argues.

Jonny smirks. “No?” he says. “How about this. I’ll give you a choice: I can blow you now, or if your hole’s not too tender, I’ll fuck you again after dinner.”

Patrick gapes up at him. “That isn’t fair.”

“If you aren’t going to choose—”

“Fuck me later,” Patrick blurts.

Jonny’s smirk deepens into something absolutely filthy. “That was fast.”

“Like you didn’t know what I’d pick,” Patrick says. “See, that isn’t fair either. You know me too well, it’s like you’re cheating.”

Jonny reaches out and traces Patrick’s rim where it’s stretched around the plug before dropping his ankles and letting his legs fall together. “It’s not cheating,” he says, “it’s winning.”

“Which one of us is eighteen again?”

“Is Patrick Kane calling me too competitive?” He reaches out his hands, and Patrick takes them and lets Jonny tug him upright. When they’re face-to-face, Jonny brushes a thumb across Patrick’s cheekbone. “Eyelash,” he says.

Patrick blinks and leans forward and kisses him.

“I think you’re supposed to make a wish,” Jonny says.

“I already have everything I want,” Patrick says without thinking about it. He’s wondering how soon counts as ‘later.’ If they grab pasta and a salad, he could probably be back under Jonny in thirty, forty minutes tops.

Jonny exhales. “What am I going to do with you,” he says softly to himself, and then, “Baby—thank you.”

“What for?” Patrick says, and then his manners kick in automatically, and he says, “You’re welcome.”

“All of it,” Jonny says. “Why don’t you go ahead and get the water started? I’ll be right behind you.”

“Okay,” Patrick says, and he tilts his face up to be kissed again. Jonny obliges him, and then he wraps the blanket around Patrick’s shoulders and sends him off to the bathroom. Patrick’s still working on dinner logistics as he starts the shower. Would pizza be faster? Jonny probably won’t let them eat pizza, though. Maybe cold leftovers. He wouldn’t mind eating standing up in the kitchen as long as it means he gets to have Jonny again.

-

When Jonny gets in behind him, that’s it: Patrick can feel how the power has shifted. Or… not shifted, exactly, but morphed back to their more usual give-and-take. It’s strange that he doesn’t even have to look at Jonny to know, but they’ve spent their entire adult lives reading each other, so maybe it isn’t strange at all.

Jonny wraps an arm around his waist and settles his chin on Patrick’s shoulder. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” Patrick says back. He sways into Jonny, lets Jonny take some of his weight. The water’s so warm and he feels so languid; he’s a little achy around the plug, but not in a bad way, just in a way that means he won’t forget about it.

“I can’t believe that worked,” he tells Jonny.

“What, the scene?”

“I’ve never gotten lost in it like that before.” Admittedly, the headspace wasn’t unfamiliar; thirty-year-old Patrick hides his hero-worship and his fantasies better, but they’re no less persistent for being less obvious.

“Same here,” Jonny says. “We need to go back to the thing with me popping your cherry next time, though—”

Patrick elbows him lightly in the ribs. “You’re such a cliché.”

“I must’ve missed the part where you hated that. Oh, wait.”

Patrick tilts his head back and to the side so he can look at Jonny. “I didn’t say I hated it, I just said you’re a cliché.”

“That’s okay then,” Jonny says. “Hang on, babe.” He reaches past Patrick for the soap, works up a lather, and starts to wash the come off Patrick’s belly.

“I liked that it ended the way it did, though,” Patrick admits. He turns obediently in Jonny’s arms when Jonny starts on his back. “It feels like we could pick back up again.”

“No reason we can’t,” Jonny says. He’s being more purposeful than he usually is. Patrick feels a pang thinking of the time they’d stood in the shower and Jonny had held him for twenty minutes, but he knows he can’t expect that every time. He was hoping that Jonny might make good on the offer to fuck him again even though they’re not roleplaying anymore, but maybe he needs to think about heading home. He just has to remember to take the plug out first.

“Here, get your head under the water,” Jonny says, and Patrick complies.

He doesn’t feel as raw as he did after Jonny tied him up; the whole night was… fun, and sexy, and it let Patrick say some of the things he wanted to say with no risk of Jonny knowing that he meant them. And Jonny had done a great job of staying in character, too. Maybe they could try the rival teams thing next time, if Jonny was interested in there being a next time—

“Done,” Jonny says. “Dry off and go get dressed.”

Patrick flinches but hides it. “Sure,” he says. He wraps the towel around his waist before he goes back into the living room to retrieve his sweats. He had his real clothes from the charity event somewhere around here, too, but it’s probably easier to just shiver his way home in the shorts. And—oh, fuck, the plug.

After he pulls his sweatshirt on, he’s just parting his legs to remove the plug when Jonny wanders into the room. “Hey, Peeks, if we leave now we can—whoa, babe, what are you doing?”

“I thought,” Patrick tries, “if I’m going home, don’t you want—”

“Leave it in, we’re going out to dinner. Your clothes are on the bed, too, unless you want to drop by your house to change,” Jonny says.

Maybe Jonny’s going to make good on that offer to fuck him later after all. Either way, Patrick can’t help the absolute relief that courses through his entire body at learning the evening isn’t over yet. He could go for a burger, too; after everything, he’s starving.

“Just give me a second,” he says. When he comes back into the room, Jonny’s standing by the door, holding Patrick’s coat. He helps Patrick into it. Patrick lets him, although he knows he’s shooting Jonny a suspicious look; Jonny’s never helped him into his coat before, but the way he’s doing it now is so absent-minded Patrick can’t bring himself to say anything.

“I can drive,” Jonny says, and then, once they’re in his car, he drops his phone in Patrick’s lap. “Would you mind checking my email for me? Canadian Tire’s supposed to be sending me some information about the next ad they want me to do.”

“I don’t know why they don’t have you film more commercials when you’re such a great actor,” Patrick teases, but he picks up the phone and starts scrolling through Jonny’s inbox anyway. Jonny’s never unsubscribed from a mailing list in his life, and as a result, Patrick has to dig through about two hundred layers of coupons and flash sales before he finds the right email.

“Yeah, this doesn’t say anything,” he tells Jonny. “Apparently they’re going to call you to work out the details. Who wants to do business over the phone anymore? Although props to your people for finally adapting to tires and cars instead of just riding moose around, I guess.”

“You can’t ride a moose.”

“Wanna bet?” Patrick says, and he immediately pulls up the browser on Jonny’s phone and starts googling.

“Maybe as a novelty,” Jonny argues, “but they’re not domestic. Also they’re huge. You definitely couldn’t ride a moose, it would probably eat you.”

“Teddy Roosevelt rode a moose,” Patrick says. “Oh, wait, nevermind, that’s a hoax. Still. A couple of these don’t look like they were photoshopped.” He peers doubtfully at the screen and zooms in. At least one idiot has to have ridden a moose before, and Patrick’s confident that idiot was Canadian.

The car stops, and Patrick locks the phone. He hopes they’re at the bar with the garlic fries, although Jonny’s been really into this one particular food truck that sometimes stays open late—

Except when he looks up, they’re in the valet line at Thatcher’s.

“Jonny,” he says, and then he stops. “Jonny, what the fuck.”

“I told you that you’d like the steak,” Jonny says, which is not the explanation he thinks it is.

“This is a date restaurant,” Patrick hisses. Apparently Jonny thought Patrick was making up random facts about places to eat in Chicago as part of the roleplaying scenario.

“I know,” Jonny says. “I said I’d take you here.”

“We were pretending—”

“I wasn’t.”

“People are going to see you with—”

“I told you,” Jonny says, “I don’t care.” He throws the car into park, tosses the keys to the valet, and comes around to open Patrick’s door. Patrick’s brain has clearly decided to take a walk and leave him alone to deal with all this nonsense by himself, because he actually gets out of the car and follows Jonny inside.

“Toews, reservation for two,” Jonny tells the maître d’. “I called about an hour ago,” he adds, and then he spells his name for her. Patrick trails behind him, a stunned piece of flotsam in Jonny’s wake. This is extremely confusing. He’s extremely confused. They definitely ended the scene—they even talked about it—so this can’t just be part of the sex. He’s so entirely bewildered that he almost doesn’t notice Jonny checking their coats and then guiding him by the small of the back as they’re seated.

“I can’t believe you,” he says to Jonny. “What if—”

Jonny looks up from the wine menu and says, “Patrick.” There’s something about that tone that resonates through every part of him, like a low bell struck in the bone cage of his ribs. He settles back into his seat.

“Fine,” he says. “You’re still unbelievable, but I guess I can put up with a bro-date in the name of good steak.”

“A date,” Jonny says. “Wine?”

“Just a glass.” They have a game tomorrow. He shifts as he reaches for his own menu, and oh fuck the plug moves inside him. The smug look Jonny gives him when he jumps tells him that Jonny knows exactly what that was about.

That’s when Patrick, at least for the duration of the night, gives up. He rolls his eyes at Jonny, but he finds himself grinning reluctantly, too; better men than him have tried and failed to stand against Jonathan Toews when he has his mind made up. If Jonny’s that determined to feed Patrick steak, why bother fighting?

They’re tucked into a secluded corner. The whole restaurant is richly, darkly romantic, with heavy wood tables and plush velvet chairs lit by dim, warm pools of light. Across the room is a bar made resplendent by rows of glass liquor bottles lit from beneath.

“What am I going to do with you?” he finds himself asking. “I can’t believe you.” And then, because there’s no one around and why not, he adds, “I can’t believe you have a gold-plated butt plug, either.”

Jonny turns a page in the menu. “It isn’t plated,” he says.

It’s a good thing Patrick’s already reached his daily threshold for shock. “Are you telling me that the plug I’m sitting on is—” His voice starts to rise, and he looks around guiltily for a moment before he continues in a lower tone. “Is solid gold?”

In a perfectly normal volume, Jonny says, “I’m telling you that the plug currently keeping my come inside of you is solid gold, yes.”

“Fuck me,” Patrick breathes. Holy shit. He can’t even pretend he doesn’t like that, though, which is probably why he blurts, “How are you not married?”

Jonny ignores him and says, “The dry-aged ribeye is incredible.”

Patrick cuts his losses and picks up the menu. After the server takes their order—the ribeye for Jonny, and the bone-in filet mignon for Patrick, with the recommended wine pairings for them both—he sits back again. He’s expecting the plug to shift in him now (solid gold—the part of Patrick that’s secretly a magpie is gloating), but it still catches him off-guard. Jonny doesn’t miss his wince this time, either.

“This is a next-level bro-date,” Patrick says.

“Date,” says Jonny. “And I’m not married because I’m waiting on the right person.”

Patrick wasn’t expecting an answer—didn’t want an answer, if he’s being honest. “The right person?” he asks. “Do you really think it works like that?” Patrick doesn’t. Even if you find the person who’s right for you, there’s no guarantee you’re right for them. The concept is romantic in the kind of abstract way Jonny usually isn’t; he doesn’t lack imagination, but he’s a concrete thinker.

“I wasn’t sure for a long time,” Jonny says. “But I think…” He takes a sip of his wine. In this lighting, as in any lighting, he’s unfairly, impossibly handsome. “I think I’m starting to change my mind. Maybe it’s possible to grow to love someone after years of knowing them even if they accepted that you would never love them back a long time ago.”

Patrick closes his eyes, counts backwards as a distraction from what he has no right to be feeling. Jonny had dated Michael, the ex with the blue eyes and the perfect body language, for, what, a year and a half? No, just shy of two years. “Yeah, maybe,” he says. His voice comes out rough. “You’re the skeptic, not me, but I hope it works out for you.” He takes a drink of his own wine and in a gesture of pure self-defense changes the subject. “Hey, did I tell you that I talked to Sharpy the other day? I told him about the return of the bet.”

“And did he tell you that you’re delusional to think the U.S. has a chance?”

“Actually, his exact words were, ‘Prepare to be humiliated, and don’t forget that I can get a picture of you in a Team Canada sweater on a national broadcast now that I’m on-air talent.’” Patrick considers. “Plus a bunch of bullshit about how being a TV personality is a much better use of his assets than playing hockey.”

“So he’s doing well, then,” Jonny says, like he hasn’t talked to Sharpy in years rather than days.

“He invited me over for dinner on Thursday. Apparently Maddy’s practicing for a recital. He said you could come, but you might be forced to tap dance.”

“Yeah, okay,” Jonny says. “Maybe we could finally finish season seven of Game of Thrones after that.”

“It’s just not as good anymore,” Patrick says, shaking his head in mock sorrow.

“You say that about every season.”

“The writing just isn’t consistent, Jonny.”

“You keep falling asleep during the fight scenes!”

“I really think that makes my point,” Patrick says. Jonny’s determined to prove him wrong, though; he doesn’t figure out Patrick’s baiting him until their food arrives, and by then Patrick’s so distracted by his steak that he doesn’t get to properly savor Jonny’s frustration. After that they bicker gently about the Royal Canadian Moose Police over a piece of spiced pear cake with vanilla bean ice cream, and then they dissect last night’s Preds at Stars game on the way home. It’s midnight by the time they get back to Jonny’s, but the evening isn’t over: Jonny strips them both down and eats his own come out of Patrick before making good on his promise to fuck Patrick again. Right before he falls asleep, Patrick says, “That was the best bro-date ever.”

Jonny presses a kiss against Patrick’s forehead. “Date, Peeks,” he says. He might add something else, but Patrick wouldn’t know; he can’t quibble because he’s out like a light, warm and safe and satisfied and full.

Notes for the Chapter:

Thatcher’s is based really loosely on Bavette’s Steakhouse & Bar.

You can (and Jonny did) buy a solid gold butt plug for a mere $2,590. Please appreciate that the tagline for this toy is “Exclusively for the Golden Boy,” I know I did.

I came across this completely random bedroom while searching for something else and decided hey! that could work as a model for Jonny’s sex dungeon. It isn’t a red room, just because I felt like doing something different. Jonny does not have a disco ball. (Probably.) The chaise looks something like this or this, but a little more luxurious. The bed would be something along these lines, although I imagine there’s a much larger selection of bondage-friendly beds in a world where people are getting their kink on 24/7.

Up next: sex in a hotel room?? That’s pretty weird because it’s almost like this casual friends-with-benefits thing is spilling out into the real world, but what is Patrick supposed to do, NOT comfort Jonny after he almost gets into a fistfight with a reporter??????

6. Chapter 6

Notes for the Chapter:

Warnings update: Patrick talks about a graphic, sexually threatening remark made to him by a fan in the past.

They’re in Denver when Jonny snaps. Patrick isn’t even sure what does it; they make a shitty showing against the Avs, Stromer takes a hard cross-check, and Jonny gets two penalties—neither of which he seems to think he deserves, although Patrick could probably count on one hand the number of penalties Jonny has thought he deserves. It’s one of his few blind spots, and admittedly a pretty hilarious one, but he knows he’s gone on Jonny when even that seems endearing.

But tonight’s different; tonight’s bad. Patrick doesn’t get tapped for post-game press, and they’re all cleared out by the time he gets back from the showers, but Jonny’s so worked up Patrick can feel the tension as soon as he walks into the room. It’s all the more noticeable because he’s usually so completely in control of himself. The set of his shoulders suggests frustration and disappointment, but as soon as Patrick sees his face, he realizes that Jonny’s deeply, genuinely angry.

He slams out of the locker room without even looking at Patrick, and Patrick, baffled and maybe a little hurt, turns to Duncs. Whatever’s going on with Jonny runs way deeper than a shitty game. “What the hell was that?” he asks.

Duncs gives him an odd look. “You don’t know?”

“He went from zero to one hundred while I was out of the room.”

“Look, you might want to give him some space. He’s really pissed off.”

“That still doesn’t answer my question,” Patrick points out. “Did something happen?”

“Ask him about it tomorrow,” Duncs says firmly. Well, that clears up absolutely nothing, except that Duncs is being characteristically and unhelpfully cryptic. Great.

He doesn’t sit next to Jonny on the bus back to the hotel. It’s something he does deliberately; he lets himself sit with Jonny every now and then, but more often he makes himself sit with someone else, which serves the dual purpose of giving him time with the other guys and reinforcing the boundaries he’s made himself draw. Some of those boundaries have definitely been crossed lately, but he can’t let himself get too lax, because soon enough time’s going to run out and he’ll be back to forcing himself to keep his usual distance.

He’s been so careful over the years, always casually supportive of Jonny dating and welcoming to his significant others, laughing off jokes that they’re just as married as Duncs and Seabs instead of making a big deal out of it, building close friendships with Sharpy and Artemi and all of his rookies, and putting as much of his heart as he can into relationships of his own. He’d finally given in and admitted that Jonny was his best friend, and he probably takes advantage of Jonny more than he should when it’s just the two of them, but when Jonny’s seeing someone, he backs off and makes sure they don’t spend much time alone together. It’s not fair to Jonny or his partners to give the false impression that there’s anything more than friendship between the two of them. Jonny never notices or comments, which might be privately devastating to Patrick but at least suggests he’s doing the right thing. He knows that he’s abusing Jonny’s trust, knows it’s awful that he’s unable to make himself stop, but at least he’s kept his feelings on lockdown instead of placing that burden on Jonny.

Tonight, though, he’s having even more trouble keeping his eyes off Jonny than normal. The rest of the team’s picking up on Jonny’s tension, and there’s a small, stupid, instinctive part of Patrick that responds to Jonny like Jonny’s his dom; it’s not that Patrick thinks Jonny’s mad at him, exactly, and it definitely isn’t that he’s afraid of Jonny’s anger, but that small, stupid part wants to make sure that Jonny still thinks he’s being good, wants to kneel for Jonny, wants to offer him something to soothe him. He fucking hates his instincts.

Shawzy must catch him frowning in Jonny’s direction, because he looks over at Patrick and then back at Jonny and then over at Patrick again.

“Don’t look at me,” Patrick says. “Duncs told me to leave him alone.”

“Yeah, I guess he’s pretty mad,” Shawzy says. “Do we know for sure about Stromer yet?”

“I haven’t heard either way,” Patrick admits. “Brinks didn’t seem too worried, though.”

“Think he’ll be out?”

“Maybe. Hopefully not for more than a few games.”

“Yeah,” Shawzy says. He’s still staring at Tazer. “It was just a bad night.”

“A bad night, and now a reporter’s got him ticked off.” Patrick sighs. “Maybe I will go talk to him.”

Shawzy jumps a little and then turns to look at Patrick. “No,” he says, “I mean, maybe Duncs is right.”

“That he needs space to cool off?”

“Right,” Shawzy says. “Exactly.”

“You know he’s never given me space to cool off in my life, right?”

“Yeah, but that’s different.”

“How?” Patrick asks.

“Just… you know,” Shawzy says.

Patrick’s too tired for any of this. He’s been dragging since Toronto. “Shawzy.”

“It’s different,” Shawzy says. “For him.”

“Because…?”

“Because of the way he, you know—and I mean, I know you don’t—and that’s okay, but I bet sometime it’s hard on him, and then tonight—”

Patrick’s too tired and too old for any of this. “What’s hard on him?”

Shawzy wilts. “…Being the captain,” he says.

“Yeah, man, I know,” Patrick says, “but points for trying to articulate Tazer’s emotional state. He almost never lets stuff get to him like this anymore, though.”

“He just needs space,” Shawzy says as firmly as he can manage through a real jaw-cracker of a yawn. Patrick is getting pretty sick of everyone else telling him how to act around Jonny. Whatever else is going on between them, he’s had Jonny’s back longer and more fiercely than anyone else on this bus. Maybe they’re right, though. Maybe Patrick should mind his own business. He spends the rest of the ride on his phone anyway, searching around to see if there’s anywhere nearby that might give Jonny a slightly better end to the evening, but nothing looks promising. Too bad they aren’t home; Patrick found out about a juice bar so new they haven’t even had an official opening. He hasn’t had a chance to drag Jonny there yet, but only because they haven’t been back to Chicago.

When they get to the hotel, a couple of the younger guys head across the lobby into the connected restaurant, which is an Applebee’s in everything but name. They’re not looking to drink, Patrick knows, just blow off steam, give themselves the chance to cool off and maybe bust their diet plans with an order or two of onion rings. They’re young; they can get away with it. Meanwhile, Patrick now feels like he has a salt hangover the next day if he eats more than two pieces of pizza.

Shawzy and the rest head for the elevators. Patrick’s about to follow them when he realizes that Jonny’s peeled off. He’s standing way off on the other side of the huge lobby, glaring down at his phone, and Patrick—Patrick knows where he needs to be.

He crosses the lobby to Jonny, but Jonny doesn’t look up. “Hey,” he says, “what’s going on?”

Jonny shuts his eyes and breathes out heavily through his nose. “Patrick,” he says. “You need to—”

“How do you want me?” Patrick says.

“…What?”

Oh, fuck. He glances around, makes sure nobody else heard his idiotic outburst, but Jonny… he’s snapped out of his funk a little, so Patrick steels himself and repeats, “How do you want me?”

Jonny’s eyes flick up to Patrick’s; he still has that hard, angry set to his face, but at least he’s looking up from his phone. There’s a searching quality to his gaze. Patrick doesn’t know what he’s looking for, but he must find it, because he doesn’t hesitate.

“Go up to your room and shower,” he says. “Don’t get dressed again. The door between our rooms is open, find the lube in my suitcase and put it on the desk. Then I want you in the middle of my bed. Face down, ass up. Keep your hips high and spread your legs as far as they’ll go. Got it?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says.

“Repeat it back to me.”

Patrick’s back is to the room; for all he knows, someone else has wandered into earshot, but he doesn’t pause once before he recites his instructions, because Jonny wouldn’t let anyone close enough to overhear. “Shower and let myself in your room. Put the lube on the desk and get into bed. Face down, ass up, legs spread.”

“Good,” Jonny says. “And don’t put any crap in your hair, either. I’ll be up in fifteen minutes.”

“Got it,” Patrick says, and then, maybe because this feels almost more like a mid-game huddle than the start of a scene or maybe just because he wants to lighten the heaviness on Jonny’s face, he bumps his arm against Jonny’s front and says, “See you in fifteen.”

Jonny’s look softens. “See you in fifteen,” he echoes, and then Patrick bolts.

Fifteen minutes isn’t long, especially if he doesn’t want to be soaking wet when Jonny’s ready for him. He slips into his room, locks the door, and immediately starts stripping without taking the time to fold his clothes or do anything other than fling them at a chair. He showers fast—probably doesn’t even need to shower again, since he took one after the game, but he’s not going to skip one of Jonny’s directions—and towels everything dry, including his hair. He brushes his teeth too, mostly because he’s still a little damp and needs to kill time, and then he lets himself into Jonny’s room.

Jonny’s usual haphazard organization is at work all over; the only reason his suitcase isn’t upended on the floor is because Patrick very pointedly put it on a luggage rack that morning. Patrick opens it up to dig around, shoving aside shirts and books and balled-up socks and half of what looks like a duplicate shaving kit. No luck in the laptop pocket, either, although tucked into a small pocket in the lining he sees a hint of lace, and when he tugs on it, he finds a familiar blush-colored pair of panties and can feel himself turn the same color. God—judging by the lube stains, they haven’t been washed since Jonny tugged them out of Patrick’s hole. Jonny really is gross.

The lube finally turns up in an outside pocket that also holds Jonny’s earbuds, a pair of sunglasses that he’s literally never seen Jonny wear, and forty bucks in cash. By then he figures he has about three minutes left; he puts the lube on the desk as directed, spends a precious thirty seconds waffling about the lighting before finally deciding to leave on only the bedside lamp, and crawls into Jonny’s bed.

The sheets are still disheveled from Jonny’s nap, and Patrick’s suddenly, horribly aware that he’s naked. Which is dumb; his room and all his clothes are about ten feet in the other direction, but there’s something so exposed about being naked in a space that isn’t really his and isn’t really Jonny’s, either. When he presses his face to the mattress, though, he can pick up Jonny’s faint smell: something that’s more than just his expensive aftershave, a scent that also manages to contain laundry detergent and sweat and some unquantifiable smell that lights up Patrick’s hindbrain. It helps.

Patrick finally settles with his face turned away from the door. He pushes his chest into the mattress, digs in a little, and then he gets his knees up under him and lifts his hips until his ass is, quite literally, on display.

The position forces his back into an arch, and where he really feels the stretch is in his hips; they’re opened up wide, and he has to sink into them to maintain the extremity of the position. His hard cock and his balls are hanging between his legs; just the anticipation of Jonny has his dick plump and throbbing and flushed pink with arousal.

He wonders how long he’s going to have to wait. He wonders what Jonny’s going to do when he finally arrives. Is he going to fuck into Patrick with his clothes on? Or make Patrick stay like this and just look at him? Maybe he’ll flip Patrick over; or maybe he’ll drag Patrick off the mattress and force him to his knees. As much as he wants all of those things for himself, he wants them more for Jonny, wants to lift that tension from Jonny’s face, wants him to know that in whatever capacity he wants Patrick is here for him.

He shifts his arms around, chews on his lip and thinks about what would present the most attractive picture, tries not to think about what Jonny will see (everything) when he walks in the room. After a little consideration, he ends up with his hands curled close to his head with his elbows tucked almost underneath him; maybe it isn’t the most attractive, but it’s the most comfortable, with how it relieves a little of the strain on his upper chest, and it allows him to mouth at his thumb and fingertips, which might spare his lips from looking so bitten. As a kid he’d chewed his fingernails until his dad had broken him of the habit, and when he was even younger he’d sucked his thumb. At least now he isn’t gnawing on his mouthguard all the damn time.

There’s a sound at the door. Patrick tenses. His heart’s hammering, how did he not realize—

And then someone’s letting themselves inside. Patrick knows who it is; even if he hadn’t been waiting on Jonny, he would’ve known him from the weight of his step and the tempo of his breath, but he shivers anyway. The door falls shut, and then there’s the sound of the deadbolt being thrown, and the bar being slid into place, and the chain; and then the footfalls walk to the end of the bed and stop behind Patrick. Jonny doesn’t say a word. (God, he hopes that’s Jonny; it has to be Jonny, though, because Jonny wouldn’t let anyone else walk in on Patrick like this.) Patrick can feel his hole contract around nothing, almost like he can feel Jonny’s gaze on his skin, between his legs, running over Patrick’s hole and perenium and hanging cock.

He doesn’t get any warning before Jonny hooks his hands over the right-angle creases between Patrick’s hips and thighs and hauls him to the end of the bed. It makes Patrick gasp. It almost makes him lose the pose. It almost makes him lightheaded from the way Jonny so casually drags him around, that easy strength, the casualness of it, but he stays present and spreads his knees and cants his hips.

Jonny’s breathing is harsh in the otherwise still room. Patrick shivers again, as much from vulnerability as from the coolness of the air, and then he hears Jonny taking the cap off the lube, and then Jonny’s slippery fingers are touching him. There’s no build-up, just one of Jonny’s fingers tracing around his rim a couple of times before Jonny slides his finger inside. Patrick can, god, he can feel the cuff of Jonny’s suit against his asscheek, and then Jonny takes his finger out of Patrick and wipes the lube off on Patrick’s thigh and walks away.

Patrick wants him to come back so badly he almost opens his mouth to beg for it.

He has to guess from only faint sounds what Jonny is doing; there’s a cloth sound and then a clink that might be Jonny shrugging off his suit jacket and taking off his belt, and then what sounds like something being dropped on a tabletop—a phone, maybe, and a wallet—and then the first noise Patrick can definitively identify, that of a zipper. When Jonny edges just barely into Patrick’s field of vision, he’s stripped down to his black compression shorts. A moment later the heater clicks on, and then Jonny’s touching him again.

He shoves two fingers into Patrick this time, pumps them in and out, and then spreads them, testing the give of Patrick’s rim and finding very little. Patrick clenches down around him, trying to beg with his hole, begging Jonny to—

When Jonny pulls out, Patrick flinches. He doesn’t know if he can take Jonny using him to wipe the lube off his hands again, but this time Jonny wipes his fingers on the sheets instead and cups Patrick’s ass gently but briefly before walking away. The shadows in the room shift as the bathroom light comes on. Patrick can feel how wet his hole is, how it’s dripping with lube.

“Get your hips up,” Jonny orders, and Patrick spreads his legs and sinks into his hips and lifts his ass even higher. He wants Jonny to call him babe. He wants Jonny to call him baby.

The faucet turns on and off, and then Jonny starts brushing his teeth. He comes back into the bedroom while he’s still brushing; Patrick can hear him there, at the foot of the bed, and maybe he’s looking at Patrick, and maybe he’s thinking about touching Patrick. Patrick badly wants to be touched. He arches his back even more dramatically in a plea, and for a minute he thinks it won’t work, but then Jonny, still brushing his teeth, settles his thumb against Patrick’s hole for a moment before pushing it inside.

Patrick feels his shoulders hitch. He doesn’t want Jonny to leave his body, but he doesn’t know how to make him stay. He just wants everything, all at once, and he doesn’t know what to do with—

Jonny’s thumb pulls out of Patrick, but he reaches lower between Patrick’s legs and milks his cock from root to tip before taking his hand away. The noise recedes, the faucet comes on, and Patrick can only focus on how empty he is. Little pricks of awareness like needles are running over his skin. He’s starved for Jonny’s touch.

The shadows shift again as the bathroom light goes out, and then the mattress dips above Patrick’s head as Jonny settles onto it. He inhales, blows out a heavy breath through his nose, and then says, his voice rough, “Finish fingering yourself open.”

Yeah. Yeah, okay, Patrick can do that; and maybe after he opens himself up, Jonny will deign to touch Patrick again. He’s starving for Jonny. In a handful of minutes, Jonny has made him starve; or maybe he’s been starving for Jonny for years, and he’s just so accustomed to how the hunger eats at him that he doesn’t know how to live without it. That hunger’s part of him now, and he can no more separate it out from the rest of him than he can tease out the feel of his blood in his veins.

Jonny really did leave him dripping with lube, at least; he doesn’t have to worry that his fingers will be dry. He collects some of it from between his legs and goes to push himself up on his elbows, but Jonny says, “No. Keep your chest down.” Fuck. He ends up having to reach up and back to hook his fingers in his hole—just two at first, and then a third that goes in more easily that usual because Jonny’s fingers are bigger than his, and he works them in and out a couple of times. Is that enough? Is Jonny going to—

“Another,” Jonny says, and Patrick’s breath hitches, and he goes to work trying to fit a fourth finger inside.

It’s not—it isn’t impossible. Jonny’s never fucked him before without working him up to four first, but Patrick’s never had to do this himself, either. He’s not as patient as Jonny. He should probably give himself more time to relax, but he wriggles his pinky in next to the rest of his fingers and then moans from how tight the fit is. His palm’s pressed flat with his fingers curled inside like a C, and he thinks, he thinks he still isn’t opened up enough for Jonny’s cock—

“How does it feel?” Jonny asks.

“Good,” Patrick manages. His voice comes out constricted, both from the strain this position puts on his upper chest and from the too-much-too-soon stretch of his hole. “But it’s tight, it’s almost too much—”

“I don’t have to fuck you,” Jonny says.

“No!” Patrick says. “No, I mean—please, you have to—”

“I don’t have to do anything. Especially if you don’t think my cock will fit in you.”

“No, please,” he begs. There’s a little patch drool beneath his cheek. “Please, I can take it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “Yeah, I’m sure. Jonny, please—”

“Fine,” Jonny says. “Get up here and ride me.”

Patrick scrambles up. Jonny’s leaning back against the headboard with his hands draped casually over his thick thighs and his hard cock jutting up against his stomach. He doesn’t say anything as Patrick crawls towards him and throws a leg over his lap; he just watches.

Patrick settles down and takes a moment to catch his breath. His hands have landed on Jonny’s abs for balance, and his cock is pressed up against Jonny’s, and that sight really does make his breath catch. Patrick’s dick is normal, maybe even one of the few parts of his body he hasn’t been self-conscious about at one point or another, but Jonny’s cock dwarfs his. It’s both thicker and longer, the foreskin pulled back from the fat domed head, and Patrick really doesn’t think it’s fair that Jonny gets as hard as he does for the size of his dick, but he’s so hard he’s pulsing. They’re both leaking, too; as Patrick watches, a thick bead of precome slides from Jonny’s tip down his shaft and falls on the head of Patrick’s cock.

Jonny doesn’t say anything, but he hitches his leg up to bounce Patrick, and oh, right—he’s supposed to be riding Jonny, not staring at him. Jonny left the lube on the nightstand, and Patrick picks it up and upends it over Jonny’s dick. It’s probably more lube than he needs with how slicked up he is already, but… well. Close examination has only reinforced how much help he needs to take Jonny’s dick.

Jonny still hasn’t said anything or even done anything other than relocate his hands to Patrick’s thighs, and even when Patrick gets up on his knees and reaches behind himself to fit Jonny’s cock against his hole, Jonny just looks down at where they’re about to be joined. It feels wrong; he isn’t less intense, exactly, or disengaged, but Patrick’s so used to Jonny’s attention that he feels its absence keenly when he doesn’t have it. He’s not sure he realized that before—realized how spoiled he was—but he knows he’s selfish because he wants it back so, so badly.

Patrick would like to sink down on Jonny in one smooth motion. He can’t make it happen, though; he has to pause a couple of times to let himself adjust, but he finally takes all of Jonny. He wiggles his hips back and forth a little, testing the feel of Jonny inside of him, and then, slowly, he starts to move. At first he just rocks back and forth, grinding, but then he stops for a second and bends his ankles to get the balls of his feet against the mattress, and then he can really start riding Jonny, can use the muscles in his thighs and ass to work himself up and down. His hole is gripping Jonny too hard for the upstroke to be exactly easy (or the downstroke, for that matter), but he gets a rhythm going, and still Jonny doesn’t say anything. His eyes are locked on whatever glimpses he’s getting of his cock sinking into Patrick, and Patrick—

There’s still tension on Jonny’s face and in the set of his shoulders, and Patrick can’t have that. He can’t. And, fuck—he knows he’s going to sound stupid, but he has to do something—

So he looks at Jonny and says, not at all steadily because he’s starting to heave from the press of Jonny’s cock against his prostate: “Have I ever told you how good you feel in me?”

Jonny’s eyes snap up immediately.

“You’re so—” Patrick swallows. “It feels so good, you feel so good.” God, he sounds like an idiot, but he’s stuffed so full he can’t even think; and finally Jonny’s looking at him, and nothing else matters in the face of that. “I like—I like just thinking about you being inside me,” he manages. “And when you’re actually, when you fuck… when you’re fucking me, I’ve never felt anything even close—”

He has to stop to gulp down a breath, and then another one. Jonny’s eyes go impossibly darker, and Patrick feels his nipples tighten in response. “And when you touch me,” he gets out. His hips are still rolling as he rides Jonny, struggling to take him every time and every time loving the struggle. “When you touch me, I like that, too,” he says. “Every time, it’s so good every time.”

The invisible tension held in Jonny’s features softens by the smallest degree, but Patrick’s spent so long studying Jonny’s face that he sees it. “That time when you put me up against your bookshelf,” he says, his breath stuttering, “and you, you came on my face, it was in my eyelashes, Jonny—”

Jonny’s fingers flex on Patrick’s thighs, and that gives Patrick the nerve to keep going. “And when you tied me up and—you stuffed my, you stuffed me…” He can’t force more than that out, but he knows Jonny’s remembering that night, too. “You’re my—you’re so much, Jonny, I wish you could see,” and now he really isn’t making sense, and he says something he wouldn’t let slip otherwise: “Every time you look at me, I want to go to my knees—”

Jonny looks shocked, but Patrick’s too caught up in the moment to try to take it back. “I want you,” he confesses, and his entire body tenses in protest, he’s spent so long holding it back that every part of him tightens reflexively to keep his want from escaping, but it’s out there now, so the only thing he’s tightening around is Jonny’s cock. “I want you all the time, Jonny,” he says. Jonny finally moves his hands, skimming them up from Patrick’s thighs, and they settle at Patrick’s hip on one side and his waist on the other. “All the time,” Patrick repeats, and he knows he isn’t imagining it when the faint crow’s feet around Jonny’s eyes start to crease like the beginning of a smile.

“And,” he says, “and you’re gorgeous, I can’t—” He’s not sure he can explain how handsome Jonny is, and it isn’t just the way he looks, it’s the way he looks at you, it’s those kind dark eyes, the intensity, the courage, all of his confidence wrapped up with his steady hands and his broad shoulders and the way he scrunches his nose when he laughs, a will so strong you can sense it when he enters the room, his big cock and his filthy mouth, his dumb sense of humor and how he can’t stand to lose and that truly magnificent ass, and most of all it’s the passion at the core of him, the passion he pours into everything he does, the passion that for this one small moment in time he’s chosen to pour into Patrick.

He’s so fucking handsome that Patrick doesn’t have words for it. There’s really only one word, and Patrick doesn’t usually let himself taste that word, doesn’t let it near his lips, doesn’t let it enter his head, but he lets himself think it now. He lets it fill him, and then he slides his hands from Jonny’s chest up to his shoulders and tilts forward and shares his breath and kisses him; and just like that, Jonny shudders and comes.

Feeling that, watching Jonny’s face, is enough to tip Patrick into his own orgasm. He comes without a hand on his cock, overwhelmed by the pressure on his prostate and the strength of what he feels. His body clenches down around Jonny, and then white washes him clean of everything.

When color drains back into the world, he’s wrapped around Jonny’s head and shoulders, clinging to him, hugging him; he relaxes only a little, and in response Jonny sighs.

Patrick pulls back enough to look at him. “Hey,” he says, “are you okay?” and Jonny looks back at him and smiles and says, “Yeah, baby, I’m fine.”

-

Patrick wants to be the one to get out of bed for a washcloth and maybe an energy bar, but Jonny insists on coming into the bathroom with him. He does let Patrick wipe him off, though, and bring him water, and he doesn’t even do it with indulgence or amusement the way another dom might. When they’re clean, Patrick stacks some pillows against the headboard on the far side of the bed, sits back against them, pulls the sheet up around his waist, and pats his lap. Jonny ends up sprawled facedown over him like some big jungle cat.

“Aren’t you in the wet spot?” Patrick wonders.

“No,” Jonny says.

“You’re definitely in the wet spot.”

“Don’t care,” Jonny says, which seems more true. Patrick snorts and runs his palm over Jonny’s head. His hair’s getting a little long, which means he’s about to go and buzz it short again. He has a cowlick right at his crown, and Patrick traces the whorl first in one direction and then the other.

“Are you going to tell me what made you so angry?” he asks.

Jonny goes a little tense, so Patrick rubs a hand over his shoulders until the stress drains away again. Thank god that works, too—he could probably go another round for the cause, but he’s pretty tired after the game and after hearing himself say all the shit he just said to Jonny. Tomorrow he’s probably going to regret all of it, but now he’s so content to see Jonny relax that regret seems to run off him like water.

“It was a shitty game,” Jonny says. His voice is a little muffled, but Patrick’s had a lot of practice interpreting his half-asleep mumbling.

“Yeah, it was.”

“I hate the refs.”

“I know, babe,” Patrick says.

“Stromer got hurt.”

“He did, and that sucks. Probably gonna be okay, though.”

Jonny sighs, and Patrick can track the path of his breath by the rise and fall of his shoulders. “There was this horseshit reporter,” he says.

“Yeah, I figured.” He traces Jonny’s shoulder blades. “What did he say?”

“A lot of shit,” Jonny says.

“About the team?”

There’s a pause, and then Jonny says, “Some of it was about you.”

Patrick exhales slowly. “Okay,” he says neutrally. “Are you going to tell me what exactly he brought up?”

“I don’t think I can say it to you,” Jonny admits. Which might mean it was truly nasty, or might mean Jonny’s being sensitive, or might mean both. Patrick goes back to petting his hair while he thinks about what he’s going to say. He finds himself studying Jonny’s ears, and the way his trapezius leads down towards his lats. It’s such a novelty to let himself look at Jonny; he’s spent so long forcing himself not to look that doing so now feels indecent. Sometimes he thinks he’s too conspicuous. When he watches himself in interviews, the way he ducks his head so the brim of his hat hides his eyes if someone even asks him about Jonny seems blindingly, painfully obvious. He’s literally curling into himself, curling around his feelings for Jonny, trying to both protect them and prevent anyone from seeing them.

“Babe,” he starts, “I know how you are about the team, but you can’t let it get to you. They just want to get a reaction, and whatever he said—it doesn’t matter. I’ve heard worse.”

Jonny’s almost boneless now as he dozes in Patrick’s lap. However tired Patrick feels, he’s not half as exhausted as Jonny. “Did I ever tell you the real reason I stopped wearing a mouthguard?” he asks idly. Jonny’s hairline is uneven at the nape of his neck; it’s one of those meaningless things that shouldn’t be endearing but is. “After one of our last home games the season before the lockout, I stopped to sign some autographs, and this one fan… he told me it was obvious why I was always chewing on my mouthguard, and I said something like, ‘Oh yeah? Why?’” Patrick laughs a little; he’d been such a dumb, naive kid even into his early twenties.

“Anyway,” he goes on, “the guy said it was because I needed a cock in my mouth, and that I better be careful because if I didn’t play better tomorrow night, you’d probably give me to the Blues to pass around their locker room so they could facefuck me until I remembered how to pull my weight. And then he asked me to sign his hat,” Patrick finishes. Jonny’s so still that he must have finally drifted off; Patrick strokes over his nape and says, more quietly, “There’s always assholes like that, and you… you do so much for all of us, take on so much. You don’t need to waste your time on shit that doesn’t really matter.”

“It matters,” Jonny says, and Patrick jolts.

“Holy shit, christ, you almost gave me a heart attack. I thought you—why aren’t you asleep?”

“You were still talking,” Jonny says.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick says, and he pets Jonny’s hair apologetically. “You can just tell me to shut up, I know you’re beat.”

Jonny rolls over so he’s looking up at Patrick. There’s a crease on his face from the sheets, but that thrum of tension Patrick sensed him before is back—deeper, maybe, or less urgent, but still so present Patrick can feel it on his skin.

“No,” Jonny says. “I meant, I was still listening to you.”

“I didn’t realize you like hearing me bitch so much,” Patrick jokes, but Jonny reaches up and touches Patrick’s cheek.

“It matters,” he says. “Every time it matters.”

“I… okay,” Patrick says, caught off-guard. He feels weirdly self-conscious, and he turns his face into Jonny’s hand half-instinctively to hide.

“It matters,” Jonny says again. “That fan, this reporter—they’re sacks of shit, and they don’t matter, but what they say to you because you’re a sub, how it makes you feel? That matters, Peeks.”

Patrick squeezes his eyes shut. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, okay. Maybe it does.”

“It does, baby,” Jonny says, and he brushes his thumb over Patrick’s cheekbone. “It always matters. And you can tell me, you know. I promise I won’t make it about my anger.”

Patrick doesn’t—he doesn’t know what to do with that. “Jonny,” he says, “I can’t—”

“Okay, babe,” Jonny says. “That’s okay.” He touches Patrick on the chin and then lets his hand fall away, and Patrick feels the tension collapse. Jonny must sense that Patrick really can’t handle any more, because he changes the subject by saying, “Also, since I’m not sure you’ll let me bring it up again, it was so fucking hot to hear you tell me how much you liked it when I stuffed—”

Patrick slaps his hand over Jonny’s mouth. “No,” he says.

Jonny raises his eyebrows.

“Nice try.”

He licks Patrick’s palm.

“That stopped working on me at least a decade ago,” Patrick says. “You need some new moves, man.” Jonny takes Patrick’s hand with his own and peels it away; he’s smiling, and Patrick runs a finger from the crinkles in his forehead down the middle of his nose.

“What else did that guy say? The reporter?”

“What?” Jonny says.

“He said a lot of shit, and only some of it was about me,” Patrick says. “What else got to you?”

Jonny rolls his eyes. “He said that I’m getting old, and that I’m not playing like I used to, and that maybe they need to give someone else the C,” Jonny admits, and Patrick completely fucking loses it.

“What the fuck?” he snaps. “What was his name?”

“I’m not telling you,” Jonny says.

“The fuck you aren’t!”

“Fine, I’ll tell you in the morning.” Patrick glares at him, but Jonny doesn’t budge. “If I tell you now, you’ll spend all night obsessing over him, and you need to get some sleep.”

“What kind of piece of shit site does he work for?” Patrick says. “Do I know him? Have I met him before?”

“Tomorrow,” Jonny says firmly.

“You’re having a career best season,” he tells Jonny. For some reason, Jonny is grinning. “He doesn’t know one fucking thing about hockey if he thinks you aren’t playing like you used to,” Patrick adds. “I bet I can get his press pass taken away—”

“Donne-moi un bec,” Jonny says.

“What?” Patrick says, thrown. “I don’t know what that means, you giant Canadian loser—”

“Donne-moi un bec,” Jonny says again. “It means, give me a kiss.”

“It doesn’t sound very French,” Patrick says suspiciously. Erica had taken French in middle school, and when he was home he used to help her study for her tests, and they had definitely wasted at least a couple of hours trying to look up dirty words even though they never made it very far past ‘kiss’ and ‘sex.’

Jonny laughs. “Un bec is—it’s slang, it means ‘beak’—”

“Hot,” Patrick says, which both makes him sound unimpressed and lets him tell the truth.

“Just come down here,” Jonny says, and he tugs on one of Patrick’s curls. Patrick bends down obediently and kisses him, soft and sweet, and Jonny smiles against his lips.

“Will you go to sleep now?” Patrick asks.

“Will you?”

“I’m still a little keyed up,” Patrick says, “but probably in about twenty or thirty minutes. If you don’t, I mean, if it’s okay, I could stay here and just—” Jonny’s a light sleeper, so he won’t turn on the TV, but…

“Stay,” Jonny says. “Please.”

“And just mess around on my phone,” Patrick finishes. Although he looks around, and remembers his phone is in the other room.

“Use mine.” Jonny yawns; Patrick can hear his jaw pop. “But don’t post anything weird on my Facebook again.”

“No promises,” Patrick says, and then he stretches out and picks up Jonny’s phone and switches off the lamp. He expects Jonny to get off his lap, but Jonny seems perfectly content where he is. Patrick dims the phone screen even though he doesn’t expect to use it to do anything other than look at Jonny’s face, but he gets curious about the beak thing. Jonny wasn’t kidding; apparently Canadians have weird slang even in other languages. Maybe if he plays dumb enough, he can trick Jonny into speaking French again.

Notes for the Chapter:

Jonny’s a rich professional athlete, he can definitely track down a guy who was at the UC towards the end of the 2011/2012 season and have him killed right?

Cursory googling has convinced me I know something about French Canadian, but please tell me if you see an error here - corrections welcome! I cannot let this be the last time Jonny weaponizes his bilingualism to distract Patrick.

Next: Jonny vs. an ex + my deep dive into the lingerie section of Pinterest finally pays off.

7. Chapter 7

It’s another week before Patrick gets Jonny to the new juice bar. Practice, working out, Game of Thrones, and the interruption of Game of Thrones by one extremely memorable interlude with a spreader bar combine to prevent Patrick from taking Jonny anywhere. He spends the first couple of days tensed, worried that Jonny’s going to bring up how Patrick let his mouth run at that hotel in Denver, but either Jonny’s content to let it slide or he thinks it didn’t really mean anything—was just the kind of thing that might come out of anyone’s mouth in the middle of sex. Maybe he just has that much trouble seeing Patrick in a romantic light. Either way, it serves Patrick’s purposes; by day four he relaxes, and by day five he’s convinced he got away with it.

It’s a Wednesday afternoon when he finally herds a begrudging Jonny into his Hummer (unlike a lot of doms, Jonny doesn’t have any problem riding shotgun; he just likes to complain about Patrick’s car), tells him he’s getting a surprise, tells him not to get that excited because the surprise isn’t that great, and then resigns himself to twenty minutes of Jonny trying to pry more information out of him. Jonny only puts up a token objection to not knowing where they’re going, though, and halfway there Patrick can’t handle how weird he’s acting, so he says, “What’s going on?”

“What?” Jonny says.

“Don’t front, I know you have something you want to say.” He hangs a right and meets Jonny’s eyes in the review mirror. “Out with it.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Jonny says. “I mean, not yet.”

“Tough,” Patrick says.

“It isn’t a good car conversation.”

“I have no clue what that means, but it’s a terrible excuse.”

Jonny grunts in frustration, and then he spits out, “What that one asshole said to you.”

Patrick’s had a lot of things said to him by a lot of assholes. “Which one do you mean? The guy at the photoshoot yesterday? It wasn’t even that bad—”

“No,” Jonny says, “well, yeah, him too, but that guy back before the lockout, who said he’d—” He clears his throat, and his voice when it comes out is harder than Patrick usually hears it. “Who said I’d give you to another team to pass around their locker room.”

Patrick doesn’t flinch. That encounter had given him nightmares for years; he’s had far filthier and more threatening things said to him, but that one—that one stuck with him, even if it’s healed over now.

“That was years ago,” he says. “I probably shouldn’t have said anything, it’s not a big…” He flashes back to Jonny saying, It matters. “I guess it was a big deal,” he corrects, “but like I said, it was a long time ago.”

“You know I’d never do that, right?” Jonny says.

“Yeah,” Patrick says, “of course I know. It never crossed my mind that you would.” Just the idea, though, that Jonny might ever—that he might think Patrick was bad enough, that he’d care about Patrick so little—

He’d had nightmares, but he’d never once wondered if Jonny would do something so awful.

“It pisses me the fuck off that people use me against you,” Jonny says. His voice is still tight. “It pisses me off that they say shit like that to you at all. I’m not going to go after that guy, but if you ever want me to go after him, all you have to do is say the word.”

“I…” Patrick says, “thanks, I don’t…” He laughs a little. “I mean, I don’t think you could track him down, but I appreciate—”

“I already did,” Jonny says.

“…What?”

“I already tracked him down,” Jonny says. “I have his name and current address. I don’t know exactly what legal recourse is available, because I haven’t heard back from my lawyer yet, but if you ever want to press charges, the file will be waiting.”

Patrick pulls over to the shoulder of the road without thinking about it. He doesn’t know what—what is he supposed to do with that? How the hell did Jonny… and why the hell did Jonny…? He can’t—Patrick can’t remember the last time someone took a crack made against him that seriously. He’s not sure anyone has ever taken a crack made against him that seriously. He hasn’t bothered mentioning stuff like that to anyone since… god, probably since before he was drafted, because he couldn’t do anything about it other than prove he’d earned first overall and because the last thing he needed was a reputation as a princess.

Maybe he should think Jonny’s being overbearing, but Jonny hasn’t made any decisions for him. All he’s done is assemble the information necessary for Patrick to push back if he wants; and more than that, he’s made sure Patrick knows that at least one person isn’t okay with the rest of the world looking down on him. This is Jonny saying as clearly as possible: It does matter.

If he let himself, he’d be crying right now.

“You…” He swallows. “You didn’t have to do that.” Oh—the car isn’t even in park.

“I think I did,” Jonny says. His voice has gone mild.

Patrick can’t look away from the steering wheel. “I don’t,” he tries, “I didn’t—it must have been expensive, let me pay you…”

“No,” Jonny says.

“Jonny—”

“No, baby,” Jonny says. “All you need to know is that I have his name if you ever want to do anything about it. You can decide now, or think about it, or change your mind later. It’s up to you, okay?”

Hearing Jonny call him that out here, in Patrick’s car with bright daylight gleaming off the hood, feels surreal. Everything about this feels surreal. “Okay,” he says.

“Good,” Jonny says. “We don’t have to talk about it again unless you want to.”

“Okay,” Patrick says again. He’s still staring at the steering wheel. He should—he should look at Jonny, thank him—

“If you wanted to tell me where we’re going, though…”

Patrick’s head snaps up. “No,” he says.

“Fine. It was worth a try.”

“That was a terrible try,” Patrick says. This is better; he can do this. “You know the only reason I’m not telling you is that you keep bugging me about it, right?”

“I’ll get it out of you.”

“Not in the next ten minutes you won’t.” Jonny rarely loses patience when he’s not on the ice; why this is what makes him turn into a stubborn baby is one of the great mysteries of their friendship. Patrick blinks a couple of times, making sure his eyes are dry, and then he pulls into traffic. “This is what makes you such a pain to buy gifts for, by the way.”

“I’m hard to shop for?” Jonny says.

“No, you just want to know what you’re getting so bad you can’t think about anything else.” And because he knows what Jonny’s going to ask next, he adds, “No, you can’t have a clue.” He’s having to work to keep his side up instead of falling into the usual reflexive rhythms of conversation with Jonny, but Jonny has an ability to ratchet up the tension in a room or fade it to a whisper at will. It’s part of what makes him such an effective leader.

“Come on, Peeks—”

“No.”

“Peeksy—”

“Can you be patient for another six minutes?”

“Fine,” Jonny says, and he slumps in his seat with the body language of a toddler. Patrick lets him sulk for another five minutes and then allows himself to feel smug when Jonny perks up as soon as they pull into the parking lot of Juice+.

“This is new,” he says.

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “They did a soft launch not too long ago. I figured I could get you in before all the juice bar fanatics book the place up.”

The joke flies right over Jonny’s head. “Is it cold press?” he asks, because that’s apparently an important distinction to make. He’s out of the car as soon as Patrick turns off the engine, and Patrick makes his usual observation that Jonny has a lot easier time getting out of Patrick’s car than Patrick does. Patrick pockets his keys and follows at a more leisurely pace. Jonny’s staring at the chalkboard menu above the counter like he’s trying to memorize it, so Patrick pulls out his phone and searches “cold press vs other juice,” which doesn’t get him as far as he’d like. Jonny will pick out something he’ll like anyway, though, so there isn’t much point in trying to decipher the ingredients himself.

When he looks up a couple of minutes later, Jonny’s deep in conversation with a woman who has long, curly hair and a nametag. She’s obviously a sub, and equally obviously interested in Jonny; the way she tilts her head and the soft, open way she holds herself are classic signals, and Patrick’s seen enough subs fall over themselves to catch Jonny’s attention to know what it looks like. He wonders if Jonny’s going to ask her out. Jonny hasn’t had a long-term partner in a while, and finding a sub in a juice bar is maybe the most fitting meet-cute possible for a guy who gets excited at the prospect of chia seeds.

Jonny catches Patrick’s eye, though, and he thanks the woman and cuts a path straight back to Patrick’s side. Patrick can’t help being selfishly thankful—or, well, maybe it’s okay to be selfish; he’d probably feel snubbed if any of his other friends snubbed him to flirt in the same circumstances, too.

“Decide what you want?” Jonny asks. He’s angled just behind Patrick’s left shoulder. Patrick sways a little so his side brushes into Jonny’s front and says, “Get me whatever you think is good.”

“Aw, too lazy to read the menu again?” Jonny teases. “I’m just kidding. Hang on, I saw something you’ll like.” He steps up to the counter to order, and Patrick rolls his eyes and stifles a grin and does his best not to look in the direction of the other sub. It’s not her fault that—well, it’s not her fault.

He takes a seat at the literal bar while he waits. The counter’s granite, and the barstools are the same farmhouse-industrial standard used by probably half a dozen other restaurants on this block. It’s a pretty cool little place, though, especially as juice bars go. There aren’t any funny smells, for one thing, and he can actually understand the recycling station in the corner instead of having to rely on Jonny to explain different kinds of composting. It’s mostly empty, too, which means they’ll probably stick around for at least a little while, so Patrick pulls off his scarf and folds his coat to lay on the seat next to him. A couple of minutes later, Jonny, who hadn’t bothered with a scarf or gloves or even buttoning his coat, comes back with a tray.

“That,” Patrick says, “is a lot of food for a juice bar. I guess this is the ‘plus’ part of the name.”

“Spring rolls and mango salsa with corn chips,” Jonny says. “And this is wheatgrass and cucumber, don’t make a face, that’s for me, and here.” He sets a steaming mug in front of Patrick. “This is for you.”

Patrick leans down to catch a whiff and catches a spicy mulled scent. “Apple cider?”

“I know you hate to pass up a chance to drink beets,” Jonny teases, “but I figured you’d be okay with something else. Come on, let’s sit in one of the booths.”

Patrick obediently gathers up his cider and pile of winterwear and trails Jonny to a table. Jonny dumps his herringbone coat on top of Patrick’s without bothering to fold it, distributes the rest of their cups and plates, drops a pile of napkins in the middle of the table, and finally takes the seat that faces the door. “Happy?” Patrick asks.

“Yeah,” Jonny says. “Nice job finding this place. You were right, it’s a good surprise.”

Patrick flushes. “It’s a juice bar, it’s not that great.”

“I like it,” Jonny says, and he looks at Patrick until Patrick gives in and meets his gaze. “Thank you.”

“Thanks for the apple cider,” Patrick says, hopefully without sounding too much like an idiot.

They tear through the food pretty quickly, and Jonny gets Patrick another cider. By the time they’re ready to leave, it’s dusk and just starting to snow outside.

“How much are they saying?” Jonny asks.

“Couple of inches, nothing bad,” Patrick says. He pulls on his coat and starts buttoning it. “I think we’re getting a foot next week, though. We’re gonna come back from Florida and be buried alive.”

“Did you see—” Jonny starts to say, and then his eyes snap to the side, and that’s all the warning Patrick gets before someone behind him says, “Patty?”

Patrick turns around. “Whoa, hey, Matt,” he says. “Been a while.”

“Two years,” Matt agrees. “You look good.”

“Thanks,” Patrick says, and then, “You look good, too,” more because it’s what you’re supposed to say than because it’s true. Matt’s a little taller than he is, built like a bulldog with a graying buzzcut, and he looks largely the same as he did during the eight or nine months that he and Patrick had been together. Patrick had actually thought they had a chance of making a go of it until they split up, because Matt’s one of the most decent people he’s ever dated.

“And… Jonny, right?” Matt says, and Patrick kicks himself internally for not introducing them. Two doms who don’t know each other—it’d be good manners either way, but as the sub who knows them both, that’s his job. “We met briefly,” Matt adds. “I don’t know if you remember.”

“I remember,” Jonny says, and he shakes Matt’s hand. “Good to see you again.” Patrick recalls now—he’d taken Matt to a team function exactly once and then hadn’t bothered again, because he’d seemed a little uncomfortable around the guys. Also, the last thing Patrick had wanted was to draw attention to either how he worked around a lot of doms or how he made more money at a more prestigious job than… well, than just about anyone he’s ever seen.

“You, too. Keeping this one in line?” Matt jokes.

Jonny looks confused. “I’m not sure what you mean,” he says.

“How’s the firm?” Patrick asks.

“Good!” Matt pulls off his gloves, sticks them in his pocket, and scratches at one of his scabbed-over knuckles. “We just took on a new account, actually. Should bring in a lot of money.”

“That’s awesome,” Patrick says sincerely. He’s actually a little surprised that this encounter isn’t more awkward. Maybe it’s because he can’t bring himself to regret that he’s no longer seeing Matt; apparently he really does believe that a fling with Jonny is worth more than an enduring relationship with anyone else.

“Fingers crossed,” Matt says. “Someone’s gotta be able to take care of the subs who age out of playing hockey, right?”

“You know it,” Patrick says.

Jonny looks even more confused. “Is something wrong with your investment portfolio?” he asks.

Patrick’s thrown. “What?”

“You’re signed for ten point five million a year, so if you’re worried about what will happen after you retire…” Jonny’s brow furrows. “Do you need a new financial planner?”

“No?” Patrick says. He and Jonny use the same accountant, so he’s not sure why Jonny’s so suddenly concerned—unless he thinks Patrick’s planning on retiring? “I’m not going to retire any time soon, either. All good.”

“Oh, okay,” Jonny says. “Sorry about that,” he tells Matt. “We have matching contracts, so you can understand why I’d be concerned if Patrick’s suddenly worried about supporting himself with a salary like that.”

“Uh—yeah, no problem,” Matt says. He turns back to Patrick. “Have you heard from Lisa lately?”

“We lost touch after the second baby,” Patrick says. “She seems like she’s doing well, though.”

“I think she’s happy to be resettled. She always missed Texas.”

“She never stopped talking about Texas,” Patrick says.

Matt’s phone buzzes, and he pulls it out of his pockets alongside his gloves, which fall to the floor. “Whoops,” he says, looking down at the screen while he picks them up. “Sorry, that’s my wife.”

Patrick hadn’t known he was married. “Congrats,” he says. “How long?”

“Almost two years,” Matt says. “She’s a keeper. I have to get home in a sec, but how’s the season going?” He looks at Jonny. “Hell of a game last night.”

“Yeah, not bad. Patrick was on hatty watch.”

“Can’t always make it happen, I guess,” Matt says. “If he safewords on the ice half as much as he did with me, it’s a wonder you guys get anything done.”

“Sorry?” Jonny says, sounding very Canadian.

“Just a joke. Patrick, it was great—”

“I don’t get it,” Jonny says. “Do you mind explaining?”

“Uh—”

“Ignore him,” Patrick says, “he doesn’t have a sense of humor. It was great to see you, too. Good luck with the new account.”

“Thanks, you too. Jonny, hope the rest of the season goes well.”

“Thanks,” Patrick says for Jonny, and he watches as Matt collects his phone, his gloves, and his takeout tray of drinks before backing out the door. It’s still swinging shut behind him when Jonny, without bothering to lower his voice at all, says, “I bet he has a small dick.”

“What the fuck?”

“I bet he has a small dick,” Jonny repeats. “And he probably doesn’t know anything about hockey, either.”

“What the fuck,” Patrick says again, and then he spins around. The sub who works here is staring at them, so he shoves Jonny towards the door—futilely, until Jonny decides he’s going to let himself be shoved, and then Patrick pushes him outside and around the corner to the parking lot. “What the fuck?” he says for a third time. “What the hell, you giant weirdo?”

“He was a piece of fucking work,” Jonny snaps. “I get why you dumped him, you should’ve done it sooner.”

“He dumped me,” Patrick hisses, “not that it—”

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Jonny says. “Tell me you’re fucking joking. He dumped you?”

“I—yeah,” Patrick says, not at all understanding what’s going on or why he’s having to explain his relationship history in the middle of a parking lot while it’s twenty degrees and snowing. Maybe he should go back inside and get another cider if Jonny insists on having a meltdown here. “You came over right after, remember, we played Black Ops and then you listened to me talk about that one biomechanics study on slap shots and different kinds of sticks for two hours.”

“That was that Matt?”

“How many people named Matt do you think I’ve dated?”

“Holy fucking shit,” Jonny swears, and then he gets in the car and leaves Patrick standing in the middle of the parking lot wondering what exactly just happened. He probably stands there gaping stupidly for thirty seconds before the driver’s side door swings open.

“You better not have kicked that door,” Patrick says, and then he climbs inside. “Jesus, you did, there’s a footprint right here. You couldn’t have reached across and pushed?”

“Maybe if you didn’t drive such a fucking enormous car,” Jonny says.

“Jonny, seriously, what the fuck?” Patrick starts the engine and cranks up the heaters. He’d bet Jonny’s stupid car doesn’t warm up this fast. “Why are you throwing a tantrum?”

Jonny takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and exhales through his nose. When he opens his eyes again, he seems a little more controlled—but only a little. “You don’t even notice, do you?”

“Notice what?” Patrick asks.

“That guy’s an asshole. The way he treated you… god, Patrick.”

“Matt?” Patrick says, bewildered.

“Yeah, fucking Matt. All that shit about keeping you in line, and how he joked about—fuck. Fucking piece of shit. Did you notice how long he’s been married?”

“Almost two years?”

“Yeah, Peeks, almost two years. And how long ago did you break up?”

“I—oh. Two years.”

“Yeah. Two fucking years.”

“He seemed okay when we were going out,” Patrick says. They hadn’t been the most compatible in the bedroom, but Patrick wasn’t really all that compatible with anyone in the bedroom, and Matt had been fine with how often he was away.

“I’m not sure you’re really a reliable source on the subject.” Jonny should—those words make him sound like he should be joking, but his face is hard, maybe even grim. “Fuck. Sorry. I’m not mad at you.”

“You kicked my door,” Patrick points out, because that seems like the easiest thing to deal with.

Jonny looks contrite. “Sorry about that, too,” he says. “I’ll clean it as soon as we get home.”

“Do you really think he was cheating on me?”

He didn’t mean to ask that. The words just hang there between them, caught somewhere between Patrick’s inability to look directly at Jonny and Jonny’s straightforward stare.

“I don’t know, babe,” Jonny says, “but even if he wasn’t, you deserve to be treated better. All that passive aggressive horseshit—you shouldn’t have to put up with that.”

Patrick’s doing some fast mental gymnastics to recalculate his entire relationship with Matt. It would be easy, it would be so easy, to assume the problem was his: for traveling so much, for not being attentive, for failing at sex, for having a job that made Matt feel small. But then he makes himself meet Jonny’s eyes, and the first thought that occurs to him is that Jonny could be working in a juice shop and he still wouldn’t feel threatened that Patrick made more money. He wouldn’t care. He was beyond that.

“I think,” he says, “yeah. I think you’re right. I shouldn’t have to put up with that.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” Jonny agrees.

“I really thought he was a good boyfriend at the time,” Patrick adds.

“You know it’s not your fault that he’s shitty, right? Not now, and not then.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. The idea feels illicit, like he’s getting away with something, like he’s arrogant for deciding he isn’t the problem, but he finds himself warming to it all the same. “Yeah. He was a shitty boyfriend.”

“I could tell.”

And then Patrick remembers— “Shit, though, that whole thing about him having a small dick was petty as hell. What if he heard you?”

“I don’t care,” Jonny says. “I would happily tell him to his face that he has no balls.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t really have a reasonable baseline for comparison,” Patrick says, and then he backs out of the parking lot and starts driving. “That juice bar’s never going to let us back in. Too bad, the cider was really good.”

“I’ll bribe the owner,” Jonny says, with all the confidence of a man with a lot of money and a very large cock. God, he’s petty. Patrick can’t pretend it isn’t hilarious, even if Jonny’s confidence isn’t really linked to money. His self-assurance is innate and far predates his financial success. (Patrick’s not sure if the size of his cock actually plays a role or not, but it doesn’t seem like the kind of thing he can just ask.)

“Were you, uh—is that why you were playing dumb?”

“Playing dumb?”

“All that stuff about my investment portfolio and whatever,” Patrick says.

“I don’t think I understand.”

“You know, about my contract and—” He glances over at Jonny’s face. “Oh my god. You’re ridiculous.”

“Sorry?” Jonny says. He’s looking extremely self-satisfied.

Patrick laughs. “Fine, you win this round. At least you didn’t start a pissing contest with him.”

“Not my place,” Jonny says, even though Patrick wishes Jonny thought it was his place. “If he can’t handle having to explain why his sad fucking jokes are funny, he needs to rethink his attitude.”

“Make better choices, huh?”

“Yeah, babe, exactly,” Jonny says. “He wouldn’t win a pissing contest against me anyway. He’s not worth the effort. He’s not worth jack shit.” And that’s true enough; Patrick’s seen plenty of doms back down from Jonny. Part of him wishes Jonny had forced a confrontation so he could see Jonny metaphorically put another dom on their knees just for hurting Patrick, but he knows that part of him exists at the intersection of the stupid instincts that insist Jonny is his dom and his own reserve of pettiness. He wouldn’t; and Jonny definitely wouldn’t; but Patrick allows himself to spare a thought for the fantasy anyway.

Since it isn’t going to happen, though, he can at least comfort himself with the knowledge that Matt wouldn’t stand a chance if Patrick decided to run him over with the Hummer.

“It’s really coming down now,” Jonny points out.

“Yeah,” Patrick says. That’s another advantage of his car: it knows no such thing as inclement weather.

“Getting pretty cold,” Jonny adds.

“Can’t argue with that.” There’s gotta be something bigger and more obnoxious that’s also street-safe. Patrick’s not actually trying to murder the environment, though, just get a rise out of Jonny.

“Good night to stay home.”

“Okay, Martha Stewart.” Are there any electric cars that still smell like they burn gasoline?

Jonny sighs explosively. “Peeks,” he says, “will you please come over so I can fuck you?”

“Oh,” Patrick says. “If you want?”

“Yeah, baby, I want.”

“That… uh. That sounds good.” He pulls his brain together. “I had to swing by anyway. You said you’d clean my car door.” Sort of pulls it together.

“How about I fuck you tonight and clean your car in the morning?” Jonny replies.

Patrick tries and fails to think of a follow-up joke and just barely manages to stop himself from saying, Yes, please. “Okay.”

“Finally,” Jonny says. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Patrick answers automatically. The distant part of him that’s still functioning wonders if he’s been tricked into thinking he’s doing Jonny a favor. “Did you just oral karate me into sex?”

“Oral… karate?”

“Wasn’t that one of your books?” Patrick says. “You know. Eat like a champion, lead like a warlord, learn oral karate?”

“Wha—do you mean verbal judo?”

“You tell me,” Patrick says. “See? I can do it, too.”

“Oral karate sounds like the name of a porno,” Jonny says. He sounds appalled. “A bad porno.”

“Oh, and verbal judo doesn’t?” Patrick gives it three… two… one… and Jonny starts laughing. So he still has that; he can still do that. Even if nothing else makes sense, he can make Jonny laugh.

It’s fully dark by the time they pull up at Jonny’s and knock the snow off their Brunello Cucinelli deerskin boots (Patrick) and unspecified brand that looked like it could and probably had been used to conquer the great Canadian wilderness (Jonny). In another of his thoughtlessly gallant moments, Jonny helps Patrick out of his coat; Patrick doesn’t notice Jonny’s help until it’s off, and then he’s surprised at himself for not noticing. Jonny had done the same thing the night he took Patrick out to Thatcher’s.

“So are we going to fuck right away,” he tries to joke, “or…”

Jonny’s eyes are so dark it’s impossible to tell when his pupils dilate, but the way he looks at Patrick now makes Patrick think—

“What’s your safeword?”

“Lamp,” Patrick answers.

“Good. There’s a chest of drawers in the corner of my bedroom closet. Look inside. If you want, you can choose something from it. If not, that’s okay, too. It’s your decision, baby.”

Patrick’s a little bewildered, but he says, “Okay.” Maybe Jonny has a chest for his rope kits? But why would it be in his bedroom closet? Unless it’s new—?

“I’ll be waiting out here,” Jonny says. “Remember, up to you. I won’t be disappointed either way.”

If it is Jonny’s rope cabinet, he knows his answer already. He’d like the silk Jonny had used before, no contest. Although Jonny had said silk wasn’t good for suspension; if he’s finally going to move beyond floor bondage, Patrick will have to choose a different rope. The problem is that his knowledge of rope is limited to basic nylon and the bamboo he’d chosen to restrain himself.

He’s still worrying at the question when he lets himself into Jonny’s bedroom. He hasn’t been in here more than a handful of times. What always strikes him is the size and intricacy of the bed; unlike the smaller, more modest bed in Jonny’s dom room, the bed he actually sleeps in is massive and—honestly, it’s gorgeous, made of dark wood with brushed silver fittings. The heavy headboard is almost as high again as the mattress, and the four-poster frame has a sturdy lattice roof obviously intended to take the weight of a bound, struggling sub. It’s just—it’s very obviously a dom’s bed.

For a man who wears generic Canadian boots, Jonny’s closet is enormous. Patrick locates the chest of drawers in the corner easily enough; it isn’t from the same collection as the rest of Jonny’s bedroom furniture, but it isn’t out of place, either. It looks like it’s made of a fine gray fabric trimmed in black, but when Patrick touches the front, he finds lacquer instead of cloth, and when he tugs on one of the tassel pulls, the drawer slides open without noise or resistance.

He looks inside; and breathes; and shuts the drawer. It slides closed as noiselessly as it opened, without even a whisper. He could walk out right now and there wouldn’t even be the memory of a sound to give away that he’d been here. Maybe it’s a mistake. Maybe Jonny doesn’t realize—

He goes back to the front of the house. Jonny’s waiting in the living room, looking out his huge bank of windows at the city, and he turns to face Patrick when he hears him. “There you are,” he says, and he’s so kind and handsome Patrick’s heart hurts. “Decided against it?”

“I,” Patrick says. He shuts his eyes; he can’t look at Jonny and say this. “You won’t—” He swallows. “You won’t tell anyone?”

There’s a long pause, and then Jonny says, “No, baby, I won’t tell anyone.”

“And,” Patrick says. “And you won’t—you won’t—laugh?”

“No,” Jonny says. “No, Peeks. I won’t laugh.”

Patrick shudders. “Okay,” he says, and his voice sounds thin to his own ears.

“It’s your choice,” Jonny says, “but I’d like to see you like that.”

“Okay, I, I’ll be—I’ll be back,” Patrick gets out. His eyes are still screwed shut.

“Take as long as you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

He has to—he has to turn his face away from Jonny before he can open his eyes, because nothing else feels remotely safe. “Okay,” he says again, probably sounding so stupid and overwhelmed and inane that Jonny’s wondering why he’s here with Patrick at all, and then he turns around and stiltedly makes his way back to Jonny’s bedroom.

This time, when he opens the top drawer, he knows what to expect, so his hand is trembling. There’s just… there so much of it: silk and lace and chiffon, sleek and sweet and sexy; and all of it, no matter what the color, is beautiful. It’s so far from his previous experiences he isn’t even sure where to start. He lifts the first thing his fingers touch out of the drawer—panties made of blood-red lace, with a slender waistband trimmed in black silk and a little black bow at the front to match—and realizes they’re cut for a man, and then that the lace must be hand worked, and that’s when his shock tips over into astonishment.

The top drawer is all panties, some sheer, some with cutouts or lacing up the back, some with sweet ruffles or bows, and in the lower drawers he finds the rest: stockings and garter belts (but thigh-high knit socks, too), silky pajamas alongside bandeaus and bodysuits, a pink corset that laced up the back with soft ribbons and another black corset licked with gold. Nearly everything he takes out looks close to his size, too. He could choose almost anything.

Beside the pink corset is a folded pile separated a little from everything else, and when Patrick sees it, he just—he knows where the evening’s going to go if he puts it on, but he can’t resist taking the babydoll by the straps and holding it up. The flat lace front nips in to an empire waist and from there falls in folds of gossamer to a hem that would probably float around his thighs. When he checks the drawer, the matching panties tie at the sides with silk ribbons. There’s even a pair of lace-topped stockings, and Patrick spares one hysterical moment to wonder if Jonny has shoes hidden somewhere, too.

The entire set, babydoll and panties and stockings and all, is white. It can only be bridal lingerie.

And immediately on the heels of that realization a wave of pure want crashes over him. He can’t imagine anything more appealing, anything more sexy and more sweet and more satisfying, than putting this on and going to Jonny. The subtext there is so close to all of Patrick’s locked-away, long-denied dreams that he knows he should shove the lingerie back in the drawer and slam it shut, but maybe all these weeks under Jonny’s care have made him too bold. Why shouldn’t he get to pretend for just one night? Really, truly—for one night, what would be the harm?

He feels almost entirely disconnected from his body as he stands up and strips off his shirt and pants. He folds them only semi-neatly and sets them on the bench in the middle of Jonny’s massive closet, and then he rolls up his belt and sets that and his watch down, too. Next come his socks, and, finally, his underwear; he hesitates for a moment before pushing down his plain black briefs. His cock is just starting to swell, and he brushes his fingertips over it before folding his underwear and putting it aside.

Then it’s just Patrick himself, exposed and bare, staring at a small pile of silk and lace. He watches himself bend over and extract the panties by the silk ribbons, but he fumbles when he tries to put them on; he can’t untie both sides at once, but after a little struggling he discovers he can tie one side, step into them and pull them up, tie the other side neatly, and then go back and fix the bow on the first side. The lace fits snugly over his cock, and there’s a third tiny bow right in the middle of the front of the waistband. He probably spends too long fiddling with the ribbons, trying to get them just right, but finally he’s forced to admit that they look fine and move on to the babydoll.

He pulls it over his head and almost immediately regrets not stepping into it, because the layers get all tangled up and there’s a lot, probably too many minutes of him fighting to free himself without tearing anything. Fuck, he must look like an idiot; thank god Jonny left him alone to get dressed. The last thing he needs is one more reason to find Patrick ridiculous.

But he finally gets everything straightened out, with the straps laying smoothly over his shoulders and the bodice with its sweetheart neckline centered over his chest. He was right; the hem falls just to his upper thighs, long enough to hide his panties but only if he isn’t moving. The chiffon isn’t as sheer as he anticipated, though. When he looks down, he can only barely glimpse what he’s wearing under it.

There’s a mirror right there on the wall. Maybe he should—

He can’t look at himself in the mirror. He just—he can’t, but he needs to—

The stockings are still in the open drawer. He could put them on, press his toe and the ball of his foot inside and then roll them slowly up his legs until he’s straightening the lace over his thighs. They’re almost certainly made of real silk, but it would be—it would be so much, to put on the stockings too; he’s not sure he could handle it. The panties and even the babydoll will come off easily, but the stockings… he might rip them if he has to take them off quickly, and they’re too pretty to rip just because Patrick is embarrassed and clumsy.

He doesn’t actually have to go out to Jonny. He could take everything off and… rappel down the side of the building, probably. God knows there’s enough lingerie in the drawer; if he tied everything together he’d probably have a long enough rope and then some.

But Jonny… Jonny had said he’d like to see Patrick, and Jonny wouldn’t lie to him.

It still takes every scrap of courage he has to step away from where his real clothes are folded on the bench. He hasn’t let himself be seen like this in years, and never in anything so—so nice, anything that fit him so well, that was so expensive. Nothing about this feels like a joke, though. The set he’s wearing is beautiful. Everything in that chest of drawers is beautiful, the kinds of things Patrick would pick for himself—or, no, the kinds of things he’d want his dom to pick for him in some fantasy world where that was a possibility.

And he needs to pass the mirror to get to the door—

He has to grit his teeth for that one, and hold his head high, and hope he doesn’t glimpse the fading bruises that run down his arm from the game yesterday. He does—he does catch his own eye, though. He swallows and then, careful to keep his gaze fixed above his neck, he runs his fingers through his hair to break the gel’s hold. He looks far too soft with ringlets falling over his forehead, but Jonny’s always joking about how much he dislikes the gel, and maybe… sometimes Patrick wonders if Jonny isn’t really joking.

When he walks down the hall, he walks like he’s trying to make himself forget he’s there. He’s trying to hold himself still, too, so he doesn’t feel the chiffon or the ribbons move against him, but he’s still aware, he still knows that there’s silk and lace on his skin.

Just at the end of the hall, he stops and peeks his head around the corner. Jonny’s looking out his windows again; he’s probably thinking about the Oilers, or his dumb broken watch, or whatever book on leadership he’s currently reading. This is the last chance for Patrick to back out. As soon as he steps around the corner, Jonny’s going to see him, he’s going to hear Patrick behind him or glimpse his reflection in the window, and he’s going to—

But he wouldn’t. When it’s down to the wire, what matters is this: Patrick trusts Jonny. He trusts Jonny not to laugh, and he trusts Jonny not to tell. He trusts Jonny more deeply than he trusts any other person, so he take a breath and steps out into the room—

And Jonny turns around immediately, like he was straining every sense for a sign of Patrick, and his face does something astonishing. “Oh,” he says, and then, “Sweetheart.”

Patrick’s going to remember this moment for the rest of his life. It’s a flashbulb moment, one of those memories stored in full color with surround sound, and he’s always going to be able to summon not only Jonny’s expression but the way his heart catches in his throat when he sees it.

He tries to swallow. “I,” he says. “Yeah, I—I hope this is—” He doesn’t make it any further, though, because Jonny strides across the room and kisses him. He actually tips Patrick back a little so he loses his balance, but Jonny’s hand is firm on the small of Patrick’s back, so he just closes his fingers on the front of Jonny’s shirt and stretches up and kisses him back, kisses him and kisses him and kisses him until his lips are swollen and he has to pull away to catch his breath.

“You look…” Jonny says. His voice is rawer than Patrick’s ever heard it. “Incredible,” he finishes, and he slides a finger between one of Patrick’s shoulder blades and the thin strap of his babydoll.

“Yeah?” Patrick asks, feeling shy but hopeful.

“Yeah, baby,” Jonny says, and then he leans down and kisses Patrick again. The hand not supporting Patrick slides up his thigh, and Patrick can tell when he reaches the bow on the side, because he groans. He starts walking them backwards, all the while kissing Patrick’s mouth and cheek and chin and neck, and Patrick’s still off-balance, so all he can do is trust that Jonny will keep him upright every time he steps backward. Jonny smells so good. Maybe that’s an odd thing to fixate on right now, but he always finds himself craving that scent, and any time he’s close enough to catch it he has to resist the urge to bury his face in Jonny’s throat.

Then Jonny pulls away. Patrick whines and goes up on tiptoe to chase his lips, but Jonny says, “Shh, sweetheart, I just want to look at you.” He covers Patrick’s hands with his own and pulls them gently away from his shirtfront, and then, still holding Patrick’s hands, he steps back and runs his gaze down Patrick’s body. “God,” he says, and Patrick feels himself flush. “Look at you—so fucking sexy. Will you turn around for me, Peeks?”

Patrick turns around obediently, and he hears Jonny let out a soft “Fuck” before saying, “Lift your babydoll up for me, sweetheart.”

Patrick’s hands go to his hips, and he obediently raises his babydoll up a couple of inches.

“Higher,” Jonny orders, and then, “Higher than that,” and Patrick complies under his skirt is bunched at the small of his back. His head has fallen forward, and he catches a glimpse of the tip of his hard cock peeking out from his waistband. The bow on the front sits just beneath the head.

“I’m not sure I’ve seen anything better in my life than you in a pair of lacy little panties,” Jonny says, and Patrick jolts and instinctively lets his hands drop. Jonny doesn’t reprimand him, though, because he’s too busy—fuck. He’s too busy literally scooping Patrick off his feet, in a move so fluid Patrick’s cradled in his arms before he has time to be startled.

“What—?”

Jonny smirks down at him. “You wore white, baby, I’m not sure what else you expected.” He hikes Patrick up a little, just a jostle to tease him, and adds, “Put your arm around my neck, sweetheart, there you go.” And that’s how Patrick ends up carried to bed by Jonathan Toews. He lifts Patrick effortlessly, without any sign of strain at all, and Patrick can only wonder at his strength; Patrick’s small for a hockey player, but he’s still a hockey player, and yet so far he’s felt only delicate—not just emotionally, but physically, too. He’s shocked enough that he doesn’t stop staring at Jonny until he turns sideways to fit Patrick through the bedroom door.

“That was,” Patrick says, and then he shakes his head, too blown away to remember his manners. “Jonny, that was so fucking smooth.”

Jonny laughs. “Glad you think so,” he says, and then Patrick—it takes him a minute to coordinate himself, but he stretches up and Jonny obliges him by turning his head and then he’s kissing Jonny, emptying all of the sweetness and longing and adoration he feels into it. They’re still kissing when Jonny lowers him to the bed and settles him gently onto the mattress. Patrick goes immediately pliant when Jonny braces a knee between his legs and leans over the side of the bed to nip his way up Patrick’s throat.

“What am I going to do with you?” he asks. His eyes are so dark and so hot; Patrick couldn’t pick out his pupils in broad daylight, much less the diffuse lighting of his bedroom.

“Whatever you want,” Patrick says, quietly and honestly. Anything Jonny wants—everything Jonny wants.

“Whatever I want, huh?” Jonny tucks a curl behind Patrick’s ear. “What I want… is to tie your legs apart,” he says, “so you don’t have to remember to keep them spread, and then I want to take off your panties, and then I’m going to touch your pussy. How does that sound, baby?”

Dumbfounded, Patrick can only nod.

“Answer me,” Jonny demands.

Patrick’s breath catches. “Yes, please.” He has to bite back the sir that threatens to follow.

“What am I going to touch?”

He must look like a Roman candle. “My,” he starts to say, but he can’t get any further. “My—”

“Say it for me, sweetheart,” Jonny coaxes.

He must be scarlet. He finally manages to push it out in a whisper: “My pussy.”

“Good, baby,” Jonny says, and then he lifts himself off Patrick and starts to unbutton his shirt. He’s dressed casually, plaid flannel and jeans with his usual shorts underneath, and he leaves his clothes in a pile on the floor. Patrick shifts, pushing himself up on his elbows, and he can’t help but raise his eyebrows at the mess, but Jonny just smirks at him; Patrick blushes again (blushes more?) and looks away.

“I’ve been waiting for this,” Jonny says. When Patrick glances back, he’s rubbing at his big cock idly while he watches Patrick. “You all laid out in my bed, my pretty boy in his pretty lingerie.” And that’s it, Patrick is terminally embarrassed; he couldn’t blush harder if he tried. Jonny’s looking pretty satisfied with himself, though, so at least one of them is getting what they want out of this. “Do you like how it feels, baby?”

Patrick clears his throat. He’s very aware that he’s in a dom’s bed, with the heavy frame of espresso-brown wood reaching above him. “Yes,” he says.

“Do you like how it looks on you?”

“I didn’t,” Patrick says, “I didn’t look.”

“There’s a mirror in the closet.”

“I couldn’t,” Patrick says, helpless to offer any real explanation.

“Okay, sweetheart,” Jonny says, “that’s okay. I’m going to do enough looking for both of us.” He lets his cock slap up against his belly and goes to the nightstand. “Couldn’t keep your legs spread, could you?”

Patrick glaces down and realizes that when he’d shifted, he’d also pressed his knees together. “Sorry,” he says.

“Don’t apologize, baby. Didn’t I tell you that was why I’m going to tie them apart?” Jonny drops the lube next to Patrick and vanishes into his closet. Patrick hates to see him leave, but god does he love to watch him go. “You’re like that even in the locker room, aren’t you? Always covered from head to toe.” When he reappears, he has several lengths of white rope draped over his shoulder.

And that… that’s true. Patrick isn’t really shy, not about his body—he’s a professional athlete, and that means crowding into a shower with a bunch of other professional athletes on a regular basis—and he’s not really a prude, either; he’s had plenty of partners, and there was one particularly promiscuous period in his early twenties when he spent a lot of time drunk and sleeping with people who were adynamic in an effort to convince himself he wasn’t… what he is. Jonny’s right, though. He’s more comfortable covered up, more comfortable with his knees together, more comfortable exposing as little of himself as possible.

Jonny finishes by adjusting the lights again, so only the dim, warm lamps on either side of the bed are lit, and then he lays the rope at the foot of the bed and knee-walks up until he can wrap his hands around Patrick’s ankles. Patrick opens his thighs easily, and his arms, too, when Jonny leans down to kiss him. Jonny hooks a hand under his knee and guides his legs up to wrap around Jonny’s waist, and then he works a hand under Patrick’s back and in one easy motion rocks them upright so Patrick’s sitting on his thighs. Like this Patrick’s actually a little taller, but he doesn’t have a chance to enjoy it, because Jonny reaches up to brush a thumb over his cheekbone and says, “Look at you. All in white, just like a bride.”

Patrick lets out a wet gasp that’s almost a sob. He shouldn’t be shocked, not when he’d had the same thought himself, but hearing Jonny say it out loud—

He’s staring down at Jonny with his mouth open, and when Jonny cups his cheek and smiles at him, time comes rushing back. He folds himself over, hiding his face in Jonny’s shoulder, clinging to Jonny, and Jonny’s hand comes around to pet the back of his head. “Shh, sweetheart,” he’s saying, “it’s okay, you’re okay. You’re allowed to like it, baby, you don’t have anything to be ashamed of.” Patrick’s shaking. “You’re okay,” Jonny says, “you’re okay, Peeks, you’re good, you’re so good.” He barely registers that Jonny’s moving him until he’s being laid down again, this time in the middle of the mattress. Jonny lets Patrick keep clinging to him, but he also glides one hand down Patrick’s side, rubbing the silk chiffon between his fingers, smoothing it over Patrick’s flank, and that, oddly enough, calms him enough to let Jonny go.

“There you are,” Jonny says, and he drops a kiss on the tip of Patrick’s nose. “You okay?”

Patrick nods. He feels… a little beyond words, honestly, and he catches his lower lip between his teeth rather than trying to speak.

“All right, baby,” Jonny says. “Legs feel okay? Nothing sore from earlier?”

He shakes his head.

“Good.” Jonny sits back on his heels and snags one of his ropes, and then he takes one of Patrick’s feet and settles it against his own chest. “Keep your toes pointed, sweetheart, there you go. This rope’s a little thicker than what I’ve used on you before—feel it?” He rubs a bight over Patrick’s sole and then loops it around his big toe. “It’s synthetic,” he says. “Can you tell how soft it is?” He starts wrapping Patrick’s foot, passing the rope around his ankle and then over the arch to make a figure-eight, and then he does it again, weaving the rope under itself.

“This is called a gravity boot,” he continues, still making figure-eights. “The thicker rope’s more comfortable if you’re suspended, although there’s a herringbone variant that works better with something smaller.” He flexes Patrick’s foot back and takes the loop off his toe, and then he finishes it off in the middle of Patrick’s sole. “And now I can run an upline through here,” he says as he slides a finger beneath the knot. “Comfortable?”

Patrick nods again.

“Can you talk for me, sweetheart?”

Patrick swallows. “Yeah,” he says. “Yes.”

“Good, baby. Give me the other one.”

Patrick obeys, and Jonny starts doing the same thing in reverse with a new length of rope. “I’ve always thought this was pretty,” he says. His hands are so sure on the rope; he’s looking at Patrick’s face more than his foot, but the line lays perfectly anyway. “And it’s quick, too.”

“But… it’s so intricate,” Patrick says. His other foot, the finished one, looks, like Jonny said, pretty, a woven shoe that leaves his toes and heel bare, and the white matches—matches what he’s wearing.

Jonny chuckles. “Not really,” he says, but Patrick’s skeptical.

“How did you get so good at this?”

“I studied,” Jonny says, “and I practiced.” He finishes the other foot and then lifts it to press a kiss to Patrick’s toes. “You haven’t had much exposure to the community, have you?”

“Community?”

“Doms, subs.” Jonny shrugs. “Switches. Getting together, talking, playing—”

“I don’t—um,” Patrick says, “I don’t like groups.”

“No, baby, I know, I’m not saying that,” Jonny says. “I can’t imagine anyone not wanting to keep you all to themselves, but there’s a whole community of practitioners, people who don’t just learn what they need to get off safely and keep themselves happy and stable. You’ve never even been to a club?”

He doesn’t mean a regular club, the kind the team goes to after a solid win. Patrick shakes his head.

“I think you’d like it,” Jonny says. “That one feel okay, too?”

“Yes,” Patrick says.

“You like it?”

“Yeah, it’s… it is pretty.”

“You’re pretty,” Jonny says. “Look at you—like a pretty little wife.” Patrick had gotten so absorbed in watching Jonny that he’d almost forgotten everything else, but now he’s aware again, brought back into the present moment. Jonny doesn’t give him time to adjust, though; he runs another rope through the sole of the gravity boot, ties it off, and then reaches up and feeds a loop through one of the anchors set in the wide roof of his bed. He does the same thing on the other side, tying Patrick’s foot up in the air and out so his knees are straight and his toes pointed. Patrick’s left flat on his back with his legs spread not quite uncomfortably wide; and framed between his open thighs is Jonny, whose cock hasn’t flagged a bit.

He lowers himself onto Patrick and grinds down, pressing his hard heavy cock against the lace front of Patrick’s panties, and Patrick realizes he’s hard himself, so hard he’s leaking, so hard his cock twitches against Jonny’s. “That’s it, sweetheart,” Jonny murmurs. Patrick can’t—he doesn’t have any leverage to push his hips up, so all he can do is lie there and let Jonny rub against him. “Give me a kiss,” Jonny says, and Patrick lifts his head and fits his mouth against Jonny’s and parts his lips softly so Jonny can take what he wants.

“Same rules as before,” Jonny says. “If you feel any numbness, tingling, pain, tell me and we’ll stop. If you get uncomfortable, tell me and we’ll stop. There are shears in the headboard—” Patrick twists his head back to look, and Jonny laughs. “No, baby, you can’t see them from here. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, Jonny,” Patrick says.

“Good. Kiss me again.” Patrick tilts his head up and kisses him. “Thank you, sweetheart,” Jonny says. “God, you’re gorgeous.” He kisses the base of Patrick’s throat next, and then the middle of his breastbone, right above where the lace of his babydoll starts, and then he drifts to the right and lays an open, sucking kiss right over Patrick’s nipple.

Patrick must gasp, because Jonny says, “You like it when I kiss your tits? Answer me.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “Yeah, Jonny, I like it.”

“I know you do, baby,” Jonny says, and then he bends his head and takes Patrick’s nipple in his mouth again. They’re stiff, both of them, and so sensitive, even before Jonny lets saliva collect in his mouth and worries at the lace until it’s damp and the wet scrape of the lace over the swollen little bud makes the soft pressure of Jonny’s lips and teeth unbearable.

Patrick’s feet might be bound, but his hands aren’t, and when Jonny moves to the other side, he grabs Jonny’s head reflexively like he’s trying to stop him. It doesn’t work, Patrick didn’t really want it to work, but it does make Jonny smirk up at Patrick before he gently bites Patrick’s left nipple. He follows the bite with a gentle suction, and then he starts—there’s no other word for it: he starts to suckle Patrick, long drawn-out pulls that make the lace rasp over the bud. It’s so much and so good and Patrick never wants it to stop. He’s using his grip on Jonny’s hair not to pull him away but to make him stay in place.

“Gonna keep me here, sweetheart?” Jonny asks, and Patrick yanks his hands away.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t,” Jonny says. “I like it. But I promised to touch you somewhere else, didn’t I?” He moves down even further, until he’s hovering over Patrick’s stomach, and he presses a soft kiss to the chiffon over Patrick’s belly button. He seems determined to drown Patrick in kisses. Patrick may not deserve the honor, but he can’t think of a better way to go.

And then Jonny carefully draws the hem of the babydoll up past Patrick’s waist. “And here we are,” he says. “I could look at you here like this forever.” He touches a finger so softly to the little white bow at the front of the panties that sits below the crown of his cock. Patrick’s leaking so much he can feel it pooling on his stomach. “You’re so wet for me,” Jonny says. “And your cock’s so stiff, too. Do you want me to touch it? Should I touch your clit?”

Patrick jolts.

“Is that a no, sweetheart?” Jonny asks, and Patrick starts babbling.

“Please,” he says, “please touch it, Jonny, I’m so—”

“Shh, baby, I know.” Patrick’s so hard that even the soft movement of Jonny’s breath over his tip is almost too much to stand. Jonny presses his mouth delicately against the head, his tongue lapping at Patrick’s slit, and then he pulls away. Patrick’s whole body goes slack, but with that comes the distant discovery that he doesn’t have to hold his legs up; he must have been supporting some of the weight, but with how he’s bound, the rope takes all of it easily.

Jonny mouths along the waistband. His scruff drags against Patrick, against the side of his cock and then the thin skin over his hipbone, and then he reaches the bow tied over Patrick’s hip. He slips a finger under the white ribbons and says, “Sweetheart, can I untie your panties?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “Yeah, Jonny, you can—you can untie my—”

Jonny waits to see if he can finish, but when the word won’t come, he just kisses Patrick’s hipbone again and says, “Thank you, baby.” And then he pulls at the ends of the ribbons, and the bow comes undone.

When he moves over to the other hip, he stops first in the middle to run his finger down Patrick’s cock from the little bow at the waistband all the way to the base. Patrick trembles, and Jonny—Jonny just keeps going until he’s arranging the tails of the ribbons on Patrick’s right side. “What about over here, sweetheart?” he asks. “Can I untie your panties on this side, too?”

Patrick screws his eyes shut and says, “Yeah. You can, please—you can untie my… my panties.”

“Baby,” Jonny says, “you are so, so good for me.” And then he pulls at the ribbons on that side, and the bow comes undone. When he slides a finger under the crotch, Patrick’s whole body tenses which is—it’s stupid, there’s nothing down there that Jonny hasn’t seen—

Jonny pulls, and the panties slide off and out from under Patrick like the silk they are. The next thing he feels is the tip of Jonny’s finger touching his rim, and then Jonny says, “Peeks, you have the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.”

Patrick shivers, but Jonny just keeps going. “It’s so pink, sweetheart,” he says, “and so small. No wonder you’re always so tight around me. It’s surprising that you manage to take me at all.”

“Jonny,” Patrick says, completely helpless.

“I know, baby,” Jonny says, and then Patrick feels the drag of Jonny’s scruff against his thighs, and then Jonny presses a soft kiss to his hole.

He sobs a little and says, “Jonny.” It’s the only word he’s ever known.

“You like it when I eat your pussy?” Jonny says. He digs his thumbs in, spreads Patrick’s asscheeks even more, and licks up over Patrick’s hole. His tongue is long, and wet, and he follows that up by lapping gently around the rim. “It’s so sweet, baby,” he says, “how could I resist?” The next time he kisses Patrick’s hole he leaves his lips there, and then Patrick feels Jonny’s tongue—feels Jonny’s tongue licking into him.

It’s a good thing Jonny tied his legs apart, because his thighs are quivering and because he honestly doubts he could stop himself from clamping them around Jonny’s head if he weren’t forced to keep them open. Jonny’s lips are so gentle, but the shadow of the beard that scrapes against Patrick is maybe even better, and the whole sensation is the biggest, brightest thing he’s ever felt; having a dom, this dom, bury his face between Patrick’s legs—and he’s wearing such pretty things, and his feet are all tied up with pretty knots—and Jonny’s saying all those things to him, about how sweet his pussy is, and how good Patrick’s being—

It comes to him in a flash that this is how it feels to be spoiled, and instead of the usual shudder of shame that comes alongside wanting that feeling, Patrick luxuriates in it, he lets himself roll around in it: in how expensive the babydoll and panties must be, with their hand worked lace and real silk, and how much he loves it when Jonny calls him ‘sweetheart,’ and how owned he feels to have his legs forced open as he lies on his back in Jonny’s bed. He’s helpless. He doubts he could escape if he tried, but he doesn’t want to try. He wants to stay here, in this space and this feeling with this man, for the rest of his life.

Jonny’s still eating him out, alternating between pressing slow, soft little kisses to his pussy and then licking inside so Patrick’s pussy flutters around his long tongue. Patrick lifts his head enough to look down the length of his body, past his babydoll and his swollen, twitching clit, and Jonny looks back at him with his dark, dark eyes.

“Jonny,” he says. “Please?”

Jonny kisses his pussy one more time. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he says. “I’m going to fuck you now.” He kisses the back of Patrick’s thigh and then drags his mouth up the length of Patrick’s cock before he sits back and reaches for the lube. Patrick’s so wet and open already that for one delirious moment he wonders why they even need lube, but then he catches Jonny smoothing a slick hand over his cock and remembers why it’s necessary.

Jonny runs a hand down the inside of his leg. “You’re being so good, sweetheart, and so patient,” he says, “and you look so pretty in white. Maybe I should call you Mrs. Toews—”

Patrick falls apart. It’s so strange; he can see himself unfold, how his hands shudder and close into fists, how his spine arches, how wet tears are escaping from beneath his eyelids and his whole body is visibly shaking as he screams.

“Fucking—fuck. You are mine.”

It’s almost like he’s looking down at himself, out-of-body, drifting above that supernova blast of pleasure that blew him apart. All that’s left behind is wreckage.

“God, Patrick, I can’t believe you came just from that—”

Good thing all these pieces belong to someone else. There’s no way Patrick could pick them up and put them back together by himself.

“Fuck, sweetheart—I need you to come back to me. Come back to me, Peeks. Come back now.”

Patrick gasps. One of his arms is twisted up by his head, and the other is stretched out to the side so his hand can clutch the sheets. Jonny’s fully covering his body, caging him; his fingers are caught in Patrick’s hair, and his mouth is right against Patrick’s ear.

“I’m going to fuck you,” he says. His voice is low, and hot, and Patrick understands that this is how he sounds when he’s on the verge of losing control. “I’m going to fuck you, and I’m going to call you that again. Can you handle it? Answer me.”

Patrick can’t even voice the word, but his mouth shapes yes.

“Good boy,” Jonny says. He must—he must spend some time stretching Patrick, but Patrick isn’t aware of it, he’s not aware of anything other than a vague curiosity about how well he’ll handle being fucked when he’s just come so hard. The next thing he knows Jonny’s over him again, and the head of his cock is pressing against Patrick’s soft, open hole. “Bear down and breathe,” Jonny says, and Patrick doesn’t understand why until Jonny shoves his cock in.

He isn’t sure if he’s just that oversensitive, or if Jonny didn’t open him up as much as usual, but the first push of his huge cock into Patrick is enough to make Patrick cry out. He’s so, it’s so big and so much, and Patrick’s not sure if he can come again or if he’s still coming. “Shh, baby, you’re okay,” Jonny says. He’s not giving Patrick any time to adjust, he’s just fucking him, taking him, like Patrick’s his to use. “My pretty little bride,” he says. “God, sweetheart, your pussy’s so tight—”

Patrick keens into Jonny’s mouth. “Yeah, Peeksy, that’s right,” Jonny says. “Is this how our wedding night would go, baby? You in your lacy white panties, spreading your legs for me, letting me fuck your pussy, letting me fill you up until you’re dripping?” He keeps rolling his hips into Patrick, filling him up just like he promised, dragging his cock over Patrick’s prostate until, impossibly, his cock stars to fill again—or maybe he’s been hard all along—

He’s clinging to Jonny’s shoulders. There are tear tracks along his temples, and his breath is coming in wet gasps. “Jonny,” he says, “Jonny.” He wants to wrap himself around Jonny; his thighs are still trembling with effort, with how he’s stretched open. Jonny always knows what he wants, though. When he pulls out of Patrick, Patrick whines in the back of his throat, but then Jonny stretches up and a second later Patrick’s legs are free. Jonny pushes back into him, and now Patrick can wraps his legs around Jonny, too; his feet and ankles are still bound in the woven boots, and the trailing ends of the rope are dragging over Jonny’s back, and that’s even better, that he gets to be wrapped around Jonny and still wrapped in rope, too.

Jonny spreads a hand over the chiffon covering Patrick’s ribcage. He’s in Patrick, but he’s hardly moving, just grinding slow and shallow, and it’s enough to make Patrick whine again.

“You want me to fuck you, sweetheart?” Jonny says. “Then you’re going to have to beg.”

He’s not sure he can talk.

“I know, Peeks. I know, baby, but you can do it. You want to do it, want to be good for me.”

Okay. He can do it. “Jonny,” he whispers.

“You want to be a good wife, don’t you, sweetheart?”

Yeah. Yeah, Patrick does want that. “Jonny,” he says, and then he catches his lip between his teeth on his way to saying, “Please.”

Jonny starts pumping into him harder. The head of Patrick’s cock is trapped under the hem of his white babydoll, and the silk dragging against the too-sensitive crown is almost more pain than pleasure. “Please what?” Jonny says.

“Please—” Patrick says. “Please fuck me.”

“Try again, baby.”

“Fuck my,” Patrick says, “fuck my—my pussy.”

Jonny drags his head back by his hair. “Now beg for it,” he says, and Patrick doesn’t sob; he doesn’t sob, but it’s a near thing.

“Please,” he says again, “Jonny, please fuck my pussy, I need you to—” Jonny fucks into him for real, driving into him, making him take it. “I need you to fuck me,” Patrick says, and now he’s babbling, now he can’t stop talking. “Jonny, I need you to fuck my pussy, I want, I want your cock—”

“I know you do,” Jonny says. “I know you want me in your pretty little pussy, sweetheart. Because your pussy’s mine, just like you’re mine.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, “yeah, please, Jonny.”

“My sweet bride,” Jonny says. “Are you close, baby?”

“Yes. Don’t stop—”

“I’m not going to stop,” Jonny promises. “But you’re going to come for me. You’re going to come right now, aren’t you,” and then he puts his lips right against Patrick’s ear and says it again: “Mrs. Toews.”

And Patrick, who has never been anything but utterly devoted to his dom, obeys. This time he doesn’t fall apart, he merely dissolves; he lingers long enough to hear Jonny shout above him and then grind hard into Patrick as he comes, but then even those wisps of thought are gone, too. He’s so warm, and wrung out, and he’d float away if someone hadn’t attached anchors to his feet.

He comes down slowly. He doesn’t want to come back—

But he comes back for Jonny, of course. Jonny collapses on top of him, and Patrick finds that he’s still clinging, that he’s been clinging all along. Jonny tries to pull out of the tight clutch of his hole and Patrick holds on to him even tighter. “Okay, Peeks, it’s okay,” Jonny says. He sounds ragged himself, but he’s still so present for Patrick. “You’re all right, baby.” He rolls them over so Patrick’s cradled against his chest and drags a blanket over them both. Meanwhile, Patrick shakes.

After a couple of moments, Jonny sighs, and then he combs his hand through Patrick’s curls. “Are you okay, babe?” he asks. “Can you say something for me?”

Patrick’s mouth is clamped shut to stop his teeth from chattering, but Jonny sounds—Jonny sounds worried, so he pries his jaw apart. “Yeah,” he says. “I just need…”

“Take as long as you need, sweetheart,” Jonny says, and—oh. Is that sticking around? Patrick wouldn’t mind. “That was so good, baby. It was incredible, you’re incredible. Thank you so much for letting me see you like that.”

Patrick makes some kind of noise. “Shh, baby,” Jonny says. He keeps petting Patrick’s hair, soothing him, telling him how good he is, until Patrick pulls himself together enough to lift his head.

“Jonny,” he says, “will you—will you take it off?”

Jonny sits up, taking Patrick with him. “Let me get the shears,” he says.

“No, not—not that. Will you take the…”

There’s a pause, and Jonny says, “Sure, Peeks,” and then he folds the blanket back. Patrick’s eyes are shut, so he doesn’t see Jonny lift the babydoll over his head; when he opens them, it’s gone, out of sight, and Jonny’s watching him.

“Hi,” Patrick says.

“Hi, babe,” Jonny says.

“Are you—” Patrick tries. “Are you okay?”

Jonny smiles. “Yeah, sweetheart, I’m fine.”

“Okay. Good,” Patrick says. “Jonny, that was really…” He’s not sure what to say, so he kisses Jonny’s cheek. “Thank you.”

Jonny looks surprised but pleased. “Yeah,” he says, “of course. Ready to be untied?”

Patrick isn’t ready for Jonny to stop holding him, but maybe… he squirms around until he’s laid out across Jonny’s lap, and then he lifts a leg. Jonny gets the message. “That’s one way to do it, I guess,” he says, but Patrick can tell he’s amused; he undoes the knot of the upline first, and then unweaves the boot from around Patrick’s ankle and checks him over. “Other foot,” he says once he’s satisfied, and Patrick obliges. He’s glad that Jonny takes the time to coil the rope up neatly. It’s too nice to be careless with it, but Jonny’s never a slob about the things that matter.

“Going to let me up long enough to clean us up?”

“No,” Patrick says, but then he immediately contradicts himself by saying, “I’m hungry.”

“Want me to bring you something?”

Patrick considers. He’s worn out, but not ready to sleep like he’d usually be. More than anything, he’s not ready to stop being around Jonny. “Could we eat on the couch? If—I mean, if that’s okay with…”

“Yeah, Peeks, of course it’s okay,” Jonny says. “Ready to get up yet?”

“Let’s go,” Patrick says, and Jonny grins and helps him out of bed and doesn’t say anything when Patrick’s legs almost buckle. They clean up in the bathroom, and Jonny holds the comb over Patrick’s head so he can’t reach it (“Am I not even allowed to brush it now? Come on, man, it’s going to turn into a rat’s nest”) and then picks up the bedroom while Patrick tries to fix his hair, and in the kitchen Jonny reheats some sweet potato and black bean burritos in the microwave. Patrick’s never more than a couple of feet from him the entire time. He can feel a stormcloud brewing on the distant horizon, one that tells him he’s going to feel terrible in the morning for being this needy, but he ignores it for the time being. The weather can change. Who knows what the forecast will be tomorrow?

Finally they settle on Jonny’s couch with their burritos. Jonny has a mug of hot herbal tea that smells like spiced apples, and it’s still snowing outside, big fat flakes that are going to be a pain in the ass tomorrow but exist perfectly right now. Patrick doesn’t even argue when Jonny pulls up one of his dumb alternative soap operas.

“Is Toby still sleeping with Miguel?”

“No,” Jonny says, swallowing around a huge chunk of potato. “They broke up because Toby quit his job and moved to Europe. I think he’s having a mid-life crisis but they also sort of hinted that he’s got a kid he didn’t know about.”

“Toby would never,” Patrick declares. He presses himself a little more firmly into Jonny’s side. “As long as he doesn’t get back together with Babs.” The conversation dies for a couple of minutes as they both eat, and then Patrick says, “Tonight was… pretty great.”

“Yeah? For me, too.”

Onscreen, Toby’s on the phone with Babs. Patrick isn’t exactly a fan. Although Babs is currently involved in some kind of arrangement with Calvin and this one other girl whose name Patrick doesn’t remember but who was definitely involved in the puppy mill scandal. “I’m lucky one of your exes was so into wearing… uh, you know,” Patrick adds. Maybe Babs would be better off if she quit her job and ran off to Europe, too. “What’s the name of the puppy mill chick?” he asks. “Marla? Megan?”

“What do you mean?” Jonny says.

“The one Babs is kind of dating,” Patrick says. “You know, with Calvin.”

“No, I mean about being lucky about one of my exes.”

“Oh, just… you know.” Patrick shrugs. “That you had all that stuff in my size.” He’d never gotten to wear anything that fine before, or that wasn’t off-the-rack from a department store, and he can’t even summon more than a whisper of envy when the whole evening was so…

“Patrick,” Jonny says, “I bought that for you.”

Patrick almost spills black beans down the front of his shirt. “What?”

“I bought it for you,” Jonny repeats.

He knows he’s staring at Jonny, knows he should at least check to make sure all his food is on his plate, but it isn’t until he feels himself start to blush that he looks away. “I,” he says. “Thank you. You didn’t have to…”

“I know, babe,” Jonny says, “but I wanted to.”

Patrick swallows. “But how…” he asks. “How did you know I’d pick the white?”

There’s a pause, and then Jonny says, very gently, “No, baby. I bought all of it for you.”

He can’t… he can’t mean— “The whole chest?”

“The whole chest,” Jonny confirms. “It’s yours. You can take it home or leave it here or forget about it, whatever you decide.”

“Jonny, that’s… that has to be thousands of dollars…”

Jonny shrugs. “I don’t know if you’ve heard,” he says, “but I’m signed for ten point five million a year, and there’s nothing wrong with my investment portfolio.”

“You… I can’t believe… What am I going to do with you?” Patrick wonders.

Jonny leans over and kisses him on the forehead. “Whatever you want, Peeks,” he tells Patrick. “You can do whatever you want.”

Patrick’s so fucked out already that his astonishment tips him over into a complete daze; he spends the rest of the evening pliable and plastered to Jonny’s side, but when he finally pulls himself away long enough to use the bathroom, he bypasses the guest room in favor of the master suite. The lights are out, but Patrick flips them on again. There on the dresser are the white babydoll and panties. They’re folded neatly even though Jonny’s clothes are still in a pile on the floor.

Notes for the Chapter:

I know it was really subtly done, but that was the feminization chapter.

Some inspiration for Patrick’s lingerie: the pink corset, the red panties, the ruffled panties, how I imagine his white panties are cut, roughly how I imagine the top of his white babydoll is cut, and another reference for the white babydoll.

This is (approximately) Patrick’s lingerie chest. Jonny figured he should err on the side of neutrality rather than immediately going full French provincial.

After some extremely eye-opening research on r/bigdickproblems, I decided this is the underwear Jonny wears. (Please laugh at me, I certainly did.)

Check out the gravity boot foot tie here (nsfw) and here.

And thank you so much to everyone for the encouragement!! I really appreciate all the kind words - I’m having so much fun writing this story, and a huge part of that is the support from all of you. <3

Up next: plot?!?

8. Chapter 8

Patrick’s shooting the shit with one of the call-ups at practice between drills, and Jonny’s being a pest. They’re coming off a three-game road trip, and he’s pretty much ready to crawl under a rock and die; after this his plans include following Jonny home, raiding Jonny’s fridge, and seeing if Jonny will—

“I still can’t believe I’m here,” Daves says. He’s a good guy; twenty-four, playing his second season for the IceHogs, went to college before that and carried his team twice to the Frozen Four. Patrick thinks he’s got a decent shot at staying in Chicago, too.

“Enjoy it,” Patrick tells him. “It goes by way too fast. Feels like yesterday I was a rookie, and now I almost need a cane to get around on the ice.”

“Last night you had a four point night,” Daves says.

“Yeah, that was pretty solid,” Patrick says, trying and probably failing not to let a grin through. “Still, man—make the most of it.”

Daves kind of looks at him sideways, and then he says, “My brother’s a sub.”

Patrick doesn’t exactly tense, because they’re out on the ice and this is his territory as surely as it is anyone else’s, but he feels a little more apprehensive than he usually does when he has skates on. “Oh yeah?”

“He’s playing with the Mooseheads right now,” Daves says.

“You guys from Nova Scotia?”

“My whole family,” Daves confirms.

“What’s he play?”

“Defense,” Daves says. “He almost dropped out a couple of times. It’s rough on him, you know?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, “I know.”

He can hear the weight in his own voice, but he’s beyond trying to excise it. Nine or ten years ago, he’d had a fling with an older dom who liked her subs young and desperate to be pegged. They’d only been together casually for a couple of months before she’d broken things off (and for once in Patrick’s life she hadn’t cited sex as the reason), but something she’d said had stuck with him. “Don’t be afraid to show it,” she’d told him. “It’s gotta eat at you, kid, but you don’t always have to hide how shitty your hand is.” He’s never laid all his cards on the table, but since then he’ll occasionally stick one to his forehead for as long as the spit lasts.

“You’re his favorite player,” Daves says. “I can’t tell you how much it means to him that he’s got a guy like you to look up to.” Daves pauses, and then he says, “It means a lot to me.”

There’s something loaded in the way he says it. “Thanks,” Patrick says. “It would’ve meant a lot to me as a kid, too.”

“I’m a switch,” Daves says abruptly.

“Ah,” Patrick says.

“I know there’s, uh… there’s more of us playing,” Daves says, “but it’s still not the easiest position to be in.”

“No, man, I know,” Patrick says. “But it sounds like you’re giving your brother another good example to follow.”

Surprise bleeds into happiness on David’s face. “I never thought of it that way,” he said. “But—yeah. I hope I am.”

“You can let me know if anyone bothers you,” Patrick says. “Or Tazer. He’ll keep it confidential, but he’ll do something about it.”

“I appreciate it,” David says. “Everyone’s been great so far, though.”

“Yeah, we have a good locker room,” Patrick says, and that’s when Jonny skates by for the third time in five minutes to hook his stick around Patrick’s leg.

Patrick swats at him, but Jonny just grins and calls back, “Too slow, Peeks!” as he blows past.

“Why does he call you that?” Daves asks.

“Peeks? Because of my initials,” Patrick says. He’s been sticking resolutely to that explanation for years and he’s going to keep sticking to it, even if additional information has recently come to light.

“You guys have been together a long time, huh?”

Patrick jolts, startled, and then realizes what Daves means. “Yeah, feels like we’ve been playing together our entire lives. We were just kids when we met.”

“Seriously?”

“We played each other when we were like eleven or twelve at a tournament in Edmonton,” Patrick says. “My team won.”

Obviously that’s when Jonny decides to skate up. “Not by a lot,” he says.

“It was six to three,” Patrick counters.

Jonny ignores him. “We didn’t actually talk face-to-face until we were on the Junior Flyers together the next summer,” Jonny says. “And then it didn’t matter that Patrick’s team won one game against me.”

“Against you? Did you play all six positions by yourself?” Patrick says.

Jonny keeps ignoring him. “He was the points leader once we started playing together.”

“I was the points leader before you came along, too,” Patrick points out.

“Yeah,” Jonny says, grinning, which in Patrick’s opinion means he won.

David is standing between them. He’s laughing a little, shaking his head, and Patrick’s seized by an impulse. “Hey, Daves,” he says, “that thing we were talking about earlier—think it’s gonna be public knowledge?” He should’ve thought to ask before Jonny inserted himself into the conversation, but Jonny will leave it alone if Patrick drops it.

“It’s not a secret,” Daves says. “I don’t mind, uh. People knowing.”

Patrick glances around; there’s no one else within earshot. Brinksy and a couple of the other guys are taking shots not too far away, but they’re pretty thoroughly distracted by whatever Crow’s doing. “David’s a switch,” he tells Jonny.

“Has anyone been hassling you?” Jonny asks immediately. Patrick was counting on that being his reaction, although Daves manages to look a little bewildered.

“No,” he says. “I mean, I don’t think most of them know, but—”

Patrick can sense that Jonny wants to jump in right there, but he doubts anyone else would be able to tell, and as always Jonny’s self-restraint is impeccable.

“I’m not sure how much I should talk about it,” Daves finishes.

Jonny glances at Patrick. “Ah,” he says.

“I can’t speak for the front office, but they’re generally pretty solid,” Patrick says. “Jonny and I will have your back. So will the rest of the guys, for that matter. The rest of it depends on what you’re comfortable with, but you don’t have to…” He’s not sure how to put it, so he tilts his head at Jonny.

“You don’t have to hide half of yourself,” Jonny says. “Whether you’re seeing a dom or a sub or you have some other arrangement. It’s up to you what you choose to share, but don’t make your decision based on that.” And that right there is why Jonny is the captain; he can see straight to the heart of an issue. There are a lot of switches in the league, but a lot fewer visible switches.

“Thanks,” Daves says. “I mean, just—thank you.”

“Yeah, for sure,” Jonny says.

“You know it, man. Now get out of here, looks like we’re about to do retrieval races,” Patrick adds, because he’s not looking to make anyone who doesn’t play for the Bruins cry out here.

Daves, overwhelmed and grateful and failing to hide either, takes off. Patrick watches him go and then says, without looking at Jonny, “You’re really good at that.”

“You’re really good at that,” Jonny says.

“Are you guys actually going to practice, or are you just going to stand here in your bubble and pat each other on the back?” Seabs says. Patrick hadn’t even noticed him skate up.

Jonny rolls his eyes. “Fuck off, Seabs.”

“If we lose to the Oilers, it’s your fault.”

“If we lose to the Oilers, it’ll be McDavid’s fault,” Patrick says, and then he smacks Jonny on the ass and takes off.

He’s pretty wrung out by the end of the day; after he showers and gets dressed again, he’s ready to crawl under a blanket and zone out until he falls asleep. On the other hand…

He doesn’t even have to ask Jonny if he can come over; Jonny just walks up to him and says, “Dinner?” And then he smirks in a way that Patrick is now conditioned to associate with being held down and fucked until he trembles.

Patrick has to work a little moisture back into his mouth before he can respond. “Korean?”

“Thai,” Jonny says firmly, so of course they get Korean. Sometimes Patrick wonders who’s really the dom between the two of them; he shares the joke as Jonny’s looking up the menu and gets the exact reaction he wanted when Jonny throws back his head and laughs. He has the best laugh, the best smile, and god, sometimes when Patrick looks at his bright eyes and laugh lines, that handsome face turned boyish, all he can think is, God, he’s cute, like he’s a sixteen-year-old with a crush. It’s even hotter because it’s paired with all that confidence and control and intensity. Patrick’s never going to get over him.

They drive separately back to Jonny’s, and then Patrick waits for their food delivery while Jonny showers again because he sweats twice as much as a normal person. Patrick has the barbecue pork tacos and kimchi divvied up by the time Jonny wanders back from the bathroom. His hair is damp, and he’s dressed in sweats and the boyfriend hoodie.

“What the hell are you watching?” he asks.

“Jai alai,” Patrick says.

“What, did you run out of basketball games?” Jonny drops down beside him and throws his arm over the back of the couch. By default, Patrick ends up pressed against his side, but he can’t bring himself to mind. “Sometimes I wonder if you’d watch anything other than sports if not for me.”

“Babe, I hate to break it to you,” Patrick says, “but Game of Thrones, fishing documentaries, and alternative soap operas don’t give you the higher ground.”

“You like Game of Thrones.”

“I mostly stay awake during Game of Thrones,” Patrick counters.

“Aw, Peeks, I know you love it,” Jonny says, and then he nuzzles his face into the side of Patrick’s head. Patrick’s hair is still a little damp, too, but Jonny doesn’t seem to mind; after he pulls away, he combs his fingers through the curls and tucks them behind Patrick’s ear.

Sometimes Patrick almost thinks—

“Do we have to watch this?” Jonny asks.

“I guess I could put on Minnesota at Dallas,” Patrick says, like it’s a concession instead of what he was planning on doing in fourteen minutes anyway. On the other hand, he gives it about five minutes before Jonny gets hooked on watching jai alai and another five before he starts pulling it apart to try to figure out how to win at it. “Junior prelims start next week.”

“Think we’ll get to watch the finals live?”

“Probably not.”

“Gonna be rough,” Jonny says, which is accurate enough. Canada’s U20 team isn’t looking great. Privately, Patrick’s not sure the US is going to go all the way, either. The last time they’d made the Worlds bet, their countries had ended up playing each other in the final. Patrick had resurrected the bet this year well in advance of even the preliminary rounds mostly because Jonny had been needling him about having the qualifier ‘American player’ tacked after his records. “I heard you’re one of the best American players,” he’d said. “Wonder if that makes you mediocre in Canada?” He’d made a point of flattering Patrick that night in front of the press, but Patrick had grumbled and pretended to act offended anyway.

If he had to bet now, he’d bet on Finland, but he isn’t about to tell Jonny that. “Take your tacos,” he says, and passes Jonny his plate.

“Thanks, babe,” Jonny says. Patrick expects him to scoot away, but instead he just starts eating. Apparently they’re having dinner while they’re right on top of each other, too. It takes Patrick a little bit of maneuvering to figure out, since he’s pressed up against Jonny’s left side and his dominant hand is squished, but he gets the angle right and starts shoveling kimchi into his mouth. After his first taco Jonny switches over to NBCSN for the Dallas game; by the time it starts, all the takeout containers are empty and Jonny’s trying to smack a sticky barbecue kiss to Patrick’s cheek. Patrick’s not too proud to admit he’s giggling.

“You’re gonna get sauce on the couch,” he tells Jonny. There’s a box on the other cushion that’s listing dangerously.

“You’re going to get sauce on the couch,” Jonny counters, but he moves the box to the table and then grabs Patrick by the waist to lay him out. When he crawls between Patrick’s legs, Patrick lays his own sticky barbecue kiss on Jonny’s chin.

“Hi,” he says, grinning up at Jonny.

“Hi,” Jonny says back. He looks… he looks… happy, like there’s no where else he rather be than right here on this couch with Patrick, so Patrick lifts his head and kisses him softly and pulls away the slightest bit, making Jonny chase his mouth. He does it again, and then again, drawing Jonny towards him in increments, until Jonny grunts in frustration and drops his full weight on Patrick, pinning him. There’s no teasing after that; when Jonny fits his mouth over Patrick’s, Patrick goes liquid under him; when he drags his mouth down Patrick’s neck, Patrick tilts his head back to bare his throat; and when he starts a slow, molten grind, Patrick widens his legs and moves with him.

He starts thinking about what Jonny might have planned for the night. They’d had sex twice on the road trip—nothing complicated, just Jonny holding Patrick down even though Patrick knew there were cuffs in his suitcase—and he wonders if Jonny wasn’t giving him a break before trying anything more intense again. Maybe Jonny will use the spreader bar, or maybe he’ll put Patrick in a ball tie and curl around his back and fuck him like that, or maybe… maybe he’ll tell Patrick to go to the lacquer chest and pick out something to wear.

Jonny props himself up on his elbows. “What are you thinking about?”

“You,” Patrick says. He reaches up to fiddle with the zipper on the boyfriend hoodie.

“Yeah? What about me?”

Patrick tugs the zipper down an inch. He’s feeling very nearly seductive. “Just… what you’re going to do with me.”

“What I’m going to do with you, eh? What am I going to do with you?”

“Whatever you want,” Patrick says.

“That’s right,” Jonny says, “whatever I want.”

Patrick can’t help it; he flushes.

“There it is,” Jonny says. He grins and presses the softest kiss to Patrick’s cheekbone. “What’s making you blush like that?”

“I thought,” Patrick says, “maybe—the chest in your closet.”

“You want to pick out something pretty to wear, baby?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says.

“Tell me what you’d pick,” Jonny orders.

Patrick’s so hard he can feel himself leaking in his underwear. Meanwhile, Jonny’s right there, inches from Patrick’s face; there’s only one way to hide.

He closes his eyes. “The red and black,” he mumbles.

“Open your eyes, sweetheart,” Jonny says. Patrick can feel the weight of his dom’s expectation; he doesn’t want to, but he cracks open first one and then the other to find Jonny’s soft gaze on him.

“Good, Peeks,” Jonny says. “Now tell me what you’d pick.”

“The…” Patrick swallows. “The red and black.”

“Red and black what, baby? No—keep your eyes open.”

“The red and black, um.” Patrick sucks in a breath and forces it out. “The, the panties.”

“The red and black panties?” Jonny says. “Those would look so pretty on you, baby. You like the Hawks colors, don’t you?”

“Yeah, Jonny,” Patrick says.

“And those tie at the sides just like your white panties, don’t they?” Jonny says. “Do you like it when I untie those sweet little bows so I can touch your pussy, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “Yeah—yes, please.”

“I like that, too,” Jonny says, and then he catches Patrick’s mouth and kisses him slow and deep and filthy—

And then he rolls off Patrick and sits on the other end of the couch. Patrick’s left weightless and shocked. “Jonny?” he says, and then, thank god, Jonny wraps a hand around his ankle to anchor him.

“I thought you wanted to watch the game, Peeks,” Jonny says.

Patrick’s left blinking at the ceiling. After a moment he remembers to close his legs, and then he slowly sits up and curls against the back of the couch. Jonny’s wearing a jackass smirk, like he’s enjoying Patrick’s stupor, but his closer arm is stretched across the back of the couch in invitation. Patrick inches across the seat and shoves against his side.

“Dallas is looking good this year,” Jonny says. His arm curls around Patrick, and his hand comes up to cup the back of Patrick’s head.

Patrick grunts.

“Poor baby,” Jonny teases. “Does something have you frustrated?”

He collects the pieces of his attention and manages to say into Jonny’s sweatshirt, “They should call up that Russian winger again.”

Jonny’s hand starts petting his hair. “Which winger?”

“Gurianov,” Patrick says. “They drafted him eleventh—no, twelfth overall in 2015.”

The petting stops briefly and then resumes. “I never know how the hell you remember all of that,” Jonny says.

“Just watch a lot of games,” Patrick mumbles.

“Babe, there’s watching a lot of games, and then there’s being you.” Jonny strokes the back of his neck. “Sometimes I don’t think anyone has a clue how fucking smart you are.” Which works just as well as being told he’s pretty to make Patrick turn red, but at least his face is hidden this time. He knows Jonny’s enjoying this—making Patrick wait. He probably wants Patrick to beg. The joke’s on him, though; Patrick’s perfectly willing to start begging right now.

“The Wild are a mess, though,” he says.

“Yeah, I heard they’re having problems in the locker room.”

“Players?”

“Coach,” Jonny says. “Some players, too, for sure.” He pauses for a moment and then says, casually, “Or I could tie you up at my feet.”

Patrick jolts.

“I have red rope,” Jonny says. “I have black rope, too. I think I’d strip you, first, and then make you kneel, and…” There’s another thoughtful pause during which he keeps petting Patrick’s hair. “Not a frog tie for your legs, that gives you too much range of movement. Maybe a ball tie so you can’t even look up at me.” Patrick can imagine it, can imagine being one his knees at Jonny’s feet with his forehead pressed to the floor and his belly warm against his thighs. Jonny wouldn’t degrade him, not when Patrick doesn’t like it; he wouldn’t treat him like furniture. He’d reach down every so often to stroke Patrick’s hair and tell him how good he was being, and maybe eventually he’d tip Patrick on his side and plant one foot on either side of him, and Patrick could just rest like that, curled on his side and safe.

“Would you like that, baby?” Jonny says.

“Yeah,” Patrick manages to say. He’s not sure he’s ever been as aware of his own erection as he is at that moment.

“Mm, then we’ll have to try it sometime,” Jonny says, and then he turns up the volume on the TV, making it clear he has no intention of slaking Patrick’s thirst any time soon. He could draw this out indefinitely. He could draw it out forever.

“I’ve got to—I need a glass of water,” Patrick croaks. He stretches out his legs and climbs to his feet and looks down at Jonny. He’s aware that he might, possibly, a little bit, be pouting.

Jonny just smirks. “Hey,” he says. “Would you mind grabbing my tablet while you’re up? Should be on the desk.”

God. Is he going to work while he makes Patrick stew in his own sexual misery? “Yeah, sure,” Patrick says, because what else is he supposed to say? ‘Please stop satisfying all my fantasies?’

He staggers into the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water from the Brita he bought for Jonny’s fridge, but instead of drinking it he presses it to his hot cheek. It really isn’t fair that Jonny can take him apart like this, but Patrick loves it, loves how Jonny can keep his own control while casually stripping Patrick of his. And he can tell Jonny’s enjoying it, too, but it isn’t done meanly; there’s no chance of Patrick being denied a resolution. Jonny just gets a kick out of teasing him, and that Patrick doesn’t mind in the least.

After he drains his glass, he makes his way back to the office. Jonny’s desk is a mess—mostly papers, which is pretty impressive given that almost everything is digital now. His broken watch is laid out on the only bare patch. Presumably the tablet is buried in a lower level, because Patrick can’t see it on the surface. He’s going to have to go digging.

There’s just so much crap, though. He shuffles aside a series of schedules for a youth hockey team, a pamphlet advertising a meditation retreat, and a handwritten list for Home Depot before he manages to accidentally knock a manila folder to the floor, which at least does him the favor of exposing Jonny’s tablet. The folder sprays more papers onto the floor. That’s it; Patrick is definitely buying Jonny a scanner for Christmas.

He has to get down on his knees to collect everything that landed under the desk. It looks like they’re all just duplicates of the same form. Patrick stacks them together and realizes—oh. They’re copies of Jonny’s kink list.

Back when they had first started sleeping together and Jonny had given Patrick the world’s most intensive kink inventory to fill out, he’d asked if Jonny was going to let Patrick see his list, too, but Jonny hadn’t seemed to think it was worth bothering with. Since then, Patrick hasn’t seen any evidence to disprove that what they like in bed really does align so closely. He still hasn’t managed to wrap his head around Jonny buying him all the contents of the lacquer chest, but that wasn’t the action of a dom who dislikes seeing his sub in lingerie.

Still, though, he’s curious, and he knows Jonny won’t mind. He picks up one of the copies and starts reading, and then—

And then.

It’s the quantity that surprises him, the neat line of checkmarks marching down the “Yes” column. He should’ve—he should’ve known that Jonny’s tastes were more expansive than Patrick’s own. Patrick’s kinks are narrow to the point of almost being nonexistent. But Jonny—

Jonny likes everything Patrick does and more. He likes breathplay and fear play and servitude. He likes exhibitionism; he likes group sex. He likes making his sub watch while he has sex with other subs. He likes chastity and discipline. He likes painplay—likes spanking his subs or flogging them or whipping them.

He likes humiliation.

Patrick—it was stupid of Patrick to forget what this was. He shouldn’t have let himself sink into it. They’d started sleeping together because Jonny had made the offer after learning that Patrick had trouble with subspace, just one friend helping another, just having fun, just something casual because Jonny felt sorry for Patrick and was willing to do him a favor. Actually—it’s actually good that he found Jonny’s inventory, because he clearly needed the reminder to stop living in some self-indulgent jerk-off fantasy where Jonny’s his boyfriend.

He neatens the stack of copies and slides them back in the folder. It’s pretty smart to keep duplicates ready to hand out. Patrick should’ve done the same in his early twenties, although he hadn’t been sleeping with a lot of doms at that point.

He extracts Jonny’s tablet and walks back into the hall to find Jonny right there. He’s leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. It makes his biceps bulge attractively, and he knows it.

“Find it?” he asks.

“Your desk,” Patrick says, “is a wreck.” He tries to give Jonny the tablet, but Jonny takes his hand to draw him closer. Patrick hesitates so briefly Jonny doesn’t noticed before he lets himself be drawn. Nothing’s changed. It’s just—

Sometimes Jonny kisses him so softly, and now Patrick can read it as the concession it is. He almost wants to beg Jonny to be harder, to bite at his lips and call him a brat.

“What do you think?” Jonny says. His head’s still bent, his mouth almost touching Patrick’s. “The panties or the rope?”

Nothing’s changed. Patrick has no new information; the situation, the arrangement or whatever you want to call it, is exactly the same as it was yesterday. And Patrick thinks—why not see it through to the finish, why not enjoy it while it lasts?

“Whatever you want,” he tells Jonny again.

Jonny starts walking backwards towards to bedroom, pulling Patrick along by his hips. “Something else, then,” Jonny says. “We’ll do both those other things, too, though.” He winces a little. “Maybe not tonight.”

“Getting—getting old?” Patrick teases.

“Don’t tell anyone, but sometimes I miss sleeping in my own bed,” Jonny confides. They pass his dom room; at least now Patrick understands why they always go straight to Jonny’s bedroom instead of the place where he doesn’t have to hold back.

“That’s not news, Tazer,” Patrick says. “Even the rookies feel that way.”

“Come on, we loved road trips when we were kids,” Jonny says. He takes the tablet from Patrick’s hand, tosses it on the dresser, and guides Patrick over to the bed. “Pillow fights in the middle of the night? Sexy.”

Patrick stands still while Jonny takes off his shirt and then goes to his knees to guide Patrick’s pants over his legs and peel his socks off his feet. He tickles his fingers lightly over the soles of Patrick’s feet to make him squirm. In a real relationship, a dom kneeling for his sub would mean something. It isn’t exactly an exchange of power, but it is significant, a sign of trust, the nonverbal version of you’re precious to me. Obviously here it’s just Jonny being thoughtful, but Patrick’s always found the gesture interesting.

Jonny kisses Patrick’s hip and the middle of his cock on his way back up, and then he takes Patrick by the chin and gently tilts his head. “What’s your safeword?”

“Lamp,” Patrick says obediently.

“Good, baby,” Jonny says. “Undress me.”

That’s a new one. His hands go to the hem of Jonny’s t-shirt, but he can’t quite—it’s just so intimate. He catches Jonny’s eye, sees the smug expression on his face, rolls his eyes, and finally tugs Jonny’s shirt upward. He has to go up on his toes, and even then he still has to have Jonny help him by ducking, but he finally gets the t-shirt off. He folds it neatly and puts it on the dresser and turns back to the problem in front of him.

The problem is watching him with a hot, dark gaze. Jonny’s eyes might as well be black. He’s completely unselfconscious, barefoot and bare-chested, and Patrick goes down on his knees right there so hard and fast they almost crack against the floor. He catches himself just before he breaks the suspension of the moment and lowers himself gently the last inch instead of dropping.

It always astonishes him how quickly they can go from joking around to this kind of intense awareness. He feels like Jonny’s holding him in the palm of his hand. ‘Spellbound’ is the right word, or maybe ‘mesmerized.’ He just wants to submerse his will. He wants to hand everything over to Jonny, because he trusts so deeply that Jonny would keep him safe; but it isn’t fair to put that on Jonny when Jonny doesn’t want it.

His hands stray to Jonny’s waistband, and then he guides the sweats down, a mirror-image of what Jonny did to him earlier. When Jonny steps out of them, Patrick folds them and sets them aside, and then his hands reach back up for Jonny’s underwear. That’s trickier; the compression shorts are tight over his ass and thighs, and even tighter over the bulge of his groin, but Patrick rolls them down and off with only minimal interference from Jonny’s big cock.

He stays kneeling at Jonny’s feet when he’s finished until Jonny smiles down at him and offers him a hand to help him up. “Thank you, baby,” he tells Patrick.

Patrick clears his throat. “You—you’re welcome.”

Jonny sits down on the bed, and then he tugs Patrick forward until Patrick climbs into his lap, straddling him. Their cocks bump and rub together, made slick by the precome they’re both leaking, and Patrick makes a point of sliding his cock all the way up and then back down Jonny’s entire length. He’s so wide, too; Patrick would need both hands to wrap around his cock and Jonny’s together.

Jonny extracts one of Patrick’s arms from the tangle between their bodies and starts massaging his forearm and hand. “You know the rules, sweetheart,” he says. “Any numbness, tingling, pain—let me know and we’ll stop.”

“Okay,” Patrick says.

“I think you’ll like this,” Jonny says, and he starts working on Patrick’s other arm. “You’ve liked everything I’ve done to you so far, haven’t you?”

He has, because Jonny’s just that kind, giving Patrick what he wants and asking nothing for himself. “Yeah,” Patrick says.

“And you’re always so good for me,” Jonny murmurs. “Hang on, sweetheart,” he adds, and then he twists them around so Patrick lands on his back on the bed. “There we go,” Jonny says. “Wait here for me.” And then he pulls away.

It makes Patrick wonder if—he doesn’t, he can’t be touched by someone other than his dom, not without freaking out, but maybe he could watch Jonny with other subs. Maybe Jonny would even let him kneel beside the bed and keep his eyes on the floor so he’d be present without having to see. He’d still have to hear them, hear Jonny tell the other sub how good they were, listen while Jonny called somebody else ‘baby,’ but he could probably… he thinks he might be able to do that. He thinks it might be worth it.

When Jonny comes back, he’s holding a length of deep red rope. “Look at you,” he says. “I don’t think you have a clue how gorgeous you are. Put your wrists together for me above your head, baby—good, just like that.” He starts binding Patrick’s wrists with the red rope, stopping every so often to slide two fingers beneath the wrap to make sure there’s enough slack to prevent injury. Years ago, when Patrick had that scaphoid fracture in his wrist, he remembers Jonny talking with one of the team doctors during training camp about the possibility of nerve damage. At the time, he’d wondered how Jonny had known so much about it, but now he understands.

When Jonny’s finished, he brings Patrick’s hands down long enough for him to appreciate the neat wraps of the double-column tie that ladders his wrists together before positioning them above his head again and binding him to the headboard. Patrick is well and truly caught; he can’t pull his hands apart, can’t pull away from the headboard, might not even be able to get the leverage to roll over. All his instincts are urging him to sink into it, to let Jonny take care of him; his body loves it.

“Feel okay?” Jonny asks.

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “Feels good.”

Jonny kisses the backs of his fingers, and then he says, “I love your hands, you know.”

Patrick shudders.

“I haven’t been able to look away from you since the first time I saw you on the ice.” Jonny stretches out on his side next to Patrick, kisses his elbow, and strokes a hand down his chest. “And your hands are why. Not the only reason, but what you do with them is extraordinary.”

He’s red, he’s probably scarlet. Jonny rubs a thumb over the stiff bud of his nipple, and Patrick arches into it, chasing the feeling of Jonny’s hands on him. “You’re so fucking responsive, too,” Jonny says. “I don’t think your attention has wandered from me once when we’re together like this.” He leans in to nuzzle Patrick’s throat and says against the base of his neck, “You have no idea what that does to me.”

It’s sweet, it tastes so sweet, it’s exactly what Patrick wants to hear, and he wonders what Jonny would be doing with one of his real subs right now. He imagines being called a slut and cringes.

“God, you’re handsome,” Jonny says. “Will you look at me, baby? There you are. Do you remember what I told you about why I call you Peekaboo?”

Patrick just wants to close his eyes again, but he says, “Yeah.”

“Tell me why, sweetheart.”

“Because—” Because of my initials, Patrick wants to say. Because we were joking around with Sharpy one day. Because of some stupid locker room story.

“Tell me, Peeks,” Jonny says.

“Because you—because I used to, to look up at you. Through my hair.”

“You still do,” Jonny says. “With those blue eyes and your hair all curly. I know why you slick it back, babe, but I love it when it’s loose like this.” Patrick can’t even imagine the state it’s in after Jonny was combing his fingers through it earlier. “And your nose,” Jonny says, “and your mouth, and your fucking eyelashes. I’m not sure there’s anything prettier about you than your eyelashes, and you are so pretty, baby.”

Patrick doesn’t, he isn’t sure—it’s just a lot, it’s so much, and Jonny keeps going, even though this can’t be what he wants, Patrick can’t give him what he wants.

He wraps his hand around Patrick’s cock and rubs his thumb in a slow, firm circle over the tip, smearing precome around. “You know what really gets to me, Peeks?” he says. “You’re so submissive in bed with me, but out there you’re an amazing leader. You don’t even realize how much the rest of the team looks up to you.” He works his hand up and back down Patrick’s cock, and up and back down, and up and back down again, his grip loose enough that Patrick keeps twitching in his fist. “Shh, baby, easy,” he says. “I love that you challenge me, and I love that when we’re alone like this you just want me to put you on your knees or your back. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Answer me, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, Jonny,” Patrick gasps.

“I know,” Jonny says. “I know, love, and you’re allowed to want that, you’re allowed to have both, because you’re so good, aren’t you?” The hand on his cock falls away, and then he feels a touch on his thigh that makes him spread his legs instinctively. Jonny could—Jonny could slap him there, if he wanted; Patrick knows how to play through the pain. He could keep it together. For Jonny, he could keep it together, could work through the way his ribcage is ratcheting tighter around his lungs. His resting heart rate is fifty-five beats per minute; it’s higher now, but probably not high enough to catch notice. He makes himself take a deep breath.

Jonny shifts to settle more fully on top of Patrick and fits his mouth over Patrick’s throat. He’s too tall for their cocks to align in this position even though Patrick wants something to grind against. He wants Jonny to fuck him. He wants Jonny to turn him over and tell him he’s disgusting. No, he doesn’t want that, but he wants to want it, wants to be good for Jonny, even though he knows Jonny would never do it, he’d never break Patrick’s trust in him.

“You’re so good for me, baby,” Jonny says, and Patrick shudders. He can feel something building behind his eyes—not tears, because he doesn’t cry in bed, so it can’t be tears, but there’s something beading in his pretty fucking eyelashes nonetheless. He just, he’s wanted this for so long even though he always knew he wasn’t enough for Jonny, and now it’s all, it’s just, it’s a lot, all those things Jonny’s saying even though he went years and years and years without ever feeling compelled to tell Patrick how good he is. It’s not his responsibility, it’s not fair of Patrick to use their friendship like this.

“You’re so good, baby,” Jonny’s saying. “The best sub, my best sub,” but all Patrick can think about is how much it is, it’s too much, he can’t stand it, he can’t stand Jonny’s kindness in saying all this shit, he can’t handle thinking about any of it, about how maybe if he were better, if he did a better job he could be enough, about how much easier their relationship would be if Patrick hadn’t fucked it all up by being a sub, and he gasps, “Nineteen,” and then he thinks maybe Jonny doesn’t hear him so he says it again, “Nineteen,” and then Jonny rolls off him and Patrick pulls himself up and starts scrabbling at the rope and he says, “Nineteen,” and he’s gasping it, and maybe Jonny doesn’t understand, so he says it again, “Nineteen nineteen nineteen,” and Jonny goes away, he doesn’t want Jonny to go away, but how fucking selfish is Patrick, he has to stop, so he says, “Nineteen,” and Jonny comes back with his big shears and cuts him free. Jonny’s talking and everything in Patrick’s body is telling him to listen to his dom but Jonny isn’t his dom and he can’t hear past the rushing in his ears anyway, so he yanks on pants and a top and he hopes he has the manners to apologize to Jonny before he runs but he doesn’t remember if he was bad or not.

He isn’t aware of anything else until he’s aware of being home, of standing in his kitchen, of shaking because he’s so achingly cold. He pulls his sleeves down over his fingers and zips his hoodie up the rest of the way, and then he gives himself over to dropping.

Notes for the Chapter:

[here]

9. Chapter 9

Notes for the Chapter:

This chapter needs a warning for discussion of dubcon. It isn’t explicit, but there is mention of Patrick’s previous sexual experiences and how several of his doms pushed him past his limits.

I really, really hope this is a satisfying resolution. Thank you so much to everyone who’s been following along! Okay, deep breath, cross your fingers for me…

Patrick was twelve when he talked to Jonny for the first time. He’d known of him for a while, had even played against him the year before, but the first time they talked was in the locker room of the Philadelphia Junior Flyers in July of 2001. Jonny was already thirteen, awkward and only starting to grow into his limbs, and yet Patrick could see it even then—how Jonny could catch your attention and hold it or release it at will. Already everyone’s eyes turned to him to lead.

And Patrick had hoped that maybe he’d get to play on Jonny’s line, even for a little while, especially as long as Jonny didn’t take his spot as scoring leader. Jonny was brilliant, a two-way player, someone who could go to the boards in a way Patrick couldn’t. He was also kind of—Patrick shouldn’t have been looking at him like that, because it wouldn’t help his career, but—

“Close your hand. Good. Now open it again. Good, baby, you’re so good.”

Jonny was… really cute. Even gangly, even gawky and baby-faced; Patrick wasn’t supposed to notice dominants, but he couldn’t help but notice Jonny. Not that he figured Jonny would pay much attention to him, at least not until they were out on the ice and Patrick made him pay attention.

Anyway, Patrick had dragged his equipment bag into a corner without talking to any of his friends and started to change: methodically, the way he always did, stepping out of his flip-flops and replacing each piece of clothing one by one until he was standing in his pads and socks, trying to tug his jersey out of his bag and succeeding only in spilling all of his crap onto the floor. He’d huffed at himself and dropped the bag to start collecting everything, but by then Jonny was there, crouched down on one knee as he picked up Patrick’s gloves.

“Oh,” Patrick had probably said, and then, “Thank you,” and Jonny had grinned at him and climbed back to his feet.

“Yeah, of course,” Jonny had said. “I’ve really been looking forward to playing with you. Uh, I’m Jonny, by the way. Jonathan Toews.”

“Another deep breath for me. Good, sweetheart, thank you. Can you show me your other hand? I won’t touch it, baby. Make a fist for me. Now open it again.”

“I know,” Patrick had said. “I mean, me too. I’m Patrick.” He vividly remembers blushing at that point, and then shoving his hair out of his eyes to try to briefly hide his face behind his hand.

“You know I’ve been looking forward to playing with you?” Jonny teased. Patrick didn’t know how he’d immediately realized Jonny was teasing, or that Jonny wouldn’t be weird about Patrick being a sub, or that Jonny was telling the truth when he said he’d been looking forward to playing with Patrick; but he did.

“Who wouldn’t look forward to playing with me?” he’d joked back, and Jonny had laughed so hard his nose scrunched.

“Deep breath, Peeks. You’re safe, I promise.”

“Who would look forward to playing with you?” Jonny had said, and then, “I’m just kidding. You’re really good.”

“I was good enough to beat your team last year.”

“What,” Jonny had said, “did you play all six positions by yourself?”

Patrick rolled his eyes and bumped his shoulder into Jonny’s chest. Jonny bumped him back, but not hard, just enough to make Patrick grin.

“Nah, man,” he’d said. “I’d be wasted as a goalie. Too short and too fast.”

“You’re so good, sweetheart.”

“Maybe you should be my winger,” Jonny had said.

“Can you come back?”

“Maybe you should be my center,” Patrick had countered.

“Come back to me,” Jonny says, and Patrick gasps in a breath and he gasps in another and he cracks open his eyes and there’s Jonny in front of him. He looks wrecked. He looks like Patrick feels, and Patrick’s more fracture than glass, just a scatter of pieces laid at Jonny’s feet.

Instinct makes him surge to his feet. “Whoa, easy,” Jonny’s saying, “easy, Peeks, you’re okay—”

Patrick staggers, backs up, and manages to get the kitchen island between himself and Jonny. He has to hang on to the counter the whole way; his limbs feel numb, but there’s something he has to do, he has to, he has to fit those pieces back together. His breath is coming fast and shallow, and it takes a titanic effort to speak past the gut-punch suck of his lungs, but there’s something he has to do, that he has to say: “Sorry,” he tells Jonny. “I’m sorry—”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” Jonny says. “Can you get some water down?”

Patrick shuts his eyes and opens them again. “Sorry,” he says, and that’s stupid, he can’t just keep saying that or Jonny will figure out something is wrong. Or—no, that’s not right; Jonny has to know already that something is wrong, doesn’t he? “I didn’t,” Patrick tries, “I shouldn’t have… shouldn’t have freaked out like that.”

“Will you drink some water?”

What would Jonny want to hear? “I shouldn’t have freaked out,” Patrick says, but that’s not right either, Jonny would want to know… “Sorry, I probably scared you,” he says. “But I’m, I’m fine, I just needed a minute.” There’s still something else—

“Patrick,” Jonny says, in that voice that’s hard-wired to his reflexes. “Drink some water.” He sets a bottle of water down on the countertop between them, and Patrick watches himself reach forward and pick it up. Jonny already loosened the cap, and that’s good, because Patrick’s hands are shaking. He takes the first sip because Jonny told him to drink and finishes the bottle because he’s suddenly aware that he’s dying of thirst even though until his lips touched the water he hadn’t known he was thirsty.

“Good,” Jonny says. “Thank you.”

Patrick, illogically, takes the time to struggle through putting the cap back on the empty bottle. “You’re welcome,” he says. “I mean, thank you.” And then he remembers what he was supposed to say: “Thanks for, you know, coming to check on me.”

“Jesus, Patrick, you don’t have to thank me for that—”

“Anway,” Patrick says, “I think we probably shouldn’t. We shouldn’t sleep together anymore, that’s enough times to prove I’m just space-resistant, maybe, maybe you should ask the sub at the juice bar out?” He’s just processing things so slowly. He can recognize that he isn’t thinking clearly, but he can’t make himself start thinking clearly no matter how hard he tries to push past the rushing in his ears.

“Peeks.”

“It’s not your fault,” he tells Jonny, because it’s important that Jonny knows this isn’t his fault.

“Patrick—”

“It isn’t, it’s just, I think it’s just the way I am, but thank you for trying to…”

“Patrick. How long have you been in love with me?”

The world drops into place around him, and he has to be part of it again. They’re standing in the middle of his kitchen with the island between them, and Jonny looks wrecked; his hair’s ruffled and his eyes are bloodshot and he’s wearing an old long-sleeved t-shirt inside out. And that’s it, the game is up. He knows. A decade of Patrick pouring effort into keeping his secret, and now Jonny knows.

Patrick shudders and looks away.

“How long have you been in love with me?” Jonny repeats.

He can feel the tears leaking out from under his eyelids. He can’t bring himself to turn his face towards Jonny, because he’s so used to hiding it, and he knows that right now it’s showing on his face. Maybe it’s always shown on his face, and only now has he let Jonny close enough to get a good look at his features.

Patrick swallows his misery and forces himself to say it: “The whole time.”

“The whole time,” Jonny repeats. He sounds numb. “Since we started sleeping together?”

Patrick squeezes his eyes shut even more tightly and shakes his head.

“Since we were rookies?” A pause. “Before?”

He can’t talk, there’s a sob caught in his throat, but Jonny must understand what he’s seeing. “Jesus,” he says, shocked. “Fuck. I had no idea. This whole fucking time, and I didn’t have a clue.” He has to be reeling. Patrick can’t look at him, because maybe if he doesn’t look at Jonny this won’t be happening, but he can imagine Jonny’s eyes, dark and wide and maybe even angry, over his tight lips and sharp jaw. This is happening. It’s happening right now. He can’t walk back from it or undo it or laugh it off as a joke. Jonny knows.

There’s a dozen ways he could’ve put it together. What the fuck was Patrick thinking when he agreed to sleep with Jonny? Why did he ever think he could keep his feelings locked down? He laid the clues out on the table, and all Jonny had to do was figure out how they fit together. That shit he’d said at the hotel in Denver, the way he came undone when Jonny dressed him in lingerie and let him play at marriage—even their first time, when he’d come more from Jonny merely kissing him than anything else: it makes for a damning picture that fills in all the details of how Patrick’s used Jonny’s friendship. He’s never going to get that back.

There’s one thing he might still be able to salvage, though, if he can pull himself back together. He might be able to salvage their working relationship if he can pull it the fuck together.

He starts with a deep breath and focuses on his arms, on how his hands are trembling, and he pulls that tremor tight into his core. Another breath, and he works moisture into his mouth, flattens his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and tenses his jaw until the sob recedes. A third deep breath, and now he’s just waiting for the tears caught in his lashes to evaporate. When his face feels dry, he blinks his eyes open, turns his head, and meets Jonny’s gaze clear-eyed and sure.

“I know you have no reason to believe me,” he says, “but I can be professional. I’ll back whatever narrative you tell the team.”

“God,” says Jonny, who sounds not shocked but sick. “You really can hide it that well.”

“Or if you’d rather I tell them the truth, I can do that, too,” Patrick finishes. Yeah, this is better; he can put on his old remove the way he puts on shin pads and gloves and a helmet before a game. There’s still a chance a stray puck could knock out all his teeth, but he’s quick on his feet with a lifetime of experience.

“The truth,” Jonny says. “And what the hell is the truth.”

“That I came onto you, and it made you uncomfortable, so you need some space.” He lifts a shoulder. “I thought we could keep it simple, but I’ll be more explicit if you want. You might not like that level of speculation about why you’d fuck me going around, though.”

“Because people would speculate about why I would ever fuck you,” Jonny says, like he’s finally starting to understand.

“Right. So, uh, if that doesn’t—I’d rather not have to find a way out of my contract, but if you still don’t want… if it isn’t working by the time that’s up, I can always sign with a different team.”

“What the fuck,” Jonny says, “are you talking about?”

“Whether—whether you can still work with me,” Patrick says, and suddenly he’s uncertain, because Jonny sounds so angry, and even though Patrick knows Jonny isn’t his dom, his stupid fucking body still refuses to get the message.

“Whether I can still work with you,” Jonny say, “because, what? That’s what you think is important out of all of this? No… that’s the only thing you think you can save.”

Patrick doesn’t want to hear this. Maybe he deserves to hear it, but he’d rather not listen to those words come out of Jonny’s mouth.

“Don’t,” he warns.

“Because you think I won’t come near you now that I know how you feel,” Jonny says.

“Don’t, please.”

“Because you think you’re a bad sub, fuck,” Jonny says. “Christ, Patrick, you aren’t, you’re the furthest thing from—”

“No,” Patrick spits, “you don’t get it. I can’t, you can’t push me past my limits!” Oh fuck. What happened to his remove? “I freak out, Jonny, especially if you—if you humiliate me, or hit me or share me—”

“How do you know?” Jonny asks, and his voice is low and tight and makes Patrick want to yield until Jonny sounds right again.

“What?” he says instead.

“How do you know you freak out when someone tries to humiliate you or hit you or fucking share you?”

“I’ve tried, okay,” Patrick says, and all his fight drains out of him as quickly as it funneled in. He’s so tired, he just wants Jonny to leave so he can lie down and rest. “I’ve tried. I swear I’m not talking out of my ass.”

“You’ve tried,” Jonny says, voice flat. “You’ve tried because you suddenly changed your mind about what you like? Or because you’ve been with doms who tell you that you’re a selfish brat if you don’t like what they like?” There’s a pause; Patrick says nothing. “Fucking christ,” Jonny says. “Jesus, Patrick, you were coerced.”

“You still don’t get it,” Patrick snaps, because Jonny doesn’t know shit.

“What don’t I get?”

“Tonight wasn’t a fluke,” Patrick says. “I safeword all the time, pretty much since the day I started having sex. You know why I keep getting dumped? It’s because no dom, even the most patient dom in the world, is going to want a sub who safewords every third time he gets fucked.”

“No,” Jonny snaps back, “you don’t get it. You’ve been stuck in this shitty fucking environment from the time you were seven years old where people make you feel like you’re broken for being a sub, and you end up dating assholes because you think you don’t deserve—no, because it doesn’t even occur to you that you deserve better, that you’re worth more than that!”

What comes out of Patrick’s mouth is, “I don’t want to have this conversation,” which is almost hilariously inappropriate. Of course he doesn’t want to have this conversation; Jonny’s stripping him bare and then offering him all these convenient excuses for his own bad behavior, but Patrick owes it to him to take responsibility.

“This is the conversation we should’ve had at the beginning,” Jonny says. “Why did you safeword?”

“I told you, I freaked out—”

“You dropped,” Jonny says. “You know that was beyond normal subdrop, right? You were almost catatonic, you shouldn’t even be on your feet right now.”

“I’m fine,” Patrick says again.

“Fuck, that’s what you meant by ‘freaked out’ this whole time,” Jonny says. He inhales shakily and drags his hand over his face. “That time in your bathroom, you almost went into subshock just because I told you no.”

“I was just startled.”

“Like you were ‘just startled’ now?”

“Listen, I told you—”

“Oh, I heard you. You’re fine.” Jonny’s gaze pins him. “Bullshit.”

“What do you even want from me?” Patrick says. “What the hell do you want, Jonny?”

“I want to know why the hell my number is your safeword!”

Patrick draws back. “What?”

“I want to know,” Jonny says, “why my number is your safeword.”

“I, I don’t know if…”

“Patrick.”

Patrick shuts his eyes again. “I told you,” he says. “I safeword a lot, and I just.” Fuck. He can’t look at Jonny for this part, either. “And it makes me feel… so I can get home before I start to freak out worse.”

“How does it make you feel?”

He can hardly get it out, mouths the word more than says it: “Safe.”

“Let me get this straight,” Jonny says. “You have multiple times been deliberately pushed past your limits to the point of having panic attacks and my number is your safeword because the thought of me is the one thing that makes you feel protected enough to get home so you can drop in private?”

“A couple of people have asked about… about it,” Patrick starts, “but I tell them that I would’ve gone with eighty-eight, except that’s kind of arrogant even for me, so nineteen because—my birthday. If you’re worried, I don’t think anyone’s connected it to you, I promise.”

“I’m not even close to worried about that.”

Patrick shivers. He doesn’t know what to do with that flat tone, with how he’s feeling, with any of it. What does Jonny think of him now? He knows about Patrick’s feelings, about why Patrick’s a brat, about the safeword… he genuinely thought he’d reach for ‘lamp’ if he needed to stop a scene with Jonny, but in a moment of distress, he’d said the word he’s been using for years. What a dumb fucking mistake.

“You—fuck, you’re shaking,” Jonny says. “We can keep talking about this, but would you come here?” He holds his arm out, curves it towards Patrick, and Patrick takes a step back.

“No,” he says. “I’ll do whatever you want to make this right, just please don’t ask me…” Please don’t ask to touch me is what he means, because he’s not sure he’ll ever be strong enough to say no.

“You need skin contact.”

Patrick’s exhausted and frustrated and scared, and he just wants Jonny to leave it alone. “I’m fine,” he snaps.

“You saying that isn’t going to make it true,” Jonny says.

“You’re a jackass,” Patrick tells him, even though he’s right; Patrick feels like he might pass out.

“Why are you being so fucking stubborn about this?”

“Because I can’t, okay! I can’t have you—I can’t have you want to hold me out of some sense of obligation!”

“I want to hold you because we’re both in shock and I want to murder everyone who ever laid hands on you and if I’d known you feel the same way I do I would’ve had a ring on your finger before we turned twenty!” Jonny yells.

And Patrick—

Patrick doesn’t have a fucking clue what to do with that, so his body does what comes most instinctively and walks him straight into Jonny’s arms.

“Thank you,” Jonny says. “Fuck. This is not how I wanted this conversation to go.”

Patrick hears himself say, “You’re shaking.”

“Peeks, you—you safeworded.” Jonny inhales. “I had to figure out that was your safeword, and you just ran.” He exhales. It isn’t steady. “I thought I’d hurt you.”

“No,” Patrick says.

“I thought I hurt you, I couldn’t stop… I couldn’t stop thinking about your hands.”

“No,” Patrick says.

“Or that I said something that made you feel unsafe, that hurt you so badly you had to get away from me—”

“No,” Patrick says, blank but certain. “You couldn’t.” The quivers are getting worse; he has a hand on Jonny’s chest and an arm around Jonny’s ribcage, and he can feel Jonny’s heart thumping. How could he think that? How could Patrick have let him think that? “No,” he says again, “you couldn’t hurt me, Jonny, you didn’t hurt me.”

Jonny makes a noise and turns his face into Patrick, and Patrick slides his hand up to curl his arm around Jonny’s neck. He’s shivering outright now, like he’d locked his reaction away until he knew Patrick was safe; he’s the best dom Patrick has ever known. (And all this time he’s been—?) He’s the best man Patrick has ever known. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he tells Jonny. “You didn’t hurt me, I swear—Jonny, you’re so good to me.” It comes pouring out of him: “I trust you,” he says. “I trust you so much.”

And Jonny just pulls Patrick even closer and shakes. (Would he really have—?) He needs… Patrick tries to think. Jonny needs skin contact, he needs… what does Jonny always do for him? He tells Patrick that he’s good, so Patrick says, “You’re so good.” And Jonny holds him, so Patrick burrows his face against Jonny’s jaw and says into his throat, “You didn’t hurt me.” And Jonny reassures him, so Patrick says, “I trust you,” and he says it again, and he says it over and over until Jonny’s heart rate starts to calm. And Jonny—Jonny always makes him drink water. Jonny gives him water, so as soon as Jonny stops trembling so badly, he drags himself out of Jonny’s embrace and gets a glass out of the cupboard and fills it up in the sink and brings it to Jonny.

“I got you water,” he says.

“You did,” Jonny says, and he takes it from Patrick and drains it. When he’s finished, he sets the glass on the counter and says, “Thank you, baby,” and he looks worn out but better, and Patrick starts crying.

“Whoa,” Jonny says. “Okay—come here, Peeks, you’re okay.” He takes Patrick in his arms again. “We’re both okay, sweetheart, it’s all going to be fine.” He starts walking, moving Patrick with him, guiding him, and then he sits on the couch and pulls Patrick into his lap. Patrick has just enough presence of mind to feel around for a blanket and then drag it over them, because it’s important that Jonny be warm; and then he’s sobbing.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Jonny says, and Patrick doesn’t know how to explain, he doesn’t know how to explain that hearing Jonny call him baby was the drop that finally made him spill over. “It’s okay, Peeks, you can let it out,” Jonny says, and Patrick curls into him and hides his face in Jonny’s neck and weeps.

All those times he was told not to draw too much attention to himself, that he needed to avoid mentioning he was a sub; all the slurs he took from fans and rivals and teammates; all the shitty boyfriends and girlfriends and hookups who saw his vulnerability and took advantage of it; all the minutes and hours stretching into decades that he spent believing Jonny couldn’t love him: an entire lifetime of enduring without ever having hope of relief, and now he’s held tight and safe. He can finally show his hand. He can lay his cards out on the table for Jonny to see.

“It’s all right, sweetheart,” Jonny’s saying. “You’re okay and I’m okay, we’re both okay, and you’re so good, baby. We’re going to be fine.” He starts running a hand over Patrick’s hair, petting it, soothing him. “We’re going to be just fine,” he says. “We’re okay, baby. We’re going to be fine.”

He holds Patrick until his sobs start to falter and fade, and he keeps holding Patrick until he’s merely breathing wetly against Jonny’s neck. He holds Patrick for a long, long, long time, and when Patrick finally feels ready, he forgives himself for how his shoulders hitch when he mumbles, “I need a tissue.”

There’s a pause during which Jonny keeps stroking his hair, and then Jonny says, “Just use the blanket.”

“That’s gross.”

“I don’t want to move.”

“I don’t want you to move either,” Patrick admits, and then he smears his snotty nose against Jonny’s shirt and pulls back and blinks open his eyes. Jonny’s right there, his forehead tipped towards Patrick; his eyes are wet, too.

Patrick reaches up to touch his cheek. “Hi,” he says.

Jonny covers Patrick’s hand with his own. “Hi.”

“I’m in love with you,” Patrick says. “I’ve been in love with you for a really, really long time.”

Jonny smiles and presses a kiss to Patrick’s palm. “I know,” he says. “It just took me a really, really long time to figure it out.” And he sounds okay with it, like he doesn’t mind, like Patrick hasn’t ruined anything. No, he doesn’t sound okay; he sounds happy.

“What you said about… you know. Before we turned twenty.” Patrick swallows. “Did you mean it?”

He kisses Patrick’s palm again, and the base of his ring finger, and then he lowers their hands. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” Patrick says.

“I meant it,” Jonny says, “because I love you, too,” and there it is. That’s all there is. That’s all there needs to be. “I’ve been in love with you for so fucking long, Patrick.”

Patrick shuts his eyes and lets himself savor it. He wants to stay right here, in this feeling with this man, for the rest of his life; and now, for the first time, he lets himself believe that he can.

“Hey,” Jonny says, and nudges his nose against Patrick’s.

Patrick opens his eyes again. “We have to start talking,” he says, and Jonny starts to laugh.

“Maybe just a little,” he says, and he slouches back against the couch. One of his arms stays wrapped around Patrick, but the other hand drops to Patrick’s knee. He’s sitting sideways across Jonny’s lap, and the blanket is hopelessly tangled around them both, and Jonny looks rumpled and exhausted and happier than Patrick’s ever seen him in his life. This is past win-happy, past even Cup-happy; this is something new and permanent and transcendent. Patrick did that. He put that expression on Jonny’s face.

“Why did you safeword?” Jonny asks.

“I found your inventory,” Patrick admits. “You have so many more kinks than I do, and then you were saying all those things that weren’t true—” Jonny gives him a look. “Or I guess they were… I guess they were true.”

“They were all true, baby.”

“It was still—it was a lot,” Patrick says. “It was overwhelming, and I kept thinking about how I was fucking things up with us, how I couldn’t give you what you needed, or I guess how I could give you what you need, if you wanted to, you know, hit—spank me, or have sex with other people—”

“We’re shutting that down right now,” Jonny says. “Look at me. Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” Patrick says.

“You already give me everything I need, Peeks,” Jonny says. “We aren’t ever going to do anything you don’t like. Or anything I don’t like,” he adds. “I love everything we’ve done together, okay, sweetheart? And I can promise you, I have absolutely no interest in involving anyone else in our sex life.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being shared. With multiple partners,” Patrick corrects himself.

“No, there isn’t. Not if everyone’s open and enjoying themselves,” Jonny agrees, “but you are so fucking obviously not the kind of sub that wants multiple partners that anyone who’s known you for more than ten minutes should see it. You aren’t that kind of romantic.”

“I’m not a romantic at all,” Patrick says, and he slumps into Jonny.

“Sure, baby,” Jonny says, indulgent. “I always figured you’d fall in love with someone and then be completely devoted to them for the rest of your life. To be honest, I couldn’t figure out why it hadn’t happened yet.”

“And now you know,” Patrick mumbles.

“And now I know,” Jonny says. He kisses Patrick’s temple. “And now nobody else is ever going to touch you again except me.”

“This doesn’t feel real.”

“It will, Peeks,” Jonny says. “Give it time. We’re both worn out. We probably need to eat again.” He splays a hand on Patrick’s hip and urges him up and off, and Patrick only consents to move because Jonny very shortly follows him. He keeps his hand there, on Patrick’s waist, and they walk into the kitchen like that together. Patrick needs the support. He’s far from steady on his feet.

Once they’re there, Jonny backs Patrick up against the island counter and kisses him, and then his fingers tighten on Patrick’s hipbones; Patrick barely catches on in time to brace his hands and help as Jonny hoists him onto the countertop. He kisses Patrick again and then starts rummaging through the cabinets, leaving Patrick to wipe his face with his too-long sleeves.

“I still need a tissue,” he announces.

Jonny hands him a paper towel. Good enough, he figures, and he blows his nose and banks the crumpled paper towel into the trash can.

“I need a new shirt,” Jonny says. He puts a cutting board and knife on the counter beside Patrick and goes back to the fridge for a block of cheese, a carton of strawberries, and a container of pineapple. “You’re out of water.”

“Close the door,” Patrick says. “See that thing on the front? Use that.” Jonny rolls his eyes, but he obliges. When Patrick is satisfactorily watered, he rinses the strawberries and starts chopping. His shirt really does look gross, and he could stand to wash his face, and he’s in love with Patrick. Jonny’s in love with him. Jonny’s in love with him.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick says abruptly.

Jonny glances up. “For what?”

“I shouldn’t have lied about my safeword,” Patrick says. “I thought I could change it, which was stupid, but I… I was afraid you’d want to know why it was nineteen.”

Jonny puts down the knife. “I was planning on picking this up later, when we weren’t both ready to drop,” he says, a little wryly, “but no, you shouldn’t have. That was dangerous.”

“I know,” Patrick said. “And I know it scared you. I’m sorry.”

“You can’t do anything like that again,” Jonny says. “I’m serious.”

“I won’t,” Patrick says, and he holds Jonny’s gaze. “Jonny, I’m so sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” Jonny says, and then he pops a piece of strawberry in Patrick’s mouth before Patrick can react and smiles at the look on Patrick’s face. “You won’t do it again,” he says, “and we’re going to get a hell of a lot better at communicating.”

“Because you’re in love with me,” Patrick says, just in case Jonny’s forgotten.

He laughs. “Yeah, Peeks, I know. That’s only news to one of us.” He goes back to cutting up fruit. “I owe you an apology, too,” he says. “You tried to ask about my limits, and I avoided that conversation.”

“Why?” Patrick asks.

“Because I didn’t want to scare you off.” He offers Patrick a piece of pineapple, and Patrick leans forward and takes it delicately with his teeth. “I kept meaning to bring it up, but…”

“I should’ve pushed harder,” Patrick says, and then, “Shit, Jonny, I didn’t—I didn’t even ask about your safeword, I just assumed you used the color system—”

“Not anymore,” Jonny says, and he feeds Patrick a little cube of cheese and then eats one himself. Patrick suddenly makes the connection: he’s hand-feeding Patrick, taking care of him, soothing him while he indulges his own need to care for his sub at the same time.

“What is your safeword?” Patrick asks.

“Summer,” Jonny says, and Patrick’s eyes snap up. Jonny looks back at him with that warm, knowing gaze; this time, when he offers a piece of pineapple to Patrick, Patrick not only takes it with his teeth but laps the juice off Jonny’s fingers, too. It works. Jonny’s dark eyes go darker, and Patrick can feel himself flush. He’s too tired to do anything about it, but Jonny’s reaction is satisfying nonetheless. He wants to go to his knees for Jonny. He wants to kneel for Jonny, and he wants to stay there, but he’s so tired, exhausted in a way that’s only just beginning to settle over him fully.

Jonny feeds him another bite of cheese, and another piece of pineapple, and then Patrick takes a strawberry off the cutting board and offers it to Jonny. Jonny doesn’t hesitate; he leans forward and eats from Patrick’s hand as easily as he’d gone to his knees to undress Patrick earlier that evening. It’s the highest sign of respect, that Jonny’s willing to go against his instincts for Patrick. Patrick may belong to Jonny, may absolutely and unquestionably be Jonny’s sub, but Jonny is his dom, too.

When they finish off the food, Jonny rinses the cutting board and knife and leaves them in the sink—Patrick figures that’s an acceptable compromise—and then comes to stand in the vee of Patrick’s legs. “Shower?” he asks. “We’ll feel better in the morning.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “Please,” and Jonny wraps his arms around Patrick and lifts him down. For a moment, Patrick thinks about not letting go, about wrapping his legs around Jonny; Jonny could and would carry him to the shower, but he can’t bring himself to make that demand. Not yet, but maybe someday.

He’s dead on his feet by the time they reach the bathroom, and Jonny can’t be much better off. They strip fast, with none of the usual playfulness or intensity, but when Patrick goes to unzip his sweatshirt, he looks down and says, “Oh. I’m wearing the boyfriend hoodie.”

“The what?”

“Nothing,” Patrick says.

“Did you just call it—”

“It’s just really comfortable,” Patrick tries to explain, but Jonny’s smug satisfaction doesn’t go anywhere. He gently moves Patrick’s hands out of the way and pushes the sweatshirt back over Patrick’s shoulders; there’s a moment where his arms are trapped down by his sides, and that’s when Jonny leans over and kisses him.

He keeps Patrick tucked against his side while the water heats up, and then he draws him in and shuts the shower door behind him. Patrick’s so tired he could fall asleep right here, but he submits to letting Jonny check the faint marks on his wrists again and then to being washed. Jonny manages to wash himself, too, even though Patrick doesn’t want to let him go, and then—

They should go to bed, but Jonny pulls Patrick back against his chest and closes his hands around Patrick’s wrists, and then he folds Patrick’s arms up so they’re trapped against his front, hemmed in by Jonny’s parallel forearms, by the thick bunch of Jonny’s biceps against the outside of his own. He shudders and goes slack.

“Good, baby,” Jonny says. “You’re so good for me.”

“I want to be good for you,” Patrick admits. He’s almost too drowsy to string a sentence together. Jonny’s warm and solid against his back, holding Patrick so tightly he couldn’t escape even if he wanted, and the shower’s hot and safe and shut off from the rest of the world.

“You are good for me,” Jonny says. “You’re always good for me.”

Patrick tips his head back. This is almost better than sleeping; he’s starting to slip into that gentle drift of feeling that only ever comes over him around Jonny.

“Remember when you asked me about the last time I kneeled?” he murmurs more than says.

“I remember,” Jonny says.

“It was for you.” Patrick leans back a little further, lets Jonny take even more of his weight. “When I can’t help it anymore, I kneel by my bed and I. I think about you. Sometimes I tie my legs together,” he adds, because it seems like Jonny might like that. “I try not to do—not very often, because it always makes me feel bad, but maybe… maybe it isn’t bad?”

Jonny presses a gentle kiss to the side of his head. “No, baby,” he says. “It isn’t bad.”

“Okay,” Patrick says, reassured. “Good. I could do it again sometime for you, if you wanted,” he says. “I think… Jonny, I think I would like it a lot more if you were there.”

“You can kneel for me any time you want, sweetheart,” Jonny says. “You know why?”

Patrick has to think about it. He’s so warm, he’s all wrapped up by Jonny, but then the right answer comes to him. “Because you love me,” he says.

“That’s right, Peeks,” Jonny says. He sounds like he’s smiling. “Because I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Patrick says.

“I know you do, baby,” Jonny says, and that’s good; Jonny finally knows. Patrick can let himself melt.

10. Chapter 10

Notes for the Chapter:

WARNING: fluff.

The pressing concerns that wake Patrick up are having to piss and his existential dread. The first problem’s easy to solve; he slides out from under Jonny’s arm and takes care of business in the bathroom (Jonny has a water bottle next to his bathroom cup). He can’t do anything about the dread. Canada won fucking World Juniors, which means at some point in the next week, Patrick is going to have to publicly appear in a Team Canada jersey. He isn’t sure if Jonny’s tapped the Hawks PR team yet, but he’s sure it’s coming.

Jonny’s still out cold in the bed when Patrick gets back from the bathroom. He’s sprawled on his front, his arm outstretched in the space Patrick vacated. It hasn’t even been a week since Patrick fell apart on his kitchen floor and Jonny put him back together, but they haven’t spent a night apart since then. They should probably talk about that; Patrick doesn’t want to rush anything if it risks damaging their relationship, but he doesn’t want to be apart from Jonny, either. It’s an old, familiar feeling. Now, though, he gets to do something about it, he gets to soothe it, he gets to be with Jonny, because Jonny knows that Patrick’s in love with him, and he doesn’t mind. When Patrick thinks about it like that, it seems like the most natural thing in the world to walk to Jonny’s side of the bed and go softly to his knees.

He immediately feels stupid. He could be here for-fucking-ever; Jonny isn’t the deepest sleeper, but he isn’t a morning person, either, and the odds that he’d stir on his own this early were long. Patrick could just get up, though—nothing was making him stay here, and no one else would know that he’d tried and failed to kneel for his dom—

Except he’d know, and then he’d have to live with it. And he can wait; Patrick’s good at waiting. Unless Jonny wouldn’t want Patrick to kneel like this, without being ordered. Maybe he’d think it was laughable, or dumb, or weird and confusing. Or maybe Patrick will get cold, since Jonny’s tendency to abhor pants is apparently contagious and Patrick sleeps naked now. He should’ve stretched first, too. It’s a shit idea. It’s a shitty idea, except that Patrick likes being on his knees for Jonny, and Jonny had said Patrick could kneel for him. “You can kneel for me any time you want,” he’d told Patrick, and now Patrick wanted.

He takes a deep breath.

This is different from all those other times he’d knelt by his own bed for Jonny. No matter how hard he tried to resist—and he’d managed to hold out for months at a time, once for nearly a year—like clockwork he’d always found himself on his knees for Jonny. When he felt like he was about to crawl out of his skin, he’d permit himself to kneel even if it felt like less of an indulgence than a necessity. Sometimes he’d tie his arms together, or his wrists; sometimes he jerked off or fingered himself or both; sometimes he didn’t get off at all. The important components were being on his knees and letting Jonny fill his mind until he felt all wrapped up and contained again. The aftermath was always bad, though, even if it wasn’t bad enough to make him stop entirely; he was always so aware of using Jonny as a cheap jerk-off fantasy that he could never completely hold on to any comfort for long.

He takes another deep breath.

Jonny had said Patrick could kneel for him any time Patrick wanted, though. He’d even said all those times Patrick had knelt before weren’t bad. Jonny had said… and Patrick trusts him. So this is okay; maybe it’s even good. Maybe Jonny will wake up and see Patrick kneeling by the bed and he’ll tell Patrick that Patrick’s being good for him, and he won’t be taking pity on Patrick, he’ll just be satisfied that Patrick chose to kneel.

He stops being aware of breathing.

Jonny will wake up, and he’ll see Patrick kneeling, and he’ll be pleased that Patrick’s being so good. Yeah. That’s what’s going to happen. Patrick’s being—he doesn’t know for sure, but he thinks he’s being good, that he’s doing it right, with the tops of his feet pressed flat against the floor and his hands curled in his lap. His cock isn’t hard yet, but it’s hardening. He could hold this position for an hour or more; all those old jokes about how subs never have cold feet because their circulation below the waist is so good came about for a reason.

The important thing is that Jonny’s going to see Patrick being good. Patrick wants so badly to be good for Jonny. He wants… he doesn’t want Jonny to think he’s making a mistake by choosing Patrick. He just has to be good, and maybe Jonny will keep him—

“Peeks?” he hears, and then, “Fuck.”

He’s not sure, he hopes that’s good, that Jonny isn’t angry, but then Jonny says, “Fuck, baby. Look at you.” There’s a touch under Patrick’s chin; he lets his head be tilted up and blinks. “Did you decide to kneel for me?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “Is that—you said it was okay.”

“I did,” Jonny says. “And look at you, being so good and remembering.” He takes his hand off Patrick’s jaw long enough to push himself upright and settle his feet on either side of Patrick’s knees, and then he reaches outside of Patrick’s range of vision before sitting back on the edge of the mattress. “You’re so good, baby.”

“I want to be good,” Patrick says. He’s having so much trouble stringing words together.

“You are good, Peeks,” Jonny says, and then, “Kiss me.” He leans forward and kisses Patrick, and then he reaches down and—oh, he’d gotten the lube, he’s wrapping his big hand around Patrick’s cock to smear lube on it. Patrick’s face ends up pressed against Jonny’s shoulder as Jonny works him to full hardness; it’s all he can do not to sink his teeth into Jonny’s trapezius. The sensation is that overwhelming.

“Put your hand on your cock, baby,” Jonny says right in his ear, and Patrick obeys. His fingers tangle with Jonny’s for just a moment; when Jonny takes his hand away, Patrick’s hips surge upwards involuntarily to follow Jonny’s touch. He catches himself, settles his ass back against his feet, and gets rewarded with a soft kiss on his cheek.

“Good,” Jonny says, and then he sits back up. “Close your hand, Peeksy—there you go. No. Don’t move it.” Patrick shivers. “I want you to just sit there and hold your cock. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, Jonny,” Patrick says.

“I knew you could,” Jonny says. “When was the last time you kneeled, baby?”

Patrick’s right hand tightens around his dick; he flattens his left against his thigh in counterpoint. “I,” he says, “I, it was in your office, against the bookshelf.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” Jonny says. “I told you to get my dick wet, didn’t ?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. He really wants to move his hand.

“What was your favorite part?”

Patrick’s eyes keep trying to flutter shut, but he forces them open so he can look up at Jonny. “When you—I had your come in my eyelashes.” He means to tell Jonny that his favorite part was when Jonny pulled Patrick into his arms and told him, Baby, you’ve got my come on your face, but his cock twitches in his grip and he loses the concept.

“Yeah? You liked me coming on you?” Jonny says. “Making you mine? Except you’ve been mine all along, baby, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, Jonny,” Patrick says, but he’s wondering why, why did Jonny put lube on his cock if Patrick’s not allowed to move his hand? Is Patrick eventually going to be allowed to—?

“I waited so fucking long to see your mouth wrapped around my cock.” Patrick’s eyes drop automatically; Jonny’s cock is long and hard, flush against his belly, and as Patrick watches he tugs at his balls and then jacks his dick a couple of times with the hand he’d used to smear lube on Patrick. “Did you know that?”

“No, sir,” Patrick says.

Jonny inhales, and then he says, gently, “No, sweetheart, I know you didn’t. Your lips are so red, and I spent years trying not to think about this, think about you on your knees in front of me. But you were thinking about it too, weren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, “yeah, I thought about it a lot.” His fingers squeeze around his cock, and he fights the urge to squirm; but Jonny said he was allowed to hold his cock and nothing else, and he wants to be good for Jonny.

“Tell me what you thought about, baby.”

Patrick blinks long and slow. He has to dredge those thoughts up; he spent so long burying them, heaping whatever he could on top of them, that deliberately excavating them now past the old guilt and sickness feels like it takes a long, long time, but finally he says, “I thought about being on my knees for you.”

“I know you did,” Jonny says. “I know, Peeks. Did you think about anything else?”

Yeah. Yeah, Patrick had. “I thought about… about you tying me up and. Fucking me.”

“Did you ever finger yourself when you were on your knees?”

Had he? “Yeah,” Patrick said. “Yeah, I did, but I—I didn’t do it a lot.” He checks with Jonny, makes sure that’s okay, but Jonny’s face isn’t angry. A soft current of air moves over the tip of Patrick’s cock, and he tenses to keep himself still.

“Why not, sweetheart?”

“It made me…” Patrick tries to think. He’s just—it’s so good to be kneeling at Jonny’s feet like this that it’s hard to think about anything else. “Bad,” he says. “It made me bad.” Is that what he meant to say?”

“You weren’t bad, baby,” Jonny says gently. “You’re so good, sweetheart. And do you know how fucking hot that is? You kneeling and touching yourself for me is… it’s not bad, Peeks.” Jonny’s stroking his cock now, rubbing his thumb over the broad head, and Patrick wants to edge forward and put his mouth on it almost more than he wants to move his hand. “Did you ever do it when we were at a hotel?”

Patrick swallows. “Yeah,” he says.

“When we were rooming together?”

“I…” Patrick thinks. “No, I don’t. I didn’t.”

“When I was in the room next door?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “Yeah. One time when, it was, it was really bad—”

“What was bad, baby?”

Me, Patrick wants to say at first, but maybe that isn’t right. “We’d had, it was a bad game, I hadn’t scored in… and I was, I had that feeling.”

“Which feeling?”

“Where I can’t, I can’t sleep and I’m on edge. When it’s really bad, that’s when I… for you. And there was that door, between our rooms—”

“Keep going, sweetheart,” Jonny says.

“And I kneeled in front of it,” Patrick says, and he squeezes his eyes shut. “Because you were right on the other side.”

“Fuck,” Jonny says. “Did you touch yourself? Jerk off?”

Had he? “No, but I. I was really hard. Jonny, can I suck your cock?”

Jonny inhales again, and then he says, “Is that what you want?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “Yes, please.”

“Then yeah, baby, you can suck my cock,” Jonny says. “Don’t move your hand. You can hold your cock, but you can’t come, understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Patrick says, and Jonny answers, “Good, baby.” He widens his knees, making space for Patrick, and Patrick crawls towards Jonny’s cock. He has to—he has to think for a minute, because he has to keep one hand on his own cock, but he comes up off his heels and uses his other hand to angle Jonny’s dick so he can put his lips around it.

“There you go, sweetheart,” Jonny says. “Easy.” Patrick can’t fit it all, he can’t take very much of it, he might be able to take a little more but Jonny’s too thick. “Easy, Peeks, don’t choke yourself,” Jonny says, and Patrick pulls back to mouth at the head. He starts working Jonny’s shaft with his hand, twisting his wrist because his fingers don’t meet, lapping at the slit and exploring the retracted foreskin.

Jonny has one hand threaded through the back of Patrick’s hair. “That feels so fucking good, baby,” he’s saying. “My good little cocksucker, look how sweet you are.” Patrick closes his lips around the crown, and Jonny grunts. “I’m going to come in your mouth,” he tells Patrick, “and you’re going to swallow. Can you do that for me?”

Patrick nods as best he can, and Jonny’s breathing picks up. “Good, baby,” he says. “Tighter”—Patrick grips Jonny’s shaft a little more firmly—“there you go. Look at me, Peeks.” Patrick looks up at Jonny, up and up, meets his dark eyes, and Jonny snarls, “Patrick, fuck,” and comes in Patrick’s mouth, shaking as he tries not to drive forward and choke Patrick. He comes a lot, and some of it starts to drool down Patrick’s chin, but Patrick keeps sucking, he takes it, he takes all of it, until Jonny’s done; and then he swallows.

“Fuck,” Jonny says again. He looks dazed, his eyes foggy, but then his hand tightens in Patrick’s hair and he drags Patrick off his softening dick. “Jack yourself,” he orders Patrick, and Patrick—until that moment he’d forgotten he was still holding his cock, but his fingers are locked in place so tensely that it almost hurts to adjust his grip. He’s right on the edge and he hadn’t noticed, and he’s mid-stroke when Jonny curls over him and says, “Come.” That’s all it takes; he cries out and spills over his knuckles, and Jonny doesn’t let go of his hair until Patrick is wrung dry.

“God,” Jonny says, and then, “Come here, baby.” He helps Patrick climb back into bed, and somehow they end up under the blankets again, Patrick all wrapped up in his dom’s arms. “You can kneel for me any time you want, Peeks,” Jonny says, and Patrick’s not sure if he just means to hold Patrick until they both get up, but he drifts back to sleep almost immediately as Jonny pets his hair and neck. He’s exhausted, as much from the string of confessions Jonny drew out of him as the orgasm, but it’s a good kind of exhaustion, like he’s finally stretching a muscle that hasn’t gotten much use.

He’s not sure how long he sleeps. The lighting when he wakes up makes him think it’s about mid-morning. Jonny isn’t in the bed, and Patrick rolls over and stretches before popping up to dig out a pair of underwear and going in search of him. He makes a quick stop in the bathroom to brush his teeth and then follows the sounds of someone moving around to the front of the condo.

When he walks into the kitchen, Jonny’s refilling Aquafina bottles in the sink.

“What the fuck,” Patrick says.

Jonny just stands there like a big dark-eyed baby deer caught in Patrick’s headlights. The faucet’s still running.

“I thought you were still asleep,” Jonny says, and then, immediately, “This isn’t what it looks like.”

“I really wonder what you think it looks like,” Patrick says, and then it sinks in. “I knew it! I knew something was off, you giant tree-hugger, of course you wouldn’t use that much plastic—”

“You did not,” Jonny argues. “You didn’t know anything.”

“Nobody who buys an electric car would drink that much bottled water! I knew—wait, why are you…” He looks around; there are at least twenty empty bottles on the counter next to Jonny, and half that many full ones sitting on the other side of the sink. “Are you… have you been refilling your bottled water from the tap just to mess with me?”

Jonny starts to flush. “Maybe.”

“Why?” Patrick says. “For how long?”

Jonny mumbles something.

“What?”

Jonny clears his throat. “Nine or ten years.”

“What?”

“I just thought it was funny at first! You probably don’t remember,” Jonny says, “but you used to go around in our hotel room and consolidate all my bottles of water, and I used to take the empty ones and fill them up halfway again to mess with you. And, uh, then I started to get into the environmentalism thing, and you’d get so worked up over how much bottled water you thought I was buying. It was kind of cute.”

“So you kept doing it for ten years?” Patrick says.

“Uh,” Jonny says. “Yeah?”

“Oh my god. You’re ridiculous. You—I can’t believe it.” And then another thought occurs to him. “Oh my god,” he says again. “How many times do you reuse those?”

“I don’t know, Peeks,” Jonny says. He’s also naked, because of course he is, and looking increasingly put out that his evil scheme’s been discovered. “I don’t keep track.”

“I’m surprised the labels hold up if you’re washing them that much.” Patrick registers the guilty expression on Jonny’s face. “Oh my god,” he says, this time much more faintly. “You don’t wash them.”

“At least you bought that Brita for yourself, eh?” Jonny tries. He’s just—he’s completely ridiculous, and Patrick loves him so fucking much, and Patrick needs to tell him that, right now.

“You’re ridiculous, and I love you so fucking much,” he says, and Jonny lights up and grins.

“I love you, too,” he says. They probably stand there smiling stupidly at each other for five minutes before Jonny says, “Shit,” and turns the faucet off.

“So you’re going to—”

“Yeah, I’m throwing the water bottles out,” Jonny says. He starts emptying them into the sink, and Patrick rolls his eyes and elbows in next to him to help. They dump everything in Jonny’s recycling bin and then Patrick tips his face up for a kiss. Jonny backs him up against the counter and they end up making out almost entirely naked in the middle of the kitchen with the morning sun streaming in.

Jonny finally breaks off and bumps his forehead against Patrick’s. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” Patrick says back.

“Let’s go on a date,” Jonny says.

Patrick frowns. “I thought we were going to get dinner tonight?”

“No, I mean right now,” Jonny says. “Come on. We can skip practice, skate’s optional today.”

“You’re joking,” Patrick says.

“Not even a little.”

“What kind of example will that set for the kids?”

“I don’t care,” Jonny says. His hands are spread over Patrick’s hips, palms resting on his hipbones. “I don’t want to wait until tonight.”

“Okay,” Patrick says.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, and he goes up on his toes and gives Jonny another quick kiss. “Where are we going to go?”

“I don’t know,” Jonny says. “I’ll figure something out.”

“We could just stay here,” Patrick suggests.

“Date,” Jonny says firmly, and he kisses Patrick on the forehead. “Come on, let’s go shower. I can wash your back.”

“While you think about where we’re going?” Patrick says. “Wait—breakfast.”

They pull together a couple of poached egg power bowls and eat at the counter: Patrick at a bar stool, and Jonny standing up because he’s still naked. Patrick tries hard not to stare at how big his dick is even when he’s (mostly) soft, but he gets caught at least once. Jonny doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t have to. When they’re finished, they stumble back to the master suite, trying to walk like normal people who don’t have to stop and kiss every two feet and mostly failing. Jonny knocks his elbow against a door frame and makes the most hilarious look of disgust that Patrick can’t stop laughing, and then Jonny punishes him with more kisses. By the time they’ve made it back to the bathroom, Patrick’s lost his underwear, too.

Jonny keeps Patrick tucked against his side as he turns on the water and adjusts it, and once they’re in, he pulls Patrick against his chest and kisses his shoulder and as much of Patrick’s throat as he can reach until Patrick’s laughing again.

“You’re ridiculous,” Patrick says again. He leans back against Jonny, letting Jonny take his full weight, and Jonny supports him easily with no hint of strain.

“So are you,” Jonny says. “I don’t think you’ve stopped smiling in days, baby.” There’s a pause, and then he adds, “Except when you found out about the water bottles.”

“I can’t believe you noticed me combining them when we were kids.”

“I notice everything about you,” Jonny says. Patrick likes that, wants to sink into it, but there’s a new note of tension in Jonny’s voice when he says, “Or everything that I can.”

Patrick stacks his arms over Jonny’s where they’re wrapped around his waist. “What do you mean?” he says carefully.

“I didn’t notice how you felt,” Jonny says.

“I didn’t want you to notice,” Patrick says. “That was the whole point.”

“Not just that, though. All those years, when people were treating you like shit, even people you were together with, and you were buying into it—”

“I don’t… it wasn’t that bad,” Patrick says.

“Yeah, it was,” Jonny says. “All those years, and you were kneeling for me, you were using my number to keep yourself safe when people were hurting you… I wish I’d known.”

Patrick turns in the circle of Jonny’s arms and presses into him. “It’s not your fault, babe. You know that, right?”

“No, I know.” Patrick can hear Jonny’s smile even if he can’t see it. “But I still wish you didn’t have to go through that.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “Yeah, I was…”

“You were trying to protect yourself,” Jonny says. He starts rubbing his palm up and down Parick’s back, long strokes down the length of his spine. “It’s not your fault, either.”

Patrick’s not as sure of that as Jonny is, but he trusts Jonny enough to at least consider it. What they’re doing is—it’s so good, though; he may not have been waiting all those years, but this was still worth waiting for. The shower’s warm, and Jonny is, too. He has an arm low on Patrick’s waist to keep him close. It makes Patrick wonder if Jonny’s going to be a possessive dom.

“We could just stay in here for the rest of the day,” he says into Jonny’s shoulder.

“Don’t you want your date?” Jonny teases.

“Maybe you’re so into green living because you feel guilty about all the water your shower wastes,” Patrick says, even though he wouldn’t trade Jonny’s shower for anything. “I do want my date, though,” he admits.

“Not a bro-date?” Jonny gently tweaks his ear.

“A date-date,” Patrick says. “With sex after.”

“Anything else?” He kisses Patrick’s ear in apology, and his hand drops from Patrick’s waist to his ass.

“You,” Patrick says.

“You’ve got me, baby,” Jonny says. He cups one of Patrick’s cheeks, and then his fingers trace over Patrick’s crack and the creases between his ass and his thighs. “Spread your legs,” he says. “Good boy.” He uses his fingers to part Patrick’s cheeks and then settles the pad of one of his fingers over Patrick’s hole. Patrick loves it, loves how easily Jonny takes charge of his body.

“Are you hard?” Jonny asks.

“Mm. Not yet. Getting there.” He opens his eyes when Jonny steps away. “What…?”

Jonny laughs. “Easy, sweetheart,” he says, and then he guides Patrick over to the tile and presses him back against it. “Make two fists for me,” he says, and Patrick automatically obeys. “Good,” Jonny says. “Put them behind your back.”

Patrick has to work a little bit to figure out the right posture, but he finally lands on tucking his fists between the small of his back and the tile. It presses his shoulders back into the wall, but it isn’t uncomfortable.

“Steady?” Jonny asks.

“Yeah, Jonny.”

“Good,” Jonny says. “Keep your hands there.” And then he goes to his knees.

Patrick shudders. The last time Jonny had done this, he’d thought it a courtesy, or maybe a practicality. Now he knows exactly what it means, how much it means. Jonny’s on his knees deliberately, and while it doesn’t alter the power dynamic between them, the gesture is significant nonetheless.

Judging from the smirk on Jonny’s face, he knows it, too. He spreads his hands out over Patrick’s hips to hold him in place, and then he ducks his head and drags the flat of his tongue up Patrick’s cock and then over his abs. Patrick hears himself groan, but the important thing is that he keeps his hands behind his back.

“I love your cock, Peeks,” Jonny says, and then he blows a stream of air right over the wet head. Patrick’s on the verge of coming just from that, just from having Jonny’s mouth near his cock. It’s exquisite; when he says he hates it, what he means is he loves it. “Love how wet you get,” Jonny adds, and that’s true, Patrick’s leaking, there’s a bud of precome beading at his slit right now. Jonny kisses it away, and then he opens his mouth and swallows Patrick down.

Patrick goes blind. He almost grabs Jonny’s head out of pure reflex; only how deeply rooted his desire to obey Jonny is keeps his hands behind his back. He can’t get much traction like this to thrust, either, not with his weight balanced the way it is. All he can do is clench his fists and wait for Jonny to act. Almost better than the physical sensation is having Jonny in front of him, of having his dom in front of him, of knowing he’s Jonny’s sub. Admittedly, the hot suction around his cock is incredible, too, but nothing’s as good as having Jonny.

Jonny reaches up to start playing with his balls, strokes his thumb over the base of Patrick’s dick, and then slides a finger back to press lightly at his perineum. At the same time he drags his mouth up and lets Patrick’s cock go with a pop. “Jonny,” Patrick says, helpless, and Jonny makes eye contact to dip his head and press another wet kiss to the tip of Patrick’s cock; and then he kisses just below the frenulum, and then down the bottom of Patrick’s shaft, keeping eye contact all the while. Patrick feels owned.

“Good?” Jonny asks. Patrick nods, and Jonny laughs. “Good,” he says. He traces his finger down the path laid by his kisses and then taps the head of Patrick’s cock a couple of times, not hard, but firmly enough to be percussive. “What are you thinking about?”

Patrick has to suck in a deep breath before he’s clear-headed enough to answer; he’s not sure he’s even blinking. “Nothing,” he says.

“Nothing?” Jonny kisses the frenulum and then leaves his lips there while his tongue flicks over it. Against the underside of Patrick’s cock, he says, “Not even me?”

“I’m—I’m always—”

“Always what?” Jonny prompts.

“Always thinking about you,” Patrick manages to get out.

“Yeah? Did you ever think about me doing this?” He’s stroking so, so lightly over Patrick’s cock, and the fingers of his other hand are still touching Patrick’s perineum, edging back towards his hole. He finally settles on wrapping his hand around Patrick’s shaft and petting the underside of the head with his thumb.

“About…” Patrick forces his eyes open. “About what?”

“About me doing this,” Jonny says. “Touching you like this. Telling you how gorgeous you are. You know you’re gorgeous, don’t you, baby?”

“I, I don’t…”

“Because you are,” Jonny says. “Did you fantasize about being mine?”

“Y-yes,” Patrick says. “Yeah, I—a lot.”

“When was the first time?” His thumb keeps rubbing slow, hypnotic circles right over the most sensitive part of Patrick’s cock.

Patrick swallows. “What?”

“The first time you fantasized about me,” Jonny says.

“I don’t…”

“You don’t remember?” Jonny asks. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “Yeah, I just, I’ve always…”

“Always?”

“I don’t know who I am without it,” Patrick gets out. It’s the most coherent thought he can manage. That want is so deeply entwined with who he is that he can’t tease out its beginning. It started a lifetime ago. “Jonny, please…”

“Please what?” Jonny prompts.

“Please,” Patrick says. Jonny’s thumb presses harder and he gasps. “Please let me come.”

“Can’t you come without permission?” Jonny asks. One of his fingers tugs at Patrick’s rim.

“No,” Patrick says.

“No? Why not?”

“I can’t, Jonny—you have to, you have to tell me.”

“I have to tell you to come?” Jonny says. “Why?”

“Because I, I’m…” Patrick doesn’t know. He’s still keeping his hands behind his back. “Because you’re in charge of that.”

“I’m in charge of when you come?”

Patrick opens his mouth and heaves. The warm steam of the shower fills his mouth, his throat, opens him up a little the way he wishes Jonny would open him up. “Yeah,” he says.

“Why should I let you come?” Jonny asks.

“Because…” Patrick says, and he comes up blank. Why should Jonny let him come? “Because… I don’t—Jonny, I don’t know.”

“Maybe I should let you come,” Jonny says gently, “because you’re my sub.”

Patrick lets out a sound that’s perilously close to a sob.

“Isn’t that right, baby?”

“I…”

“Say it for me, sweetheart,” Jonny says. “Tell me why I should let you come.”

Patrick can’t get it out. Jonny’s grip loosens around his cock, but even that doesn’t help him think. It’s just that he’s spent so long telling himself that wasn’t true, that he shouldn’t even think it, that he wasn’t Jonny’s and he never would be, and the conditioning runs so deep that saying it out loud would be breaking a taboo.

“You can do it,” Jonny says, almost like he understands. “You’re so good, Peeks, I know you can do it.”

Okay. If Jonny thinks he can do it, Patrick can do it.

“Why should I let you come, baby?” Jonny prompts.

“Because…” Patrick’s gasping. “Because I—because I’m your sub.”

“Good job, sweetheart,” Jonny says, and then he ducks his head and seals his mouth around the head of Patrick’s cock and his own thumb.

Patrick shouts. He’s not sure if he’s saying a word or Jonny’s name or just crying out, but his head thumps back against the shower wall and his vision goes white again when Jonny’s thumb presses in. He’s good, though; his hands stay behind his back. He’s already on the verge of coming. He’s about to come. Jonny’s mouth is so warm and so wet and his thumb’s just in the right spot and his dark head is bent so Patrick can see his cowlick and—

Jonny pulls off. He mouth goes away and his hand goes away, and Patrick feels a spike of anxiety cut through the pressure building behind his eyes, the oh-shit realization that Jonny’s going to let his orgasm be ruined—

Except Jonny looks up at him and snaps out, “Patrick. Come,” and the pressure blows him open. He’s never had this sensation before, the sensation of coming without being touched or even touching himself, but it isn’t ruined, it’s like there’s a string that runs straight up Patrick’s spine to Jonny’s hand. He shakes apart in a white blast, and if Jonny weren’t there to catch him when his knees give out, he’d be flat on the ground.

“Whoa,” Jonny says. He stands up and gets an arm around Patrick just in time. “There we go. I’ve got you, Peeks, you’re okay. You can move your hands.” He gathers Patrick against his side and holds him while the aftershocks roll through him, and when they’ve ceased, he takes one of Patrick’s hands and tangles it with his own and wraps them around his cock.

“You’re going to help get me off, baby, okay?” Jonny says. “Little bit harder—good. Just like that.” He works their joined hands up and down over his dick. Patrick tucks his face into Jonny’s shoulder and breathes. After a moment he can’t help it any more, and he turns his head so he can watch their hands work over Jonny’s cock. It’s stupidly hot, seeing his own big hand held in place by Jonny’s bigger hand as they jerk Jonny off together. He leans up and kisses Jonny on the cheek, and Jonny turns and kisses him on the lips, and that’s how Jonny comes—groaning into Patrick’s mouth as together they stroke him through his orgasm.

Afterwards they clean each other up, dry off, and then shave side-by-side, bumping shoulders even though the vanity’s a literal slab. Patrick briefly thinks about crawling back into bed—a day spent napping between rounds of sex sounds pretty damn incredible—but if they’re skipping skate (and apparently working out), he does want his date.

“Figure out where we’re going yet?”

“Yep,” Jonny says.

“Going to tell me?”

“Nope,” Jonny says. “But bring snow boots.”

Okay. Patrick can do that. He leaves Jonny in the bathroom and steps into the closet to consider his options. His boots are in the hall closet, and he can bring a regular pair of shoes; what he was planning on wearing to Thatcher’s for dinner should be fine for walking in the snow, provided Jonny has something like the Riverwalk in mind and not a state park. Presumably Jonny knows him better than that, though.

The thing is—

He unzips his suit bag. He has a shirt and slacks, both perfectly acceptable for the day they have planned, but he’d brought along something else, too: a corset vest. It was the kind of fashion statement that would mark him as a sub more obviously than anything but a collar. He’d bought it several years ago and hadn’t ever been able to bring himself to wear it, although he’d had it custom-fit. The main body was a pale platinum gray, ribbed and trimmed in black, with a black column of lacing that ran the length of his spine. From the front, it could pass for a regular vest, but from the back, there could be no doubt that a sub was wearing it.

The thing is—

Patrick’s spent his entire career avoiding the topic of his dynamic. He’s worked hard to appear as neutral as possible, which means never, not ever, going in public in a piece of clothing like this one. What he can’t stop thinking about, though, is how Jonny might react when he saw Patrick, how the vest would emphasize the breadth of his shoulders and his nipped-in waist, how the lacing up the back said everything that needed to be said.

He ends up taking the coward’s route. He leaves the vest in his bag until the very end, and then when Jonny’s sidetracked, he puts it on, slips out of the bedroom, and shrugs into his winter wool coat before Jonny sees him. It works, too, although when he opens the coat closet, he sees two different Team Canada jerseys hanging there and groans. They’re right there in front of him as he buttons his coat up and checks to make sure nothing telling is visible. If he loses his nerve, he can always go to a bathroom, take the vest off, and shove it into a trashcan with Jonny none the wiser.

Jonny comes out a minute later, and he looks between Patrick and the closet and grins. “Pick which one you like best?” he says. “I thought I’d give you a choice.” One’s the black on red Olympics jersey from 2014, and the other’s the red World Cup jersey from 2016 with the weird-ass sleeves. Patrick hates them both.

“I hate them both,” he says. “I still can’t believe you won.”

“Aw, Peeks, but red’s your color,” Jonny says. He holds open the bag he has slung over one shoulder; he’d dumped his own shoes inside already. Patrick gives him a suspicious look.

Jonny rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to scuff your thousand-dollar shoes.”

“I like these,” Patrick says, and he picks them up off the ground.

“What’s so great about them?”

“They’re Tom Ford,” Patrick says. “And they have a stacked heel.”

“I don’t understand how you’re so okay with being short and yet you buy shoes that you think are going to make you taller.”

Patrick’s only considered small in the hockey world, but he gets what Jonny’s going for. “Maybe I just like how they make my ass look,” he jokes.

“Best argument I’ve heard,” Jonny says. “I can go find a towel—”

“Yeah, no,” Patrick says. “It’s fine, I’ll just carry them.”

Jonny shrugs and slings his bag back over his shoulder. It almost hits him in the head when he bends over to tie his boots, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Patrick adjusts his scarf, and off they go.

Patrick heads straight for his car, and Jonny follows along without a hint of hesitation. They deposit (or, if you’re Jonny, dump) their shoes in the back, and then Patrick swings himself up into the driver’s seat, fires up the engine, and says, “Where to?”

“It’s a surprise,” Jonny says.

“It’s not going to be a surprise for long if I’m driving.”

“I’ll give you directions, Peeks,” he says. “Just go.”

So Patrick just goes. Jonny doesn’t even let him listen to the GPS, just reads directions off the screen he carefully tilts away from Patrick even though Patrick’s driving. And it doesn’t matter: after they go through the usual hassle of parking and then the usual quibble about why they didn’t “just take Uber,” Patrick doesn’t recognize where they are anyway.

He squints up at the sign over the restaurant’s door. “Boardwalk?”

“Come on, you’ll like it,” Jonny says, and he opens the door for Patrick and ushers him inside with a hand on the small of his back. Patrick wonders if he can feel the lacing through Patrick’s coat. Probably not. If he felt anything, he’d probably just assume Patrick’s shirt was bunching oddly.

He gets it as soon as they’re inside. “Jonny,” he says, “did you take me to a board game restaurant?”

“Good?” Jonny says.

Patrick fights a completely stupid grin and loses. “This is so corny.”

“It’s our first date,” Jonny says. “First date that you know is a date,” he revises. “Figured we should do something corny.”

“Not bowling?” Patrick teases, but Jonny’s right, he likes this—likes that they’ll get to just sit around and talk and be competitive, but not distractingly competitive like they’d be if Jonny had picked minigolf or table tennis.

The restaurant actually looks more like a tavern. It isn’t crowded, and the floor is big enough and has enough nooks that when the waitress tells them to seat themselves, they end up in a back corner with no other people in earshot. There’s a low soundtrack of soft rock and enough chatter to cover their conversation, too, and they’re close to a fireplace. Patrick’s grateful, even if Jonny’s going to be sweating through his shirt within the first ten minutes. He goes to take off his coat and then freezes, because—

“Here, let me,” Jonny says, and he steps up behind Patrick to help him, but Patrick’s paralyzed. This is it: he could claim he’s cold, he could tell Jonny he’s got it, he could bolt right now for the bathroom, he could…

“Peeks?” Jonny says.

Patrick takes a deep breath, and he lets his coat fall past his shoulders.

For one infinite moment Jonny doesn’t react. Does he not—maybe he doesn’t notice. Or maybe he doesn’t care, doesn’t like that Patrick’s advertising himself, that he’s being so obvious, so fucking blatant about being a sub, and Patrick can’t blame him, it was never a good idea—

And then Jonny makes a dark, rough sound and says, “Christ.”

Patrick starts breathing. That isn’t right; he’s heaving and nervy like a thoroughbred at the end of a race. When Jonny touches the nape of his neck, it’s like he’s been struck by lightning. Jonny angles himself so his body’s between Patrick and the rest of the room and drags his finger down the lacing shielding Patrick’s spine, and it’s all Patrick can do not to bolt. That’s how good it feels: so good it’s unbearable.

When Jonny reaches the top of Patrick’s coat, he takes it and guides it the rest of the way off Patrick’s body. His hands lift away and come back a moment later; they settle on Patrick’s ribcage and then slowly they glide down Patrick’s flanks to his hips. When Patrick looks down, he can see Jonny’s fingers spread possessively on his waist.

“I’m going to fold you over a table and fuck you in this,” Jonny says, and Patrick’s head snaps up. “Not here, because nobody but me gets to see you getting fucked, but someday.” The lacing’s tight, but Jonny still manages to work a finger beneath the cord. He tugs, and Patrick’s entire body goes lurching towards him. Patrick gasps.

And then Jonny breaks the tension of the moment by dropping a short kiss to the back of Patrick’s neck and stepping away. He takes Patrick’s coat with him, folds it in half, and lays it on the chair beside him. Patrick swallows, exhales shakily, and takes a seat. God damn.

When Jonny sits down across from him, he has the most predatory and most pleased expression on his face Patrick’s ever seen. Sometimes it’s hard to believe he’s the same man who kept a dumb joke about water bottles running for ten years for his own amusement, but then again, maybe not. Patrick loves both side of him, the side that laughs and plays with him in bed and the side that ties him down and demands he voice all his desires. He loves all sides of Jonny.

“When did you get that?” Jonny asks. He’s staring at Patrick’s torso, and then his gaze slowly drags up to Patrick’s shoulders. The vest fastens down his front, and it’s close-fitting enough that he has to wear a close-fitting dress shirt under it, too, just to avoid bunching, but it’s not uncomfortable.

“A couple of years ago,” he says. Is that him? He clears his throat and tries again. “I haven’t—I’ve never worn it before. I wasn’t sure if I was going to today, but I thought…” He lifts a shoulder, trying for nonchalant and only achieving shy. “I thought you might like it.”

“Yes,” Jonny says. “I like it.”

“Oh,” Patrick says. “Good.” Fuck, he should’ve gone with something smooth like, Yeah? I could tell. He’s probably more comfortable around Jonny than anyone else in the world, but he’s never been able to shake the urge to impress him.

Jonny catches his eye and holds it for one long, charged minute, and then he grins. Patrick grins back automatically and then ducks his head and laughs. They’re on a date. He still can’t believe they’re on a date.

“What do you want to play?” Jonny asks. The corner they’re in is lined with shelves that are packed with games. Patrick twists around to look behind his back; he recognizes exactly none of the boxes except Parcheesi and Cards Against Humanity.

“Where’s Monopoly?” Patrick jokes. “I don’t know any of these.”

Jonny scans the shelves. “Do you want to learn something new?”

“Not really,” Patrick says.

“Me either.”

“Chess?”

“Are you kidding?” Jonny says. “I’m not playing chess against you.”

“We’ve literally never played chess,” Patrick says.

“I’ve seen how you skate, babe,” Jonny argues. “I’m not playing chess against you.”

“I don’t even remember all of the rules!”

“We’re playing checkers,” Jonny says firmly, and he reaches over and snags a box from a lower shelf.

Jonny’s vastly overestimating Patrick’s ability, but Patrick’s willing to go along with it, especially because he actually remembers how to play checkers and therefore has a way better chance of beating Jonny. He helps Jonny open the box and sort through the pieces, and then they have a brief disagreement about who gets to play which color, a problem Patrick solves by flipping a coin.

“I start,” he says.

“Fine,” Jonny says, “but I’m going to win the coin flip next time—”

“You can’t know that,” Patrick counters. “Also, everyone knows the winner gets to decide if they want to go first for the next game.”

“No, everyone knows that the loser gets to go first.”

“Then I guess the coin flip doesn’t matter, since you’ll get to go first next game anyway.” He smirks at Jonny, who’s starting to look genuinely worked up at the idea that he might lose a children’s game they haven’t even started playing yet. What an idiot Patrick’s chosen to love.

A server brings them water while Jonny’s glaring holes in the board and considering his second move (this game’s going to take forever) and then, three turns later, a different server turns up with menus. He highlights a couple of the menu items, but Jonny’s lost in his own little world, and Patrick doubts he hears any of it. He thanks the server, whose wrists and forearms display visible rope marks and who does a shitty job hiding the once-over he gives Jonny before departing.

“It’s not rocket science,” Patrick says pointedly. “Just make a move.”

“Fine,” Jonny says, and he jumps two of Patrick’s men. That backfired. Jonny makes up for it, though, by stretching his legs out so his feet bracket Patrick’s. It’s the kind of casually possessive gesture that Patrick spent years telling himself was too cheesy for him. It isn’t. He wants it. He likes it. If he thought he could get away with it, he’d be sitting in the chair next to Jonny, pressed up against his side.

It also helps that Patrick’s backed Jonny into a corner. Jonny doesn’t realize until he goes to move, but instead of scowling, he starts to laugh.

“What?” Patrick says.

“No matter how much I keep my eyes on you, you still manage to come out of nowhere,” Jonny says. He bumps his knee against Patrick’s, and Patrick feels his face start to burn. He ducks his head to hide the flush, but he can’t hide the smile that steals across his face at Jonny’s attention.

“You should figure out what you want to eat,” he says, because he’s not sure how to respond. Jonny gets it, though; he just bumps Patrick’s knee again and finally picks up a menu.

“They have house-made gluten-free buns,” Patrick points out.

“They also have American cheese,” Jonny says, because he never passes up an opportunity to drag Patrick for liking Kraft singles, which Jonny says aren’t a real cheese.

“Come on, be nice to me,” Patrick says. “It’s my…” He glances around and drops his voice. “You know. My date-date.”

“Your date-date?” Jonny says, and he grins at Patrick, who grins back. It’s all they’re good for these days. “Aw, Peeks, don’t pout, I’m just kidding.”

“I’m not pouting,” Patrick says, playing it up even though he isn’t keeping a straight face at all.

“I don’t mind if—” Jonny starts to say, and that’s when the server comes back.

“Hi there,” he says. He’s talking to Jonny. “You looked pretty absorbed before, my name’s Corey.” To his credit, he turns to Patrick when he says, “Have you had a chance to look over the menu?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. He looks at Jonny.

“Are your fries dusted with flour?” Jonny asks.

“No, they are not,” says Corey. “And we use a separate oil to fry them.”

“Ahh, you guys know your stuff,” Jonny drawls. “I’ll have a side of those with the burger. Gluten-free bun, no pickles.”

“We can take care of that,” the server says, and then he winks. “And for you?” he asks Patrick, and Patrick—

Patrick is jealous.

It isn’t the server’s fault. He doesn’t know that Jonny and Patrick are together; he’s just being flirty with a cute dom. Patrick’s jealous anyway. Corey has tawny hair and blue eyes and the kind of lean, toned body that looks like it comes from rock climbing, and Patrick has—what? A history of shitty relationships and an inability to fall into subspace?

“I’ll have a house salad and an order of the buffalo wings,” he says, and then immediately regrets it. Fuck. He’s going to make a mess of himself, what kind of moron orders wings on a first date, he used to know a dom who’d take away his subs’ chairs in the middle of dinner if they spilled anything on themselves.

“With blue cheese and celery on the side, right?” Jonny asks.

“Yeah—yes, please,” he tells Corey.

“Great,” Corey says. “Would you like that immediately? I can hold the order for a bit if you aren’t hungry yet.”

Patrick looks at Jonny. “Sure,” Jonny says. “Gives us a chance to finish this game.”

“Sounds excellent, I’ll be back to check on you guys in a little bit. Feel free to wave me over if you need anything before then.”

“Thanks,” Jonny says. He’s looking at Patrick as he hands his menu over, but Patrick doesn’t think he’s noticed anything. Patrick sure as hell hopes he hasn’t noticed anything. He spent so long rejecting that feeling because he didn’t have any grounds to be jealous, and now it’s even an uglier fucking thought: if insecurity is what he’s bringing to the table in this relationship, he’s not sure he deserves to be in a relationship with Jonny.

“Come on, man, it’s your turn,” Patrick says. He catches his tongue between his teeth when he grins. “Unless you’re already giving up?”

He glances at Jonny. Jonny’s studying him. He looks perplexed, and… and faintly sad.

“The other night,” he says, “what did you mean when you said I should ask the sub at the juice bar out?”

“What?” Patrick says, thrown.

“When you dropped,” Jonny says. “After you came out of it, you told me we shouldn’t sleep together any more, and you said I should ask the sub at the juice bar out.”

“I don’t… I don’t remember. Saying that, I mean, obviously I remember the sub at the juice place.”

“Which sub?”

“The woman? She had long hair and a nametag. You were talking to her before you ordered,” Patrick says.

“Why would I ask her out?”

“It’s nothing, Jonny, just a dumb thought.”

“Patrick,” Jonny says. “Please.”

And—and, fuck, Patrick knows he’s right. They’ve had multiple conversations over the past couple of days about how much they need to start talking, but this is so unbecoming. He doesn’t want Jonny to see this side of him.

“I just thought… she was pretty,” Patrick says. “And she was obviously interested in you, you know how some subs are just really expressive with how they stand and move, and you haven’t dated anyone seriously for a while. It would’ve been a cute way to meet, I guess.”

“You didn’t just notice she was interested in me,” Jonny says slowly. “You thought I might actually ask her out then and there.”

Patrick shrugs, like it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. “I wouldn’t have blamed you,” he says, off-handed, taking care not to fidget or chew his lip.

“You—Patrick, I was there with you,” Jonny says. “And just now with the server—you noticed him flirting, and it bothered you.”

“…You could tell.” Fuck.

“Yeah, baby. Now that I know what I’m looking for, I can tell. But you don’t have to hide if it bothers you. You’re allowed to be upset.”

“It’s not—Jonny, the last thing you need is me being an insecure little… you know.” Brat, Patrick doesn’t say.

“No,” Jonny says, “I don’t know. You’ve had a lot of bad experiences, and you’re uncertain about a new relationship. Look at me, Peeks,” he says, and Patrick obeys. “There’s zero chance I would’ve asked her out. Or the guy here. Or anyone. I’m not another fucking Matt.”

God, he thinks Patrick’s worried that Jonny’s going to cheat on him. “I know you wouldn’t,” Patrick says. “It never crossed my mind that you would.”

Jonny leans forward; Patrick almost expects him to reach across the table. “Then what is it?”

“It’s going to make me sound so fucking needy,” Patrick says. “Ugh. This isn’t a good date conversation.” He sucks in a deep breath and blows it out. “Look, Jonny, I’m just… I don’t bring much to the table in this relationship, okay? And seeing other subs with you makes me think about how you have so many options.”

“You think,” Jonny says, “that you don’t bring much to the table.”

“I spend so much time trying not to act like a sub that I know it—” Patrick glances down. “Affects me,” he says. “And I’m not that great in. Uh. You know.”

“Great in…” Jonny says, and then it hits him. “Bed.”

“Yeah.” Patrick edges one of the checkers into alignment with his thumbnail.

Jonny drags a hand over his face. He looks like he doesn’t know what to say; Patrick knows the feeling. Jonny’s shirt is unbuttoned two more buttons than Patrick’s, but they both have their sleeves rolled back, and when Jonny covers his mouth and chin with his fingers as he thinks Patrick can’t help but look at his forearms. He’s surrounded by men with hot arms all day, he’s got hot arms himself, but he still wants to stare at the thick muscle and cording set off by Jonny’s pushed-back cuffs.

“You break my heart sometimes,” Jonny says, and Patrick feels worry crawl over him at the prospect of having hurt Jonny. “The things you say about yourself… you’re so damn confident as a hockey player, and when you’re just hanging out with the boys. I knew being a sub was hard on you, but I’m not sure I realized how deep it went until I watched you shut down in your kitchen when you told me you could be professional. You turned it off like a switch. And I understand that’s a survival skill with how fucking backwards the league is, but I hate that you have to do that, and I hate even more that you used it to hide how you feel about me.”

“I’m sorry,” Patrick says.

“You don’t have to apologize, baby,” Jonny says. “I don’t want you to apologize. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to do it in your personal life. In our personal life,” he corrects. “And not only because it’s hard on you, but because it’s hard for me to watch, too.”

“I… yeah, I get that,” Patrick says. “It’s habit, though, you know? I can try to catch myself, but god, Jonny, I spent so long training myself not to express it, and it’s even harder when I’m being jealous or some dumb shit like that. You shouldn’t have to reassure me all the time just because I’m needy.”

Jonny’s eyes sharpen. “Have you been told you’re needy before?”

“Yeah, but that’s just how I—oh.” He sits with the idea for a moment: that he isn’t needy, that it’s just one more message that someone else seeded inside of him and let grow.

“Yeah,” Jonny says. “I haven’t seen anything that makes me think you’re overly needy. If anything, Peeks, you force yourself to be the opposite. It’s okay to need things, even if what you need is reassurance. You don’t take that jealousy or insecurity out on me or other people.” He grins at Patrick. “And if you want to be a little possessive of me, I don’t mind.”

That’s a thought to explore later, that Jonny is his dom. “You’re good at that,” Patrick says. “Asking for what you need, or—being clear, I guess is what I mean, without being pushy.”

“Yeah, I am,” Jonny says, and then he laughs a little at himself. “And I probably look even better in comparison to what you’re used to. It’s a balancing act, though, and I’m going to fuck up, too. We just have to figure it out together.” He narrows his eyes at Patrick’s smile. “What?”

“You’re captaining our relationship.”

“I am not,” he protests, although he immediately looks ready to eat his words.

“You are, babe,” Patrick says, “and I like it.”

“Oh. Good,” Jonny says.

If they weren’t in public, Patrick would take his hand (or, more likely, wrap himself around Jonny). It’s a tall order, building a relationship like that; they have a solid foundation, and they know each other well, but they’re going to have to relearn each other in this new context, and Patrick’s going to have to relearn himself. Patrick wants it, though. He wants on a cosmic scale.

“I can do that,” he says. “We can do that.”

“Yeah? I think so too, baby,” Jonny says, and then they spend the obligatory five minutes staring deeply into each other’s eyes and grinning. Maybe learning how to express what he feels will be easier than Patrick thought.

Eventually his stomach rumbles, though, and Jonny says, “I’m hungry.”

“Yeah, maybe it’s time to—” Patrick says. The server isn’t around (thank god, that conversation was not one they needed anyone to overhear), but he pops his head around the corner a couple of minutes later, and Patrick tells him to put in their order. They finish their game (Patrick wins) and play another (Jonny, but barely) while they wait for their food, and then they eat while Patrick uses the game pieces to illustrate a half-ice drill he thought up yesterday that Jonny agrees would be good for working on lane control. Jonny doesn’t seem to mind that Patrick gets buffalo sauce all over his fingers and chin; he just keeps passing Patrick napkins without breaking the conversation.

After they’ve finished and paid, Jonny runs a finger up the lacing over Patrick’s spine and then helps him into his coat. Jonny had said he didn’t mind Patrick being possessive; Patrick knows for a fact that the reverse is true. He likes that they have a claim on each other.

“Where to next?” he asks.

“It’s a—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s a surprise.” He smirks over his shoulder at Jonny. “You did manage to keep this mystery, though, and it was just the right amount of cheesy. A-plus.”

“Are you grading me?”

“I’m definitely grading you,” Patrick says, which starts a debate that lasts all the way to the car and the drive to their next destination, which Patrick figures out almost immediately. Jonny wants to know when the grading period started—this morning—and how he’s doing so far—straight A’s—and if Patrick’s grading on a curve—which earns him some light chirping about being a college boy. Patrick won’t be surprised if Jonny goes back to school when he retires, though, even if he takes a couple of years to devote himself to his charity projects first. Or maybe he’ll coach; he’d be incredible at it.

Jonny doesn’t bother giving him directions until they’re actually inside Lincoln Park, where he steers Patrick towards the Belmont Harbor South lot. Patrick upgrades to a heavier hat and gloves while Jonny pays for parking. It’s only a little below freezing, and the snow is deep enough to be pretty but not deep enough to obscure the walking paths. Patrick will grudgingly admit that if there was ever a day for a winter walk, this is it; he can’t even complain about the cold, not when he knows Jonny will warm him up later.

“Ready?” Jonny says, and Patrick shoves his hands in his coat pockets and says, “Ready.” He almost expects Jonny to reach for his hand, but then he remembers—they’re in public.

“Figured I’d get you ready for your big photoshoot,” Jonny teases. “If you’re going to be a member of Team Canada, you’ve gotta get used to the cold.”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “New York isn’t exactly Florida,” he says. His breath forms a little cloud in front of him as he talks. “When am I supposed to put on your abomination of a jersey, anyway?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Jonny says cheerfully. “Maybe I’ll have you wear it to a Bulls game, eh?”

“Don’t you dare. I’ll put it on long enough for a picture, but I’m not going to wear it in public.”

“Might as well get used to it, baby,” Jonny says. “You’ll be an honorary Canadian when we get married.”

Patrick trips on nothing. Jonny hauls him upright before Patrick really wipes out on the packed snow, but he’s not any better off himself. The general feeling is one of Oh shit…?

Except for shock at what just came out of his mouth, Patrick can’t read anything other than determined sincerity on Jonny’s face. The fine lines around his eyes and mouth are just starting to deepen; he’s more devastatingly attractive every year, which is just one more way he’s a perfect jackass.

Patrick reminds himself that he has a spine and screws up his courage. “You said that if you’d known how I feel, you would’ve.” He swallows. “You would’ve married me before we turned twenty.”

Jonny searches his face. “I did,” he says. “When we talked about it the other night, I told you I meant it. I still mean it.”

“Yes,” Patrick says.

“Yes?” Jonny says blankly, and then he gets it, and he face cracks into joy. “Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Fuckin’ right,” Jonny says. “Wait—you know that wasn’t me proposing, right?”

“Uh, okay. What would you call it, then?”

“A—”

Patrick grins. “If you say preposal, I might change my answer.”

“Information gathering,” Jonny says. “That was just… information gathering.”

“A scouting report,” Patrick suggests.

“Recon,” Jonny agrees. He’s drifting closer. “I really want to kiss you right now,” he says, and between the shelter of their bodies, he slides his hand down Patrick’s arm and closes it around his wrist like a chain.

Patrick shudders. “Yeah,” he says, helpless. He’d like to be kissed. He’d like to be alone with Jonny. If Jonny told him to go to his knees in the snow right now, he’d do it.

“Later,” Jonny promises, and he steps away to a slightly less intimate distance. “It won’t automatically make you a Canadian citizen, though.”

“…What?”

“Marrying me,” Jonny says. “It won’t automatically make you a Canadian citizen, you still have to apply.”

That prospect snaps Patrick back to himself. He ducks his head and laughs. “Of course you’d know that,” he says. “Would it make you an American citizen?”

“No, but you could sponsor me for a green card if I didn’t have one already.” Jonny starts walking. “If you wanted to work out some kind of mutual citizenship agreement, though…”

“I don’t know, Jonny, that seems like a pretty big commitment. Let’s start small, see how the marriage goes.” He bumps Jonny’s shoulder, and Jonny gently bumps him back. “Last week you didn’t even know I was in love with you.”

“I knew,” Jonny says. “I just hadn’t decided what to do about it yet.”

Patrick looks up at him. “When did you figure it out? How did you figure it out?”

“The way you reacted to me,” Jonny says. He squints up at the sky and back down at the path. Patrick’s not sure he’s seen anyone else who wears a coat half as well as Jonny. “You were so focused on everything I did, but what really made me wonder was the roleplaying, and what you said after that in the hotel room.”

Patrick can feel himself flush even though his cheeks are already burning from the cold. “Was it that obvious?”

“It was pretty obvious, Peeks,” Jonny says. “You kept telling me how much you wanted me, how much I made you want to go to your knees, and the look on your face… yeah, baby, it was obvious.”

“I wanted you to feel better,” Patrick says.

Jonny smirks. “It worked.” He reaches over and tucks a piece of hair that escaped Patrick’s beanie behind his ear. “I didn’t know for sure until you fell apart when I called you Mrs. Toews, though.”

Patrick’s flush overtakes his face, and he looks away. The driving range is still crowded, even though it’s the middle of a weekday and cold, although they do have heated stalls.

“Hey, Patrick, no,” Jonny says. “You don’t have to be embarrassed. It was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

Patrick glances at him and then drops his gaze again, but he leans towards Jonny.

“And that was when I knew you were mine,” Jonny finishes. “I didn’t know the details, like how long, but the way you respond to me… that’s why I like humiliation.”

Patrick jolts. “Do you,” he says, “do you want…”

“What?” Jonny says. “No. No, baby, I meant that I’ve liked humiliating subs who enjoy it in the past because it makes them more responsive. Desperate for my attention.” His eyes cut over to Patrick. “There’s no way you could be more locked on to me than you already are. There are times I’ve thought that I could make you come just by breathing on you.”

“You… yeah. You could,” Patrick manages.

“We’ll try that sometime,” Jonny says. They pass a couple of kids trying to scrape together enough snow for a snowman, and then he says, “You’re so sensitive to me, Peeks. From a dom’s perspective, that’s as sexy as it gets.”

“So you don’t… you don’t want…”

“No,” Jonny says, “I don’t. We should probably talk about that some more, too. You finding my kink inventory,” he adds at Patrick’s inquisitive look.

“I didn’t mean to,” Patrick says. “I saw it when I was trying to find your tablet, and I didn’t think you’d mind me reading it.”

“I don’t. I wish I’d discussed it with you, but I don’t mind that you read it, just that you found it like that and that it made you upset.”

“Jonny, you like so much more than I do,” Patrick says. “And I kept thinking about all that stuff I told you before, about how I needed to stop pretending you were my boyfriend, or how maybe… I kept wishing you’d call me a brat, or slap me, or…” Just thinking about it makes him ache. “Or maybe I could be in the room while you—while you had sex with another sub if you let me kneel by the bed so I didn’t have to watch, but then I’d still have to listen to you call someone else ‘baby’—”

“No,” Jonny says. He stops, and he makes Patrick turn to look at him. “Peeks—Jesus, no. I would never do that to you.”

Patrick shuts his eyes. “Okay,” he says. He can believe that, even if he also believes he’s forcing Jonny to give something up; but as always, Jonny knows him.

“It isn’t a sacrifice,” he says, so firm Patrick cracks his eyes open. “I like casual group sex, yeah, but not in serious relationships.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t share,” Jonny says. “And that’s twice as true with you. Ten times as true with you. I don’t want anyone else, and I’m not letting anyone else close to you.”

Patrick studies his face; he looks… fierce, almost dangerous. His cheeks and the tip of his nose are pink from the cold, but his coat isn’t buttoned, and he hadn’t bothered with a hat. He runs hot; Patrick’s always known that.

“…You really mean that,” Patrick says. “Not just that you’re okay with it, but that you don’t want to involve other people.”

“Understatement.”

Patrick’s throat feels raw. “You want… you want me all to yourself.”

“There you go, baby,” Jonny says. Patrick’s still having trouble wrapping his brain around you want me. This morning he wondered if Jonny was going to be a possessive dom. He never expected such a blatant answer, but then he remembers their roleplay, remembers Jonny saying, “You’re mine.” Maybe he isn’t surprised that Jonny’s possessive, just surprised that Jonny’s so possessive of Patrick himself.

He’s glad they’re walking; it makes a hard conversation easier, and he functions better when he’s moving. Jonny gives him a couple of minutes to process. He seems content to look out over the lake and watch the cyclists zipping past. Eventually, he shifts, or—Patrick’s not sure how he knows, but he can tell Jonny’s ready to say something.

He brushes against Jonny’s shoulder. “Hey,” he says. “What is it?”

“One more thing,” Jonny says. “Remember our first time?”

Patrick’s not likely to forget coming in Jonny’s lap from being kissed. He coughs. “Uh, yeah.”

“Do you remember why my first rule for my subs is?”

“Communicate,” Patrick says. “Safeword.”

“Do you feel comfortable safewording with me?”

“What?” Patrick says. “Yes, absolutely, why would…” He glances at Jonny. “I safeword when I need to, Jonny, and yeah, I hate that I’ve safeworded as often as I have, but I’m not going to put myself through something I can’t handle. And I trust you.”

“You know I wouldn’t think any less of you, right?” Jonny says. “You could safeword in the middle of the most vanilla sex ever and it wouldn’t change anything.”

“I do,” Patrick reassures him.

“Good,” Jonny says. He takes a deep breath. “Have you felt pressured to try anything with me? Anything that makes you uncomfortable?”

Patrick doesn’t understand. “What do you mean?”

“I mean anything,” Jonny says. His jaw is clenched tight enough that Patrick can see the muscles jump. “But I was thinking in particular of your lingerie.”

That’s when it clicks for Patrick. He thinks of Jonny saying, “Jesus, Patrick, you were coerced,” with his tone layered with shock and anger and sorrow. Patrick’s still unraveling how he feels about that revelation. He hasn’t thought about it much over the past few days, since being deliriously happy has taken up so much of his attention, but he knows… he knows he’s been asked to step over lines he didn’t want to cross. Maybe it isn’t his fault for safewording so often; maybe it’s the fault of his past doms for pushing and pressuring and manipulating him into situations that make him panic. Coming to terms with that, with realizing that he’s not bad at being a sub just because he’s sensitive or has narrow tastes or doesn’t like what his dom likes, is going to take a long time.

“No,” Patrick says. “Jonny—no, you’ve never made me feel like that.”

“If you spent all those years being railroaded,” Jonny says, “would you know?”

That makes Patrick want to lash out; how could Jonny doubt Patrick—doubt himself? But he’s genuinely concerned, Patrick realizes. He really thinks that he could’ve hurt Patrick or backed him into a corner that he couldn’t escape.

“It isn’t just… what you said before, about being pressured to ignore my limits. I get caught up in my head,” he explains. “Anxious, I guess, even if I’m doing something I know I like. But I still know what I like, Jonny, and I need you to trust that I can handle it—scenes, your kinks, whatever. I’ve liked… I’ve loved everything we’ve done together. Even the stuff that’s hard for me.”

“Like the lingerie,” Jonny says.

“Like… yeah. Like that.”

Jonny reaches up and tugs his scarf so it falls open. “It’s even hard for you to say, isn’t it?”

“I’m not great at talking about any of this,” Patrick says. “Yeah, it’s hard for me to say. Some of it still feels like stuff I should be embarrassed about.” The lingerie’s a big one, he knows, but it’s far from the only one.

“Have you ever talked to anyone about it?” Jonny asks. He turns left, and they start cutting around the edge of a parking lot; Patrick’s feet sink a little deeper into the ground with no paving under the snow.

“Kind of,” Patrick says, and then, “Not really.”

“Would you think about trying?” Patrick glances over at him, a little surprised. “I don’t mean that you can’t talk to me, sweetheart,” Jonny says, “but you’ve had to deal with some heavy, heavy shit.”

“I…” Patrick turns that idea over. He doesn’t really like the idea of opening up to a stranger, but he’s had a couple of okay experiences with sports psychologists, and two weeks ago he didn’t think he could do what he’s doing now, either. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I can think about. I’m not opposed to the idea,” he adds. “It’s just a lot to figure out. I didn’t get that those were shitty relationships. Still trying to wrap my head around all of it.”

“I know, baby,” Jonny says. Patrick really wishes he could kiss him. “And if you ever want, I’m happy to make Matt or any of the other assholes you dated disappear.”

“…Are you offering to murder someone for me?”

“Lots of someones,” Jonny says. “What? I’m strong and I have a lot of money, I could cover it up. You could help,” he adds. “I don’t mind going it alone, but might be fun, eh?”

“You’ve got some unique ideas for a second date,” Patrick says dryly, and Jonny laughs.

“Gotta make it memorable,” he says, but then he sobers, although the affection on his face stays. “It just kills me, thinking about you dealing with all that garbage alone. Thinking you’re bad.” His mouth tugs downward a little more. “Or that you’re bad in bed.”

“C’mon, that’s different,” Patrick says. His instinct is to avoid that topic entirely, as if avoiding it will keep Jonny from thinking about it.

“I’m not sure it is. You’re not bad in bed, whatever the hell that means. This is the best sex of my life, and—and you don’t believe a word I’m saying, do you?”

“It’s just the novelty,” Patrick says, halfway joking, but Jonny doesn’t laugh.

“No,” he says. “It isn’t.”

Patrick ducks his head. There’s a line of tiny tracks running parallel to the path they’re cutting, and he wonders what animal made them.

“It still feels like I’m forcing you to give something up,” he admits. “One or two things wouldn’t be so bad, but there’s gotta be at least a dozen things you like that I don’t. I’m never going to be into painplay or degradation or… or any of it.”

“I don’t care,” Jonny says bluntly.

“What?”

“I don’t care,” he says again. “We could have no kinks in common, and we’d still figure out a way to make it work. And we don’t have to worry about that, anyway. You like everything I like best.”

Patrick peeks over at him. “Really?”

“Absolutely,” he says. “I told you there was a lot of overlap. Bondage and dominance, and I like dressing you up in pretty things. I liked the roleplay, that got me off hard. Comeplay, edging, orgasm control—earlier, when you said that I was in charge of when you come, that was so hot, baby. Trust me,” he says, and he checks Patrick so lightly that Patrick barely sways. “You give me exactly what I want.”

Patrick bumps him back. He’s not sure what to say, but Jonny seems to understand anyway; he puts an arm around Patrick’s shoulders and draws him in for as long as they can reasonably get away with, and then he says, “Come on,” and tugs Patrick off the path. There’s a raised stone firepit maybe a hundred yards away with people clustered around it; when they get closer, Patrick sees a canopy with a big, handwritten poster taped to the top that says Hot Chocolate $2 and something about the proceeds going to benefit a local soccer club. That explains all the teenagers and paper cups, at least.

Patrick grins. “Are you buying me a hot chocolate?”

“Maybe I’m showing you where to buy a hot chocolate for yourself,” Jonny suggests. “Or maybe you’re buying me one—hey, where are you—?”

“Too slow!” Patrick calls back over his shoulder, and then he ducks his head under the canopy. There isn’t a line, although one of the kids is counting a fat wad of cash; judging by that and the crowd outside, the fundraiser’s going pretty well.

He walks up to the kid counting the cash, who says without looking up, “Hey there, what can I get for—holy shit, you’re…”

Patrick’s never sure when he’ll get recognized; he’s far from some A-list celebrity, but hockey’s big in Chicago, and the only player as recognizable as Patrick in the city’s standing outside and probably sulking about Patrick interrupting his plans.

He holds a finger up to his lips, and the kid shuts his mouth and nods. “Two hot chocolates,” he says.

“Can,” the kid says. “Do you—whipped cream?”

“One with and one without,” Patrick decides, and the boy holds up two fingers to another teenager manning the sprinkles.

“Four dollars,” the kid says, and Patrick pulls out his wallet and hands over two twenties.

“Keep it,” he says. “What are you guys raising money for, anyway?”

“Just for the, uh. The club. Equipment.” The poor kid looks like he might pass out. Patrick knows the feeling; he remembers meeting Joe Sakic when he was nine.

“Want me to sign something?” he says gently. “Are you a hockey fan?”

“No, well—yeah,” the kid says, “but only because of you, lots of us are… do you know anything about us?”

Patrick raises his brows. “About your soccer team?”

“We’re co-dynamic,” the kid blurts. “I mean, like—it’s written into the team charter that half the spots on the team have to be reserved for subs. And we’re really good, too, it isn’t—but we’re all. Yeah. We’re all… we’re fans, could you sign a team picture?” The kid drops his head and mutters, “Oh my god,” to himself. “Sorry,” he says, “you don’t have to…”

“No, yeah, I’d love to,” Patrick says, and he picks up a Sharpie and signs the offered picture (it has some chocolate stains on it; Patrick figures that gives it character, although he’s careful not to get his gloves dirty). He trades the marker for his two cups of hot chocolate. He wishes he had something better to say.

What he finally comes up with is, “Hey. When’s your next game?”

“Thursday,” the kid says.

“Yeah?” Patrick says. “Good luck. You guys are gonna kill ‘em.” And then he makes his escape.

Jonny’s sulking behind a tree when he comes out. Patrick walks up to him and hands him the hot chocolate without the whipped cream, and Jonny says, “I was going to buy it.”

“Then how was I supposed to find out this is to raise money for a co-dynamic soccer club?”

“Uh,” Jonny says. “Good question.”

“What am I going to do with you?” Patrick says, and then he laughs and turns his head into Jonny’s shoulder. “Thank you. That was perfect. I can’t believe you planned that.”

Jonny grins into his cup. “Glad you like it,” he says.

“I don’t normally put out on the first date,” Patrick says, “but for you, I might make an exception.”

“Aw, Peeks,” Jonny says, teasing, but then he lowers his voice and says, “You gonna be good for me?” Patrick feels himself freeze in anticipation; he’ll never understand how Jonny can make the mood turn on a dime, but he exchanged playfulness for magnetism between one blink and the next. He reaches out and puts his fingers on Patrick’s jaw and smudges his thumb against Patrick’s lips before pulling away. “You had some chocolate,” he says, and then he smirks. “Breathe.”

Patrick exhales.

“See how good you are, baby?” Jonny says, and then he takes another sip of his hot chocolate and starts back toward the path. If Patrick had to cross an ocean, he’d still follow.

They walk more slowly back towards the car. The hot chocolate doesn’t stay hot for long, not with how cold it is, but Patrick still likes it—likes all of his date, the cheesy board game and hot chocolate and winter walk and more than anything he likes having a whole day to talk to Jonny without anyone else to interrupt them. He even likes talking about the harder issues, likes the security of it. He likes talking about marriage.

“Hey,” he says. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“Yeah?” Jonny says.

“Yeah. Why, uh…” Fuck, he has to say it. He didn’t think this through. “In your suitcase. Why do you have…” Patrick swallows. “Those panties.”

“You found ‘em?” Jonny says. “Oh, when you were looking for the lube that one time.” He grins again. “Why do you think I have them?”

“Yeah, maybe I don’t need an answer to that question. You’re gross, by the way.”

Jonny’s grin shifts into a smirk. He’s completely unrepentant. “Yeah,” he says.

“I don’t know why I love you,” Patrick adds, and Jonny’s expression immediately softens.

“Yeah, you do,” he says.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do,” Patrick says, and they smile stupidly at each other until Jonny almost trips on a stick. He rescues his hot chocolate and his shirt by pure dint of his reflexes. After that they stop by a trash can to finish drinking and toss the cups away, and then they somehow make it back to the car without any further incidents.

Jonny tries to stand out in the parking lot to change his shoes, but Patrick pushes against him until he grumbles and climbs into the backseat. Patrick follows; he’s getting cold, and he’s not going to slide around in an icy parking lot to put on his Tom Ford shoes when there’s an alternative. He bought his huge car for a reason, and that reason is his personal comfort.

“So?” Jonny says. “What’s my grade?”

“Grade?”

“Stroll through the park, hot chocolate. Serious relationship conversation, that’s necessary but not fun…”

“I still liked that part,” Patrick says.

Jonny smiles at him. “Me too,” he says.

“And that was some good information gathering towards the beginning.” He finishes unlacing his last boot and pulls his foot out. “A-plus.”

“That was what you gave me for lunch,” Jonny argues. “There’s no room for improvement. I don’t think you’re taking this seriously.”

“Maybe you’re just that good at planning dates,” Patrick argues back.

“Maybe it’s instructor bias,” Jonny says.

“It’s getting dark.”

“Yeah, I know. We still have a little time to kill before our dinner reservations, though—”

“No,” Patrick says. “I mean, it’s getting dark, and my windows are tinted.”

It clicks. Jonny doesn’t reply, he just gets an arm around Patrick and hauls him close. “Whoa,” Patrick says. “We still have to be presentable after this.” Jonny pulls his scarf off and bites at his throat, and Patrick revises downward. “Semi-presentable,” he says, because Jonny’s unbuttoning Patrick’s coat and shoving his hand inside, and Patrick realizes: Jonny wants to touch the vest.

He doesn’t remember when corset vests originally came into fashion. They used to lack the buttons up the front, though, and that’s why subs wore them—the idea was that your dom had to lace you into one, and you wouldn’t be able to remove it yourself because the laces ran up the back. It was more symbolic than anything. At some point in the past couple of decades buttons had made an appearance, but even though submissives no longer needed someone else to do up the laces, they were still fashionable. Not as iconic as a collar, but close.

Jonny pulls Patrick even closer, and thank god he’s only in socks, because he ends up with a foot on the seat. “Fuck, baby,” Jonny says, and he spreads his big hand over Patrick’s back. “Did you wear this just for me?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says.

“Gonna let me take it off you tonight?”

“If… yeah,” Patrick says. Jonny’s kissing the thin skin at the top of his throat, just under his chin. “If you want.”

Jonny nips at his chin and then pulls back to press his forehead against Patrick’s. “You know earlier,” he says, “when you asked how I knew you were in love with me?”

Patrick drags his eyes open and blinks.

“Do you remember, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” Patrick.

“You come to pieces when I touch you,” Jonny says. “That’s how I knew.”

Jonny’s mouth is right there. “Is that… is it good?”

“It’s so good, Peeks,” Jonny says, and then he dips his head to kiss Patrick again. Patrick can see his point; he does come undone when Jonny touches him.

They stay in the backseat probably longer than they should, and when they finally open the door and stumble outside, the cold hair hits like a shock; the temperature’s already dropping even though it isn’t yet full night. Patrick climbs into the driver’s seat and puts his hands on the wheel and gives himself over to giddiness. He feels twenty. He feels fifteen. He’s going to feel this way when he’s fifty. If champagne could be a feeling, this entire day would be champagne.

When they pull up to Thatcher’s, Patrick’s struck by the contrast between now and the last time they were here. Then, Jonny had kept him distracted during the drive and had basically knocked Patrick over the head to convince him that Jonny didn’t mind if people saw them together. Now Patrick understands why.

That is something they’ll have to talk about, though. They’re skirting the edges of taking the relationship public anyway. Patrick isn’t sure how long Jonny would like to wait before they get married—something else they’ll have to discuss—but they won’t be keeping it a secret by that point. And even now, he’s struck with doubt that Jonny’s making a terrible decision, this time not in being with Patrick but in being public about it.

It’s in the back of his mind as they check their coats and are led to their seats, Jonny with a proprietary hand on Patrick’s back. He doesn’t pull out Patrick’s chair, although Patrick can tell that he thinks about it; that, like helping someone with their coat, is sometimes done by doms caring for their subs and sometimes done by subs serving their doms. Jonny seems more interested in showcasing his ownership than Patrick’s service, though. Patrick has a suspicion about which way their relationship will trend.

Jonny orders a bottle of wine although it’s unlikely either of them will have more than a glass—maybe not even that, depending on what Jonny has planned for the evening—and Patrick folds his arms on the dark oak tabletop and leans forward to watch him. The lighting is generous by design, dim and warm, but Jonny’s face needs no generosity. Or, well—what had Jonny said before? Instructor bias. Patrick doesn’t think he’s so biased he’s blind, though.

“What are you thinking about?”

“You,” Patrick says, and Jonny’s mouth curls into a smile.

“Good,” he says. “Anything in particular?”

“How happy I am,” Patrick confesses.

“Yeah? That’s good too.” He beams at Patrick. Patrick beams back. They probably look like sloppy drunks from the outside. After a couple of minutes pass, he breaks the stare and ducks his chin into his shoulder.

“So, uh,” he says, “what are we going to tell people?”

“About how happy you are?”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “No.” He reconsiders. “Well, yeah, but I mean… about us.”

“I figured we’d just stick you in a Toews jersey and let you wander around, baby,” Jonny drawls. “People will figure it out eventually.”

“The only thing people are going to think if they see me wearing a Team Canada jersey,” Patrick says, “is that you’re blackmailing me.”

“Yeah, okay, that’s true.” Jonny takes a sip from his water. “Brisson first, I guess, and then the front office.”

“Before our families?”

“Families first,” Jonny says. “The only reason I haven’t called my mom already is that we’ve been pretty… pretty busy.” They’ve been fucking, is what he means. They’ve been fucking a lot. “She’s going to be thrilled.”

“Your mom?” Patrick says. “Why?”

The conversation gets put on hold as the wine arrives. Jonny takes the lead and pours for them both.

“Your mom,” Patrick prompts.

“Oh, right. She kind of, uh. She knew how I felt about you from pretty early on.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah,” Jonny says. “When we started playing together, she kept telling me I needed to ask you out.”

Patrick hadn’t thought about that. Jonny isn’t the kind of guy who sits back and waits for things to happen; he’s not that kind of man, or that kind of player, or that kind of dom, and Patrick’s never seen him suffer from lack of confidence. “Why didn’t you?”

“Because you had to make the first move,” Jonny says. He shifts in his seat and sets his glass down on the table. “That was important to me. You had enough doms in your life putting expectations on you. I didn’t want you feeling pressured to say yes, and I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable around me if you said no. If we didn’t play together, maybe I would’ve said something, but the last thing I wanted was to give you one more burden, especially when everything was so new.”

Nineteen, and he’d thought through all of that, he’d respected Patrick that much and been that willing to put himself in Patrick’s place. And at the same age Patrick never considered that Jonny did or even could have feelings for him; he was too busy learning how to compress what he felt into the smallest and most hidden space possible and then ignoring it, even when ignoring it was killing some vital part of himself.

“I… god, Jonny,” he says. “What made you finally offer…?”

Jonny winces. “Yeah, I wasn’t exactly thinking, Peeks. But when you said what you said, I had such a hard time believing you’d never gone into subspace during sex, and I thought I could make it good for you. I couldn’t believe you said yes.”

“I couldn’t believe you asked,” Patrick says.

They have to pause again to give the server their orders, and then Jonny picks up where he left off. “Anyway, after a year of watching me follow you around like a puppy—those were my mom’s words—she told me that I either needed to ask you out, or I needed to learn to control my face and make a good-faith effort to move on. And she was right. As far as I could tell, you were only interested in being friends, so I…” He cracks a smile that’s a little rueful. “I spent about an hour crying into my mom’s shoulder, and then I asked out the next sub who was interested in me.”

Patrick remembers that. He’d been crushed, and angry at himself for being crushed to the point of self-flagellation. Not that he’d thought Jonny was interested in him; but he’d been upset at the thought of losing Jonny’s time, at the idea of Jonny giving another sub attention. He shuts his eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” he says.

“Peeks, no.” He hears Jonny move, and then his voice gets closer. “Look at me.” Patrick obeys; Jonny’s leaning across the table, eating up Patrick’s whole field of vision. “This is not your fault. It is not your fault that it took us this long to get to this point. You had enough shit piled on you, and expecting yourself to break away from all the negative messages you absorbed without any help or experience isn’t fair. We miscommunicated in the middle of a bad situation, but neither of us is to blame. Okay?”

Patrick nods.

“Okay,” Jonny says. “Good. Do you want to move in together?”

Patrick opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

“Sorry, that was kind of abrupt,” Jonny says. “Got your mind off feeling guilty, though, didn’t it?”

“Next time, feel free to just empty the wine bottle on my head,” Patrick says. “Don’t you think that’s kind of soon?”

“Is it?”

Patrick takes another mouthful of wine while he considers. “I don’t want to screw this up because we rush it,” he says.

“You’re spending every night with me.”

“I’m allowed to be a hypocrite, Jonathan,” Patrick says, dryer than the wine, and Jonny starts laughing.

“Fair enough,” Jonny says when he can talk again. He leans forward and rubs the back of his neck; he’s wearing an Alpina watch that glints when he moves his wrist.

“I do want to move in together,” Patrick admits. “Probably sooner than later, but we’ve got some stuff to figure out first, and we don’t have to get it all done today. Nice effort, though.”

“Yeah, we covered a lot of ground, didn’t we?”

“I’m pretty tired. Good thing the night’s almost over,” Patrick jokes, purely for the pleasure of seeing Jonny’s reaction. His eyes are already so dark Patrick can’t see them darken, but his gaze gets a little sharper and a little more predatory.

“Now you’re just screwing with me,” Jonny says.

“Maybe,” Patrick says. “Did it work?”

-

It works.

They’re barely through Jonny’s door before Jonny’s on him. As soon as the door locks he’s plastered against Patrick’s back, pinning him up against the wall next to the closet, grabbing his coat by the collar and yanking it down and off him. “Jonny,” Patrick grits out, and Jonny laughs low in his ear.

“Yeah, baby?” he says. One of his arms is across Patrick, gathering his arms and pinning them against his front; the other is splayed across Patrick’s vest. Patrick can feel his fingers there, searching. He finds what he’s looking for; the trailing loops of the cord are tucked inside the lacing, but Jonny pulls them out and tugs. Patrick gasps, not from constriction but from anticipation.

“Keep your arms against your chest. Understand?” he says, and Patrick nods. “Good,” Jonny says, and he kisses Patrick’s ear before taking his arm away.

The trailing cord in the middle of Patrick’s back belongs to two long loops that allow the vest to be tightened. The actual ends of the laces are tied together beneath the corset base. Jonny’s doing something, maybe untying the knot of the loops, and Patrick thinks maybe he should… maybe he should tell Jonny that the ends of the laces are lower, but then he feels Jonny’s hands move down and fumble there for a moment—

And then Jonny rips the lacing from the bottom pair of grommets free.

“I’ve been thinking about doing this all day,” he says conversationally. “All through lunch, all through dinner, all I could think about is you wearing this fucking vest.” There are twenty-six pairs of grommets running the length of Patrick’s spine—thirteen places where the lacing criss-crosses itself in an X-shape. While he’s talking, Jonny threads his finger through the twelfth cross and yanks the lacing free.

“Did you know that, sweetheart?” he asks.

Patrick shudders. “No,” he says.

“No? Then why did you wear it, if you didn’t want me to spend all day thinking about fucking you?” Jonny gets a finger beneath the eleventh cross, but he doesn’t pull, not yet.

“I though you… I thought you would like it,” Patrick says. “I didn’t…”

Jonny yanks, and the eleventh cross comes free. “You didn’t think it would make me want to fuck you?” he says. He sounds less winded than he did strolling through the park earlier even though Patrick’s breathing so hard he’s panting. The vest is less constrictive than supportive, but he feels the loss of constriction nonetheless.

“I didn’t think about it,” Patrick says.

“You should’ve,” Jonny says, and he rips the tenth cross out and then the ninth and eighth without pausing. The ends of the lacing fall against Patrick’s ass. “You should be spending a lot of time thinking about me fucking you, baby. You want to make me happy, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says.

Jonny’s at the long loops now, and he pulls those out slowly, gently. “Why should you want to make me happy?”

“Because.” Patrick swallows. “Because you’re my dom.”

“That’s right, Peeks,” Jonny says. He yanks out the seventh cross. “Because I’m your dom. And you know what that means, don’t you?”

“I… Jonny, I don’t…”

“Shh, sweetheart, it’s okay,” Jonny says. He kisses the side of Patrick’s neck, and Patrick’s head falls back to allow him better access, and that’s when he rips out the sixth cross. “It means you’re my sub, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Patrick says.

“Yes. That’s right, baby.” He works his finger under the fifth criss-cross, but he doesn’t yank; he uses both hands to undo the lacing, because it’s getting that long. “You’re mine, and nobody else gets to see you like this, do they? Nobody else gets to touch you like this.” He undoes the fourth cross but gathers the lacing tight between Patrick’s shoulders and tugs like Patrick’s wearing a harness, pulling him away from the wall.

“Open the closet,” he says.

Patrick’s not sure—

“Do it,” Jonny says, and Patrick can’t disobey that tone. Nobody could. He reaches to the side and slides the closet door open, and there waiting are the two Team Canada jerseys with Jonny’s name on them.

Jonny works the third cross free.

“Do you know what’s going to happen?” he says, and fuck, yes, Patrick does, Jonny’s going to make him wear one of those damn jerseys and he’s going to make Patrick like it.

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “Yeah, Jonny, I know, but please—” Don’t, he means to say, but he can’t get even that out.

Jonny pulls the second cross free. “Tell me.”

“You’re going to put one of those on me,” Patrick forces out.

“And then what?”

“And then—then you’re going to fuck me.”

“Good job, sweetheart,” Jonny says. He kisses the nape of Patrick’s neck and then he reaches over Patrick’s shoulder. “Here, baby, take this.” Patrick looks down; it’s a loop from the lacing—from the very top pair of grommets. “Now pull,” Jonny says.

Patrick pulls. There’s so much of it he has to bunch it up in his hands, and he can feel it running through the grommets at the top of the vest. Jonny’s making him undo himself. He pulls one last time, and the vest slides forward and off.

“I’m going to buy you one of those for every day of the week,” Jonny says, “and one day I might use that lacing to tie you up, too. But not today.” He hauls Patrick back towards him with an arm around his waist and then takes the cord away and drops it on the floor. “Pick one,” he says.

“What…”

“The jerseys,” Jonny says. “Pick one.”

Oh fuck. “I don’t—”

“You don’t have a choice, baby,” Jonny says. “Pick one.” He loosens his grip on Patrick to give him room to step forward.

Patrick hesitates, but he finally reaches for the red-and-white one; the other, with its black across the shoulders, is close enough to Hawks colors to feel like a mockery.

“Good,” Jonny says. “I’m going to let go of you in a minute. Here’s what I want you to do. Are you paying attention?”

Patrick nods.

“Say it.”

“I’m paying attention.”

“I want you to carry that back to my bedroom,” Jonny says. “Lay it out on the bed. Take off all your clothes and stretch, and then kneel with your back to the bed facing the rest of the room. Don’t look back. Ready?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “Yes.”

“Good, baby. Go.”

Patrick goes. He carries the jersey with him, and he doesn’t turn around, even though he can feel Jonny’s eyes on his back. In the bedroom, he takes the jersey off the hanger and spreads it out carefully on the foot of the bed before going to the closet and stripping. Jonny’s presumably dealing with his coat and vest, and Patrick puts the rest of his clothes in the hamper alongside Jonny’s own. The presence of the lingerie chest in the corner no longer seems foreboding.

He stretches in the open area between Jonny’s bed and the door, doing his best to ignore his erection even though all he wants to do is jerk himself off. It’ll be better if he waits. Jonny told him to wait, and he wants to be good for Jonny. He works through the basic exercises taught to all subs first, and then he spends a little more time stretching his back and shoulders, wanting to be warmed up enough to handle whatever Jonny does to him. By the time Jonny walks through the door, Patrick’s kneeling; his breathing is slow but light, and each of Jonny’s footfalls moves through his body like a drum.

“Look at you,” Jonny says. He’s carrying several lengths of red rope and a long matte black bar. “You’re so good for me, baby.” He pauses for a minute in front of Patrick, looking down, and then he steps past him. Patrick has to fight the urge to turn his head.

Jonny notices, and he chuckles. “You can watch, Peeks,” he says. “As long as you stay on your knees.” Patrick blinks and then twists around. Jonny’s dragging a long padded bench away from the wall; he leaves it right in front of Patrick, maybe eight yards away, and he deposits the rope and the bar on top of it. As Patrick watches, he uncoils one of the bundles of rope and flips a bight up through a sturdy hook set in the ceiling. When he’s finished, he takes Patrick by the chin, and Patrick has to drag his eyes away from the rope to Jonny’s face.

“Any guesses yet, baby?”

Patrick shakes his head.

“I’m not going to suspend you,” Jonny says. “We’re still working our way up to that.” He lets go and walks to the closet; Patrick waits with his head cocked until Jonny comes back out. He’s naked now, and he’s carrying—

Oh. He’s carrying stockings and a pair of panties.

“Have a better idea now?” he teases, and Patrick nods. Jonny’s going to… he’s going to put Patrick in his jersey and those panties, and he’s going to tie Patrick’s legs to the bar so he can’t close them, and… Patrick’s not sure what else.

Jonny sets the lingerie next to the rope, and then he stands there for a minute, looking down at the bench; and that’s when Patrick realizes something is wrong.

Awareness filters back before his ability to think of a solution. There’s something about Jonny’s posture, or how quiet he’s being, or how he isn’t paying attention to Patrick. Patrick needs to do something, but he has to collect himself first; he’s scattered everywhere, and the world is hazy enough that it feels like it takes him a long, long time. When he’s not quite so dazed, he says, “Jonny?”

“Yeah, baby?” Jonny says. He doesn’t look over at Patrick.

“Jonny, can I… it it okay if I get up? Please.”

Jonny looks over at him; Patrick not sure he’s capable of standing without permission, but Jonny says, “You can stand, Peeks.”

Patrick rocks back onto his heels and stands, and then he goes to Jonny and presses against his side. Jonny’s arm comes up to hold him automatically.

“What’s wrong?” Patrick asks.

Jonny doesn’t try to pretend everything’s fine. He tucks Patrick’s head into his shoulder and quietly says. “I’m planning on tying your wrists.”

Patrick—that’s confusing, he doesn’t, he can’t think why… did something happen the last time Jonny tied his wrists? Was Patrick bad, or did he—

Something did happen, he realizes. Patrick safeworded.

It takes him another long minute to piece together Jonny’s hesitance. Jonny rarely hesitates. He’s worried. He’s worried because—because—

“I safeworded,” Patrick says. No, that wouldn’t make Jonny doubt himself. “I… no, I pulled myself up by my wrists.”

“You were wild,” Jonny says. “I had to pin you down to cut you free, you were struggling so much.”

“You don’t…” He keeps losing the thread of the conversation, and he isn’t sure why, but this is important. “If you don’t want to, it’s okay.”

Jonny sighs. “I want to,” he says, “but I’m afraid of hurting you.”

No. No, no, Jonny couldn’t hurt him. He’s careful with Patrick, he’s so careful, and he doesn’t need to be afraid, he doesn’t have to doubt himself; even if he did hurt Patrick, it would be an accident, and he would make it better. Patrick’s hands are fine. His wrists are fine. He’s fine, but it hurts him to know Jonny’s hurting.

What he doesn’t know is if it’s his place as a sub to make Jonny feel better.

Outside of the bedroom, he’d know what to do. He’s reassured Jonny before, when Jonny was frustrated at himself or caught in a scoring slump or when life was just being shitty. He knows how to do that. He’s just not sure if Jonny would welcome that now, in this new context, in the framework of the relationship they’re building. He’s been taking a lot of leaps of faith lately, though, and Jonny hasn’t failed to catch him yet.

“Jonny,” he says.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Do you trust me?”

Jonny doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t pause. He says, “Yes.”

“You aren’t going to hurt me,” Patrick says, and he presses closer. “You take such good care of me, you won’t hurt me, I want this. I’m going to be fine. And if I safeword, you’ll cut me free, and I’ll stay here. I’ll stay here and you can hold me and then we’ll talk about it and it will be okay. You told me we’re going to be okay.”

“Yeah,” Jonny says. He exhales, and his tone sounds lighter. “Yeah, I did, didn’t I?” He kisses Patrick’s temple. “You’re so good to me, sweetheart.”

“Me too,” Patrick says. Oh, no, that isn’t… “I mean, you’re good to me, too.”

“What’s your safeword, baby?”

“Nineteen,” Patrick answers. “What’s yours?”

“Summer,” Jonny says, and just like that, the tension returns. It’s good, it feels so good. Jonny knows; and now Patrick knows, too.

“Should I kneel?”

“Sit on the bench, Peeks,” Jonny says, and Patrick sits down. His eyes are level with Jonny’s big cock, which isn’t all the way hard yet. Even soft, it’s huge, almost so thick it distracts from the length. The tip is only halfway out of the foreskin, and Patrick wants to… he wants to touch it, or kiss it…

Jonny gets down on one knee in front of him, and Patrick’s pulled back from his want. “Give me your foot, sweetheart,” he says, and Patrick extends his leg. Jonny takes him by the ankle and braces Patrick’s foot against his thigh. “There we go,” he says, and he slides the toe of one of the black stockings over Patrick’s foot.

It’s so light it must be made of silk. Jonny guides it over Patrick’s heel and then begins to roll it up Patrick’s leg. “I’ve wanted to see you in stockings for a long time, baby,” he says. “Is there a reason you didn’t wear the ones that went with your bridal set?”

“I wasn’t sure,” Patrick says. Jonny reaches his knee, and he slides forward a little to give Jonny easier access to his thigh.

“You weren’t sure?”

“I, yeah, I wasn’t… they were so pretty,” Patrick confesses, “and I didn’t want to rip them if I had to. Had to get them off fast.”

Jonny smoothes the lace band down. There must be elastic to hold them up without a garter belt, and they look… Patrick likes how they look.

“I love your legs. For how much muscle you carry, they’re so slender,” Jonny says. “Why would you have to get the stockings off fast?”

Patrick’s still looking at Jonny’s hands, the one on his calf and one on his thigh, covering the silk. “In case you laughed,” he says absently. His foot is still braced on Jonny’s leg; he wonders if Jonny would like to see him in heels.

Jonny inhales sharply. “I wouldn’t have laughed, baby,” he says. “You look gorgeous like this.”

“Is that good?” Patrick asks.

“Yeah, Peeks, it’s good. You’re so good. Give me the other foot, sweetheart.”

Patrick swaps feet, and Jonny rolls the other stocking up his leg. “There we go,” he says. “You’re so pretty, who could laugh at you? I’m going to buy you all the stockings you want,” he says. “Anything you want.”

“Okay,” Patrick says. “I’d like…”

“You’d like that?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. Jonny finishes adjusting the lace on the other side, and then he kisses Patrick’s knee and lowers his foot to the floor.

“Stand up for me, Peeks,” he says, and Patrick obeys. “Good, baby. I’m going to let you put on the panties yourself.”

Patrick looks down. The panties are on the bench next to the rope. They’re red, and they tie at the sides like his other pair, but the ribbons and the bow on the front are black. He’ll have Hawks colors on underneath the Canada jersey.

“What if I do it wrong?”

“You can’t do it wrong, sweetheart,” Jonny says. “I just want to see you pull them on over your cock and your little pussy yourself.”

Patrick can do that. He tries to think how he put them on before, and he ties a sloppy bow on the left side before stepping into them. It takes him longer to tie the bow on the right; he wants it to look nice, and he has to choose if he wants to tuck his hard cock to the side or leave it to jut past the waistband. He finally decides on the latter, because he likes how the little black bow that sits right in the middle of the waistband looks below the head of his cock. Then he goes back and reties the ribbons on the left to make those look nice, too. When he’s finished, he looks at Jonny for his next instructions, but Jonny just says, “Baby, fuck.”

That makes Patrick feel shy, but it must be a good thing, because Jonny reaches out and traces the bows at his hips and then rubs his thumb over the wet tip of Patrick’s cock. Patrick bucks into the touch, and Jonny laughs softly and keeps him still.

“Easy, Peeks, we’ll get there,” he says. He guides Patrick over to the red rope hanging from the ceiling, but he doesn’t touch it or move it out of the way, just positions Patrick so he’s facing the bed. “I’m going to tie you on the spreader bar now,” he says. “You can brace yourself against my shoulder or hold onto the mattress, okay? Answer me.”

“Yes, sir,” Patrick says. He’s only a few feet away from the mattress, but he’d rather hang onto Jonny’s shoulder.

“Good, baby.” He goes away for a minute, and then he kneels down on the ground again and urges Patrick to spread his legs. Patrick’s confused at first; the bar doesn’t have any cuffs on it, but he sees the lengths of red rope Jonny’s holding and understands. He doesn’t quite follow what Jonny does, but when he’s finished rigging Patrick, Patrick’s left ankle is caught in a coil of rope and tied off to the bar. Jonny pushes Patrick’s legs apart even farther and does the same on the other side, and now Patrick does have to brace himself; he’s opened wide enough that he can’t kick a foot out to break his fall.

Jonny slips a finger beneath the rope just behind Patrick’s anklebone to check the tension. “Feel okay, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, Jonny,” Patrick says.

“You remember the rules, right? Any pain or tingling or numbness, tell me immediately, and we stop. If you’re uncomfortable, tell me and we stop. Understand?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, and because it seems important to Jonny, he adds, “I understand.”

“Good boy.” Jonny climbs to his feet. “Kiss me.”

Patrick has to tip forward so he’s off-balance to reach Jonny’s mouth, but he doesn’t worry; Jonny’s there to catch him. He tilts his face up and Jonny leans down and meets him halfway. They take their time, trading slow, languid sipping kisses that exactly match Patrick’s mood and the building molten pressure in the room, and then Jonny settles Patrick’s weight back on his feet.

“Close your eyes, baby,” he says, and Patrick shuts his eyes. “I want you to keep your eyes closed for me. You aren’t allowed to open them until I say you can, okay?”

“Okay. I can do that.”

“I know you can, Peeks, because you’re so good, and you’re still good even if you can’t, aren’t you?” Patrick’s not sure, so he doesn’t answer, and then he feels Jonny’s hand on his face. “You are, sweetheart. Tell me yes.”

Patrick licks his lips. “Yes,” he says.

“That’s right, you are.” Jonny must step away, because the warmth of his body recedes; he gives off heat like a furnace. He’s back a moment later. “Hold your arms up for me,” he says.

Patrick raises his arms; it’s hard to keep his balance, but Jonny steadies him, and then he threads Patrick’s arms through the sleeves of… Patrick knows that texture. It’s the Canada jersey.

Jonny pulls it down over his head and then ruffles Patrick’s hair. “Do you know what this is?” he asks.

“Yes,” Patrick says.

“I’m not sure that you do.” He sounds amused. “Do you like having my name across your back?”

Patrick’s breath hitches, and he says, “Yeah. Yes, Jonny.”

“I like it too. You’re mine. You should have my name on you.” There’s a feather-light pressure against Patrick’s back, and Patrick realizes: Jonny’s tracing the nineteen written there, he’s pressing his number into Patrick’s skin. Patrick bites back a sob.

“Hands behind your back, love,” Jonny says, and Patrick immediately stretches his arms behind him. Keeping his balance is close to impossible, but he steadies himself by a thread; someone with less core strength might already be on the floor, although Patrick knows having his eyes closed is messing with his equilibrium, too. “We’re going to try something different this time,” Jonny says, and then he starts tying Patrick’s wrists together: low, near his ass, with his palms facing each other.

The rope’s soft, and now he knows to pay attention to the give; there’s some, but not as much as the silk rope Jonny had used on him before. Jonny’s wrapping his wrists in columns, but he doesn’t make more than a couple of passes before he ties it off with one last tug. He slips a finger beneath first one side and then the other. “Feel okay?” he asks. Patrick nods. “I need you to say it out loud, baby.”

Can Patrick talk? He opens his mouth. “Yeah,” he says. “Yes.”

“Good,” Jonny says. He runs a possessive hand over Patrick’s ass, and then he begins to pull.

Patrick isn’t sure what’s happening at first. The rope draws his wrists gently upwards, and it takes him a moment to realizes that Jonny’s using the rope doubled through the hook on the ceiling like a pulley. By the time he understands, he’s bent double with his arms stretched behind him. It isn’t uncomfortable, but it could be.

“This is called strappado,” Jonny says. He’s casual about it, like this is barely worth telling Patrick. “It’s for my pleasure, not yours, because you can’t close your legs or hide your pussy.” He traces a line up the crease of Patrick’s ass. “Are your arms okay? Shoulders feel good?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says.

Jonny slips a finger into Patrick’s hand. “Squeeze twice for me,” he says, and Patrick does. “Thank you. I’m going to pull your arms a little higher. You’ll feel strain, but it shouldn’t be unreasonable. You can go up on your tiptoes to lessen it whenever you want. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Patrick says.

“Good, baby,” Jonny says, and then he raises Patrick’s arms. Just a little, like he said, but it’s enough that Patrick can feel it. He goes up on his tiptoes immediately, but with the spreader bar, it’s hard to keep his balance, and he ends up pulling against the rope. He wishes… he wishes he could look at Jonny for reassurance, but Jonny told him to keep his eyes closed, and Patrick’s good, so he’s going to do it.

Jonny runs a hand over the arch of Patrick’s back. “Look at you, baby,” he says. “So good for me.” Patrick drops his head. “You have no idea how good you are, but I’m going to show you. You go under for me so easily, sweetheart, it’s like you melt.” He steps up behind Patrick and presses his cock against Patrick’s red panties, and then he slides his hand down Patrick’s flank and spreads it over his abs. “I waited so long for you,” he says, “and I never thought I’d get to have you, but you were mine all along, weren’t you? Answer me.”

Patrick swallows; his eyelashes are wet. “Yes,” he says.

“Say it.”

“I was…” His breath hitches again. “I was yours all along.”

“How long?” Jonny demands.

“The… whole time,” Patrick gets out.

“Say all of it.”

“I was yours the whole time, Jonny please—”

“Please what?” Jonny says. His pinky finger is so close to the head of Patrick’s cock, he’d just have to move it less than a hair…

“Please,” Patrick says. “Please, Jonny, touch me.”

“No,” Jonny says, and he takes his hand away at the same time Patrick’s calves start shaking. Patrick lowers himself back to his heels with a sob. “But I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, sweetheart. We’re going to play a game. You tell me five ways I could make you come, and maybe I’ll pick one of them and let you. Does that sound fair?”

“I… I don’t think…”

“No,” Jonny says, “maybe it isn’t fair. But you don’t have a choice, do you, Peeksy? You’re mine, and I’m telling you to play, so you’re going to play.” He runs a rough hand down Patrick’s back, careful not to put too much pressure on him, and slips a finger into Patrick’s grasp. “Squeeze twice,” he says. “Good. Tell me how you want to come.”

Patrick gasps. He wishes he could see, he thinks this might be easier if he could see, but he goes up on his toes to relieve his shoulders and says, “I could suck your cock.”

“That’s a way to make me come, baby, not a way to make you come. Try again.”

“But I could…” Patrick says. “I think I could—”

“You think you could come just from mouthing at my dick?” Jonny says. “Why?”

Oh fuck. Patrick tries to think, but he’s somewhere past thought. He finally manages to come up with, “Because it’s big.”

“You like how big my cock is, sweetheart?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I like it.”

“Enough that just blowing me could make you come?”

“Yes,” Patrick says. “I could, if you did I could…”

“Maybe you could come from that,” Jonny says. “You like being on your knees so much for me, baby, and you like my cock so much. I’ll give you this one.” He reaches under Patrick and pets his nipple. “Tell me another one.”

Oh and this time Patrick knows. “You could… Jonny, if you told me,” he says.

“I could tell you to come, is that it?”

Patrick swallows a sob, but he still can’t get anything out, so he nods.

“Why should I tell you to come, baby?” The hand moves from his nipple to the bow over his hip, and Jonny plays with the ribbon, smooths it into place, drags the end over Patrick’s skin. Patrick shudders. He knows this one; Jonny gave him the answer earlier.

“Because,” he says, “I’m, Jonny, I’m yours, please—”

“Please what, Peeks?”

“Please, touch me.”

“No,” Jonny says. “But you’re right, baby, you are mine, you belong to me and your body belongs to me, and you come when I tell you. That’s two. Give me another.”

Patrick squeezes his eyes shut. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? I’m not going to let you come if you don’t know, Peeks.” Now he drags his fingers up the underside of Patrick’s throat, forcing him to lift his head.

Patrick swallows hard, and Jonny traces the tear tracks on his cheeks. “Make me,” Patrick gets out.

“What was that, sweetheart?”

“Make me,” Patrick says. “You could make me.”

“Make you?” Jonny says. “I could, couldn’t I. You’re mine, and I can tell you to come or I can force you to come, whichever I want. That’s three, and now I want you to tell me you love me.”

“I love you,” Patrick says immediately.

“I know, baby,” Jonny says. “I love you too. Now give me a fourth way.”

Patrick’s confused at first, he’s lost count, but then he remembers: sucking Jonny’s cock, and Jonny telling him to come, and Jonny making him come, that’s three. He has two more left, and then maybe Jonny will let him…

“You could touch me,” he says.

“I’m touching you right now,” Jonny counters, and that’s true, his fingers are still stroking Patrick’s throat. Patrick wishes he could open his eyes and look at Jonny, but he can’t, so he leans into the touch instead.

“No,” he says. His speech is coming out slurred. “I mean you could touch me, you could touch my…”

“Your what?”

“My cock.”

“Is that the only place you want me to touch you?”

If Patrick’s eyes weren’t closed, he’d close them now. “No,” he says.

“What should I touch besides your cock, baby?” Patrick can’t remember, so Jonny slides his hand up and grips Patrick by the hair—not rough, but firm. “Answer me.”

Earlier, Jonny’s hand had been spread over Patrick’s ass, so he says, “My hole.”

“Your hole?” Jonny says. “Do you mean your pussy? Because you’re so pretty, Peeks, and I know your panties are covering a pussy.”

Patrick sobs. He’s not crying outright, but the pressure’s building. He’s just—it’s just that he belongs to Jonny, and Jonny is making sure he knows it, and he wants to come but not nearly as much as he wants Jonny to touch him. “Yes,” he says. “Yeah, Jonny.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I—that’s my…”

“Say it.”

“My pussy, I want you to touch my pussy.”

“Is that what you want, sweetheart?” Jonny says, and then he lets go of Patrick’s hair and finally, finally, his hand goes back to Patrick’s ass. The panties don’t cover his cheeks all the way, and Jonny traces the band and then slides his hand further down. “Patrick,” he commands. “Tell me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, baby,” Jonny says. Patrick tries to close his legs but they won’t move and then he thinks about looking down. He can’t look down, though. Jonny told him to keep his eyes closed, but there’s a bar that’s keeping his legs apart. They’re so tired he has to settle back down on his heels.

Jonny takes his hand away, and Patrick whines.

“Shh, Peeks,” he says. “I’ll be right back. You’re being so good for me. Maybe I should touch your little pussy as a reward for you being so good, what do you think?” Patrick can’t respond, he wants it so badly he can’t say it, but Jonny doesn’t seem to mind. He comes back and reaches between Patrick’s legs to rub at the lace over Patrick’s cock, and Patrick cries out.

“Easy, sweetheart,” Jonny says. He slides his other hand into Patrick’s grasp and says, “Squeeze twice,” and Patrick does. “Good.” He doesn’t reach all the way up to touch the head of Patrick’s cock where it pokes out from the waistband of his panties, but he takes a moment to play with his balls before he pulls his hand back and touches Patrick’s hip. “Can I untie your panties, baby?”

Patrick screws his eyes shut and remembers to breathe. “Yeah,” he says.

“I’m doing you a favor, Peeks,” Jonny says. “I don’t have to untie your panties or touch your pussy. You should thank me.”

“I, Jonny…”

“Say it.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you for what?”

“Thank you for, for—” Oh no; he has to say it. “Thank you for untying my panties.”

“You’re welcome, baby,” Jonny says, and then he undoes the bow and reaches for the other side. “What about here? Can I untie this side, too?”

“Yeah. Yes, Jonny.”

“Good, baby,” Jonny says, and this time Patrick knows what to say, he doesn’t have to be prompted: “Thank you for untying my panties,” he says, and Jonny says, “You’re welcome,” and takes his panties away. The lace isn’t rough enough to scrape against his thighs as Jonny draws it between his legs, but the texture feels exquisite nonetheless. His cock bobs free. Patrick sobs.

“Look at you,” Jonny says. “You’re so pretty here, love, you have the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen. It’s such a sweet pink, just like your cock.”

“Thank you,” Patrick says.

“You’re welcome,” Jonny says. He touches Patrick’s rim. Patrick presses back into his hand immediately, so quickly he sways against the rope holding him up, and Jonny laughs gently. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he says. “Just be patient.”

Patrick can’t be patient, but it doesn’t matter; he’s held fast by Jonny. It doesn’t matter if he can’t be patient, because Jonny can make him be patient. He forces himself to be still.

“Good,” Jonny says. His fingers are wet with lube as he traces Patrick’s hole, and even though Patrick’s being still every part of him still wants to push back. “I can’t ever get over how tight you are,” he says, like they’re having a conversation. “Your pussy’s so fucking tight, and now I get to fuck it whenever I want, don’t I? Answer me.”

“Yes,” Patrick says.

“What do you say when I touch your pussy?”

“Thank—thank you for. Thank you for touching my pussy, Jonny.”

“You’re welcome, baby. You’re being so good for me.” He reaches down with his other hand again and milks Patrick’s cock, long firm slow strokes from the root to the tip, and then he presses a finger into Patrick. He has to pull out to shove his jersey higher around Patrick’s waist, but then he slides the finger back in. Patrick thinks about how he must look: bent over, his legs straight and spread, his ass pushed back, his arms pulled up behind him; and he thinks about how Jonny must look, big and broad and warm and confident, one of his hands stroking Patrick’s clit and the other fingering his pussy.

“You’re so good for me,” Jonny says again. “I knew from the minute I saw you how good you are, baby. You’re a fucking miracle on the ice, Peeks, and you’re smart and funny as hell, and you’re never afraid to challenge me. There is nothing in my life that makes me as happy as just being in a room with you.” Patrick isn’t sure he wants to hear this, but his cock is getting even harder. Jonny adds more lube and then slips a second finger in with the first; Patrick has a distant hope that he isn’t dripping lube or precome on his stockings. “And now you’re mine,” Jonny says, and he sounds supremely satisfied. “You’re mine, and I don’t have to watch anyone else ever touch you again, I don’t have to worry that someone else isn’t treating you like you deserve, I don’t have to wonder if some asshole isn’t taking care of you.” When Patrick sobs, he can feel his hole clench around Jonny’s fingers, and that’s when Jonny adds another finger.

“You still owe me a fifth way you want to come, sweetheart,” he adds. He isn’t trying to press on Patrick’s prostate, but it’s impossible to avoid putting pressure there when he has three big fingers in Patrick. If Patrick could open his eyes, he wonders what he’d see. “How else could I make you come?” Jonny pulls his hand back, and Patrick can feel how his pussy clings to Jonny’s fingers. “Answer me.”

Patrick’s nearly weeping he’s so overwhelmed. “I, I don’t,” he says, and he tosses his head and shudders. “Jonny, I don’t know.”

“Try again.”

His spine’s an avenue of light. “I… oh, god, please, Jonny you could, you can do whatever you want. To me.”

“I can,” Jonny says. “Good job, baby, that was five.” He lets go of Patrick’s cock and presses the tip of his pinky finger against Patrick’s rim, and then he says, “Give me a sixth one,” and Patrick starts sobbing.

“Please,” he says, “please, Jonny, let me—”

Jonny grabs a fistful of his jersey and yanks Patrick back onto his four fingers. He says, “No.”

“Jonny, please—”

“No, Patrick,” Jonny says. “Tell me another way you want to come.” He tries to fan his fingers inside Patrick to test the give, but there isn’t any; Patrick’s too tight. He just wants to see Jonny’s face. He wants—he wants Jonny to tell him to come—

It takes him a hundred years to realize Jonny asked him a question. It takes him a hundred years to understand the question; and then it takes him a hundred more to shape an answer.

“You,” he says, “Jonny. You could…”

“I could what, baby?”

Patrick heaves. “Fuck me,” he says.

“You want me to fuck you?” Jonny says, and he brushes his thumb against Patrick’s rim.

He pulls together every last scrap of strength that he hasn’t willingly handed to Jonny, and then he says, “Jonny, I want you to fuck my pussy.”

“Fuck,” Jonny snarls, and his grip on the back of the jersey tightens; it must be pulling the maple leaf tight across Patrick’s chest. “You’re perfect, baby,” he says, and his voice is low and rough and urgent. “Who do you belong to?”

“You,” Patrick says.

“Say my name.”

Patrick gasps for breath, but he manages to say, “Jonny.” There are tears streaming from beneath his closed eyelids.

“Tell me you love me,” Jonny orders, and he grinds his big cock up against Patrick’s ass and puts one hand on his head.

Patrick sways into the strain on his shoulders and chokes out, “I love you.”

“Good,” Jonny says, and his hand forces Patrick’s head down. “Now open your eyes and come.”

Patrick sees the C on his collarbone first; he starts coming before he understands, before he realizes that he’s looking not at the Canadian maple leaf but at the Blackhawks logo, but Jonny doesn’t give him any time; in one overwhelming wave of release Patrick’s hands come free, and then Jonny bears him down towards the mattress and uses the spreader bar to yank his lower half up on the bed, and once Patrick’s facedown Jonny drives his big cock in.

“You know why you’re in those colors?” Jonny demands. “Because this city is mine and the Blackhawks are mine and you’re mine too, Patrick, you are mine.” And if Patrick thought he was coming before, it’s nothing against the tidal force that slams into him now.

He comes apart. His body is reacting, but those reactions are just a channel for Jonny to pour himself into Patrick. With his face against the mattress, all he sees is a field of red with the top of Jonny’s C in white. Distantly he’s aware that Jonny is jacking Patrick’s cock, that Jonny’s still fucking him, that Jonny’s shoving his cock into the tight grip of Patrick’s pussy and making a home for himself there, but those are just small parts of the claim that Jonny has on Patrick in his entirety. Someone’s screaming, and it must be him; that’s exactly the kind of noise he makes when Jonny’s pouring into him. Every piece of him in that minute belongs to Jonny, and every piece of Jonny belongs to him, too.

“Sweetheart,” Jonny calls softly, but Patrick’s soaring. It’s a good thing Jonny put anchors on his feet so he doesn’t float away. “Peeks,” Jonny says, “come back,” and Patrick opens his eyes.

“There you are, baby,” Jonny says. He’s wrapped around Patrick, up against his back, petting his hair. “I need to untie you. Can you be patient for me for just another minute?”

Patrick swims to the surface and nods.

“Good boy,” Jonny says. He shifts Patrick when he moves, and Patrick realizes Jonny’s come is between his thighs. He wonders if it’s staining his stockings. He hopes Jonny doesn’t take his stockings off.

Jonny frees his wrists first, and he checks over both of Patrick’s hands: makes him spread his fingers, rotate his wrists, move his elbows, lift his arms so Jonny can take the jersey off. He undoes the anchors at Patrick’s ankles next, loosening the coils and guiding the spreader bar free of the rope, and then he goes through the same set of exercises with Patrick’s feet: making him stretch his toes, wiggle his feet, move his ankles. When he’s satisfied, he goes away.

Patrick doesn’t like that.

“I’m here, Peeks, you’re okay,” Jonny says, and then he’s using a wet cloth to clean Patrick’s belly of his own come. He cleans the insides of Patrick’s thighs less thoroughly, and then his finger dips beneath the lacy top of one of Patrick’s stockings. Patrick makes a noise of protest.

“Okay, sweetheart,” Jonny says, and he laughs softly. He sounds wrecked himself, and happy. “We’ll leave those on.” He makes Patrick drink a little water, and then he finally climbs back in bed and pulls Patrick against him and covers them both with a blanket so soft Patrick only feels weight.

He stays curled against Jonny for a long, long time while Jonny strokes his hair and kisses his forehead and tells Patrick how much he’s loved. He tells Patrick stories, too, about the last time he was in Cabo. He’d rented a villa on a private beachfront, and the villa had a big living room with a high ceiling and double glass doors that opened onto the beach, and all Jonny had been able to think about was opening those doors and suspending Patrick in the middle of that room so Jonny could look at him. He’d missed Patrick even though Patrick had never been his to miss, but he’s wrong, so Patrick reminds him, “You’re in love with me.”

Jonny laughs softly. “There you are,” he says. “How do you feel?”

Patrick snuggles closer to Jonny. “Good,” he says, even though it’ll be a miracle if Jonny can understand him. “That was…”

“I know,” Jonny says. “Trust me, I know.” He pets down the back of Patrick’s neck. “Shoulders okay? Not too sore?”

Patrick yawns. He’s not sure how late it is. “Feels fine,” he says. “You okay?”

“Yeah, baby,” Jonny says. “I’m more than okay.” He sounds happy. That’s how he should sound. Patrick must’ve been good.

He drowses for a while. He doesn’t quite drop off to sleep even though he’s exhausted, because he wants to enjoy being close to Jonny; but after a while he swims back to the surface. He’s thirsty enough that he sits up and reaches for the cup by the bed, and then he gives the rest to Jonny, who drains it dry.

“That,” Patrick says, “was amazing.” He’s going to be feeling it tomorrow; there are rope marks on his arms, and he’s the slightest bit tender from Jonny’s too-big cock in the best way.

Jonny grins and flops over on his back. His hair’s sticking straight up in at least three places. “Yeah?” he says. “Good.”

“I know I don’t go under, but I don’t see how sex could possibly get better than that,” Patrick says. “The jersey, that was so fucking hot—”

“Wait,” Jonny says. “What was that about not going under?”

Patrick looks down at him. “About being space-resistant? What about it?”

“Peeks, do you still think…” Jonny pinches the bridge of his nose, but he doesn’t look frustrated. He takes his hand away. “How do you feel when we have sex?”

“Good?”

“Okay, yeah, but beyond that.”

Patrick isn’t sure why Jonny’s asking, but he’s willing to play along. “I don’t know,” he says. “Warm, I guess? And hazy, and kind of… I don’t know, slow? Like I’m not thinking clearly, but it doesn’t matter because you’re there, and I want it to last forever. Sometimes it feels like I would float away if you weren’t there to anchor me,” he adds, and then he rolls his eyes at himself, but he doesn’t know how else to describe it.

“Have you ever felt like that before?” Jonny says. “Other than when we’re having sex.”

“Yeah? I mean, when we’re hanging out.” Patrick shifts his legs; one of his hands is planted next to Jonny’s head, and he’s almost looking straight down at Jonny. “Just, you know, when no one else is around and I’m relaxed. Guess I just like you that much,” he jokes. “I probably need my head checked.”

“I like you, too,” Jonny says immediately. “But Peeks, what I mean is… do you know why I was so surprised when you said you’d never gone under during sex?”

“Because it’s weird?” Patrick hazards.

“No, because you go under for me all the time,” Jonny says. “You always have.”

“What? When…?”

“When we’re together,” Jonny says. “Especially when you’re sitting next to me on the couch. You usually fall asleep without ever coming back up.”

“And you always…” Patrick knows he’s staring. “You always cover me with a blanket,” he says, “and you make sure there’s water for when I wake up, and I feel great the next morning. That’s subspace?”

“I thought you’d figured it out by now,” Jonny says.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” Patrick says. “Oh my god. Jonny, holy shit. I thought that was a you-feeling, not a sex-feeling.”

“Lucky for me, it’s both,” Jonny says, and the look on his face is so honest-to-god thankful that Patrick starts laughing. It bubbles through him like champagne. He’s never been more glad to be a sub in his life.

“I can’t believe it,” he says, and he collapses next to Jonny. “You knew the deck was stacked in your favor from the start.”

“I knew I could make sex good for you, baby,” Jonny corrects. “I never thought I’d get this.” He pulls Patrick closer, and Patrick threads one of his legs between Jonny’s and rubs his foot on the back of Jonny’s calf purely for the pleasure of feeling his silk stockings move against his toes. Jonny’s arm tightens, and Patrick melts against him.

“I guess this means you win,” he says, and he knows Jonny’s smiling even though he can’t see Jonny’s face. That’s okay; they’re a team. The important thing is that Patrick won, too.

Notes for the Chapter:

Holy shit, I’m done!! Thank you so much to everyone who stuck with this story - I can’t tell you how much your comments and messages have meant - and all the love EVER to thundersquall and heartstrings, who adopted me and let me pester them with questions and listened to me think out loud through writing this. <333333

The usual links: Patrick’s vest, Patrick’s panties, Jonny’s watch, and how to lace a corset.

Here’s the inspiration for Patrick’s pose at the end (NSFW). There’s more on the strappado position on the same site.

All of the hockey stuff here is completely fabricated, including the World Juniors result. I’m hoping to more thoroughly ground my next fic in a particular season, because it’s important to make ABO mpreg as realistic as possible.

And… that’s all I’ve got! Thank you again for reading!

Carcanet by trademarkgiggle

Series: Trust Fall [2]
Fandoms: Men’s Hockey RPF
AO3 Categories: M/M
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Characters: Jonathan Toews, Patrick Kane
Freeform Tags: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Begging, Collars, Crying, Dom/sub, Edging, Established Relationship, Size Kink
Status: Completed
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2023-11-16 23:50:13
Summary:

Patrick gets his collar.

Carcanet

Author’s Note:

- For heartstrings.

Belated consolation porn ft. collaring, sex tears, romantic sex, extra toppy Jonny (*chef’s kiss*), and Jonny making Patrick beg while he’s inside him… I think I hit all those notes, this was so much fun to orchestrate!!

This is the inspiration for Patrick’s collar. I imagine the chains at the back are longer and more delicate, and the lock’s more along these lines.

Patrick’s in bed with a tablet, a sheaf of papers, and only himself for company. He’s not exactly sure what’s taking Jonny so long, but for once he’s almost glad to have the room to himself. He’s using one of their contoured foam cushions to hold his notes; the next time Jonny flips him facedown and fucks him on this thing, Patrick’s going to be stuck thinking about Illinois statutes when he comes. On the other hand, if he tells Jonny that, Jonny will take it as a personal challenge and fuck Patrick so hard he blacks out, and then he won’t be thinking about anything.

It’s also possible he’s trying to distract himself. He uses the sheet to wipe a smudge from the tablet screen, and then the mattress dips and Jonny’s beside him.

Patrick doesn’t look up; his lips twitch with the effort of keeping a straight face. “Took you long enough,” he says.

“I couldn’t find my cannon pinion remover.”

“Your what?”

“My cannon pinion remover. It’s for removing cannon pinions,” Jonny says. “Are you using the sex pillow as a tablet stand?”

“Yeah, no, I got that part. What’s a cannon pinion?” As soon as he says it, the answer comes to him. “Watch parts. It’s a watch part.”

“Yeah,” Jonny says. His eyes have slipped to Patrick’s chest. The t-shirt Patrick’s wearing might be a little too tight.

“You’re never going to fix that thing.”

“Not without my cannon pinion remover, I won’t,” Jonny says. What he means is that he doesn’t want the watch to beat him. “What’s with all the paperwork?”

“Just reading about libel,” Patrick says, and it takes Jonny about three seconds to connect the dots. He flops over on his back with a groan, but his grin is poorly hidden.

“Still?”

“Yes, still,” Patrick says. “That guy’s a dick, he shouldn’t be allowed to keep coming after you.”

“He’s a sports journalist. He’s allowed to have an opinion, Peeks, it isn’t libel just because you disagree.”

Patrick grunts.

“And you already got most of his access revoked.”

That’s true.

“And he’s not going to change his mind no matter how much effort you put into it.”

Patrick’s worked bigger miracles with less, but at least for tonight, he’s willing to cede the point. Apparently he doesn’t have much of a choice, either, because Jonny’s started carefully collecting all of Patrick’s printouts and stacking them in the correct order. He shuffles those and Patrick’s tablet over to his nightstand, and Patrick helps by sliding the cushion under the bed. He’ll put it back where it goes in the morning.

When the bed’s clear (not that it isn’t large enough to hold two men and as many sex pillow tablet stands as they might need), Jonny stretches out on his side and says, “Hey. Come here,” and Patrick goes.

Jonny’s hair is sticking up, and he’s shirtless; Patrick surprised he’s wearing pants at all. On a usual night they’d both have stubble coming in, but they’re clean-shaven from a public appearance earlier that evening. Jonny still smells a little like his shaving soap. Patrick’s cataloging his scents, a new one every week; last year he’d thought he knew everything there was to know about Jonny, and now he’s learning something every day.

“You know she didn’t mean anything by it,” Jonny says.

Patrick turns his face into his pillow. “Yeah,” he says. “No, I know. It’s not a big deal.”

“Isn’t it?”

At the function they’d been at, one of the donors had very politely asked if Jonny intended to put a collar on Patrick any time soon. Patrick had gritted his teeth and asked her where she was from. Jonny had removed himself from the room. Patrick found him out in the lobby ten minutes later, still seething over what he saw as an intrusion into their personal life. There were few things that Jonny guarded as ferociously as their privacy.

Maybe the root of it is that neither of them are used to their relationship being public. They’ve made it known that they’re together, but they still don’t act like a couple at work, or at least no more than they did before they were in a relationship. Jonny’s been fanatic about not undermining Patrick’s image—about making it clear that Patrick’s a leader in his own right, that in the locker room he’s a hockey player before he’s a sub, and that their relationship won’t have a detrimental effect on the team. Patrick appreciates that. He appreciates that Jonny’s made his respect so clear, he really does.

He answers Jonny’s question with, “I don’t know.”

“It’s okay if it is,” Jonny says. “It’s none of her business. It’s not anyone’s business, and it pisses me off when people try to act like it is.”

“Jonny. It’s a normal question.”

“Yeah? Well, it’s a fucking garbage question,” Jonny says, and Patrick’s mind goes back to a conversation they’d had not quite a year ago where Jonny went on a tear about subs being called brats. “Subs aren’t required to wear collars, and doms aren’t required to offer them.”

Patrick swallows. “I know.” There are plenty of traditionalists who’d disagree, but subs now are just as likely to refuse a collar as they are to wear one. Some subs even liked to wear multiple collars at a time to flaunt their desirability. Patrick can’t imagine that. He can’t imagine wanting more than one collar, even if collars don’t have the significance they once did. Some doms offer collars to every sub who joins them in bed.

“And I don’t appreciate anyone implying that you should have to wear a collar,” Jonny adds. “Or that it makes you less of a sub if you don’t. The idea that we’re not in a ‘real’ relationship”—he uses one hand to make air quotes—“if you don’t have a collar is offensive.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. It is. It drives him up the fucking wall. He’s never even let himself think about wanting one. “The fanbase is pretty… can be pretty traditional, though. Maybe it would be better if I did wear a collar,” he says, and then he just about fucking kicks himself. What if Jonny thinks Patrick’s trying to pressure him into—?

“They don’t get to comment on it,” Jonny says, like the idea of being pressured never crossed his mind. “It’s your decision not to wear one, not theirs.”

Yeah. Jonny’s right; it is Patrick’s decision, one he gets to make without the input of fans that think he’s loose or management that tells him not to draw attention to his status. Patrick’s worked hard to be taken seriously despite a couple of major slip-ups when he was younger. He’s been working at it since the age of seven.

In another sense, though, it isn’t Patrick’s decision at all. He’s never been offered a collar.

“You know I’d never think less of you, right?” Jonny adds. “Or consider our relationship any less of a commitment.”

One of the things that Patrick’s slowly learning is how to ask for what he needs. He has no problem with that in other contexts, about snapping at people to leave his sticks alone or making sure everyone knows to put lemon slices in his water bottles; but in a romantic relationship and especially in the bedroom, he’s good at making his hard limits clear and crap at everything else.

He’s not sure how to ask about this, though. He’s not sure if he should ask, if he even wants to ask. Maybe Jonny, now that he has Patrick, would rather see him without a collar. Maybe Jonny likes that Patrick doesn’t wear a collar—there are time when he seems possessive, and times when that possessiveness is entirely absent. Maybe Patrick even likes himself better without one.

“Everyone knows you don’t wear a collar,” Jonny says.

“Right,” Patrick says, “yeah.”

“You never have to wear one.”

Patrick swallows. “No,” he says.

“Not wanting a collar doesn’t make you any less of a sub.”

“I—yeah,” Patrick says. “I know.”

“Good,” Jonny says. “I’m glad you know.”

Patrick knows. He knows. He understands.

“Because I have a collar to offer you,” Jonny adds, and maybe Patrick doesn’t understand at all.

“…What?” he says. His mouth is dry, and his voice comes out husky. It’s too big to contain; he sits up, takes a breath. Looks down at the bedspread. Twists around and says, “Jonny—?”

Maybe it’s too big for Jonny to contain, too, because he levers himself upright and reaches out to cup the side of Patrick’s neck. Patrick leans into the touch automatically, seeking it even though not long ago he would’ve pulled away.

“You don’t…” Jonny starts, and Patrick realizes: he’s nervous. He’s scared. This means as much to him as it does to Patrick, and maybe more. “You don’t have to take it,” he says. “You definitely don’t have to wear it. You can stick it in a drawer and never look at it, or you can just leave it out to display, or I can have it melted down and made into something else—”

“Can I see it?”

“…Yeah?” Jonny says, with the start of a smile, and then he jerks away and rolls onto his side. “I mean—yeah, for sure, just let me—”

Patrick peers over his shoulder; he’s rummaging through the drawer of his nightstand, which Patrick never opens because he can’t look at the nightmare array of junk Jonny stores in there. After a couple of seconds of digging through watch parts and charger cables and god knows what else, Jonny extracts a flat velvet box and sits back up. He starts to offer it to Patrick, and then he stops and says, “Are you sure?”

Patrick’s dumbstruck by the sight of the box; it’s a rich blue stamped in the top with a rose gold logo of two hands bound at the wrist. Harry Winston and Cartier are famous the world over, but no jeweler makes collars more iconic than Frey & Merritt.

Patrick couldn’t be more sure if he tried.

“Yes,” he says, and Jonny offers the box to him.

“I fully intend to drape you in diamonds at some point,” Jonny says, “if that’s something you want, but I thought at first something simple might be better.”

Patrick brushes his thumb over the logo, and then he cracks it open. The collar Jonny picked is slender; Patrick’s never seen anything like it. It’s made of silver and braided gold wire twisted together with a delicate gold chain so fine he almost can’t see the links: a rope in miniature of silver and gold to sit around the base of his throat.

His heart’s in his mouth when he reaches out to touch it: but before his fingertips make contact, he looks up at Jonny.

“I don’t,” he says, “I don’t know if—”

“Hey,” Jonny says, “it’s okay, sweetheart, you don’t have to take it.”

“No!” Patrick tightens his grip on the box. “I want—but I don’t think… not in public.”

Jonny’s intent look softens, and the corner of his mouth starts to twitch up. “That’s okay,” he says.

“But I want it to wear at home,” Patrick adds.

“Yeah? You like it?”

Patrick laughs a little; he eyes are wet. “Jonny,” he says. “I never thought—” He laughs again, shakes his head, and drags the back of his hand under his nose, which is gross but does nothing to undercut his pleasure in the moment. “Yeah,” he says. “I love it.”

Jonny grins back at him. “Gonna let me put it on you?”

Patrick answers by climbing into Jonny’s lap.

Jonny rocks backward a bit and laughs. “Okay, baby,” he says, “I guess that’s a yes. Hang on.” He repositions them so his back’s against the headboard and Patrick’s straddling him; Patrick’s clutching the open box in one hand, his thumb pinning the collar in place against the soft gray lining, and it takes him a moment to work up to letting it go when Jonny tries to take it from him.

“I’m going to give it right back to you,” Jonny says dryly. Patrick finally lets go, and Jonny rewards him with a kiss to his cheek that Patrick echoes. After he kisses Jonny’s jaw, he tilts forward so his forehead falls against Jonny’s shoulder. It bares the nape of his neck.

In the cavity between their chests, Jonny takes the collar out of the box and unfastens the lock. It’s threaded through the bit of chain at the collar’s back; when Patrick has it on, the two trailing ends of chain will fall down the back of his neck. And Jonny’s so warm. When he puts the collar on Patrick’s neck, it’ll be just as warm from his hands.

“Ready?” Jonny says.

Patrick nods without glancing up. He has the fleeting thought that he should lift his head and look at Jonny, but Jonny seems to understand. He always understands. Patrick hopes he’s as understanding in return; he works every day at being as devoted to Jonny as Jonny is to him. It’s a high bar, but he’s not going to stop trying.

Jonny kisses his ear. “Okay, baby,” he says, and then he settles the collar around Patrick’s neck. “Too tight?”

“Nnn. No,” Patrick says.

His hands brush the top of Patrick’s spine, and then Patrick hears the almost inaudible sound of the little lock snapping shut. Jonny slides a finger under the collar, checking the fit, before arranging the tails of chain and smoothing them into place. Patrick doesn’t see what he does with the key.

“How’s it feel?”

He was right; the metal was warmed by Jonny’s handling. Even when he cranes his neck, he can’t see it on himself. It feels good, though. It feels right. It feels like Jonny’s got a hand on his throat—not to press or choke, just to hold and keep.

Patrick swallows, more to feel the collar than because he needs to, and then he lifts his head. “Good,” he says. “How’s it look?” A little ridiculous with the old t-shirt he’s wearing, probably, but it doesn’t feel ridiculous.

Jonny extends a finger and traces a line from one of Patrick’s collarbones to the other; he intersects the collar at the base of Patrick’s throat, and then he fits his curled fingers under Patrick’s chin to raise his head.

“It looks like you’re mine,” Jonny says, and a tidal force of realization slams into Patrick; for the first time he not only sees but feels the weight of all those years Jonny spent loving Patrick without knowing that Patrick loved him back, without expectation of reciprocity—all those years Jonny lost not to waiting but to merely enduring.

“I am,” Patrick confesses.

“I know,” Jonny says. “You always were.” He hooks a finger under the collar and pulls. Patrick almost tells him that he’s glad he can give this to Jonny, but Jonny might read that as another manifestation of Patrick’s fears about all the things Patrick can’t give them. He isn’t afraid, though—he’s happy, he’s so happy to have this for himself, and he’s so happy to offer all that meaning up to Jonny.

Patrick doesn’t wait for Jonny to finish reeling him in. He surges forward and kisses him, and Jonny laughs into his mouth and takes. He kisses Patrick and pulls away long enough to peel Patrick’s shirt over his head—carefully, so it doesn’t catch on Patrick’s collar—and then he kisses Patrick again, and again, and a fourth time, before he grabs him by the waist and tumbles him to the mattress.

Jonny smirks down at him. He’s insufferable and impossible and Patrick adores him, adores looking up at him, adores being loved by him. Sometimes he can’t stand the enormity of it, which is why he says, “You have something in your teeth.”

“What?” Jonny says. “No, I don’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you wouldn’t have waited this long to give me shit about it,” Jonny says. “What if I ordered you to never make fun of me?”

“Trying to find out if I’d obey?” Patrick asks. He reaches up and taps a finger against Jonny’s lips. “Doesn’t matter. You wouldn’t ever.”

Jonny raises his brows. “No?”

“No. You like me mouthy.” He twerks the tip of Jonny’s nose and grins. “You like me being me.”

Jonny pretends to snap his teeth at Patrick’s finger, and Patrick retaliates by poking him in the forehead and then grunts when Jonny drops his full body weight on Patrick. Round over. Patrick isn’t going anywhere; he doesn’t want to go anywhere, but he likes knowing that Jonny’s invested in him staying. He’s abruptly aware of how hard his dick is—thanks to the sensation of the collar around his neck, thanks to being pinned by his dom, and thanks as always to just being in the same room as Jonny.

“Yeah, I do,” Jonny says, and it takes Patrick a minute to remember what they were talking about. “I like you being mine, too.” Patrick feels himself flush, and then flush even more when Jonny kisses the side of his neck just above his collar.

“I was trying to figure out how to ask for it,” Patrick admits. “Or even if I should ask for it.”

“Would you have?”

He thinks about that while he presses his mouth against Jonny’s shoulder and breathes in the smell of his skin. “Yes,” he says. “It would’ve taken me a while, though. A couple of days to think about it, and to… just to realize it was okay to ask even though I have limits for when I want to wear it.”

Jonny pushes himself up again to look Patrick in the eye. “You know I’m always going to be your dom no matter what, right?”

“I know,” Patrick says, because he does, and because he likes the reassurance. He’s getting better at that balance—at knowing it’s okay to express his doubts without ruminating so much on his uncertainties that he lets fear swallow him. “You have to keep being my dom,” he jokes. “You gave me a collar, babe, there’s no escaping now.”

“Demanding,” Jonny says. “I like it.”

Patrick parts his lips expectantly and tips his chin back, and Jonny leans down to kiss him. “Your fault for—mm. For spoiling me,” he says. He sounds breathy. Jonny kisses his mouth again, and then his chin, and then he bites gently at the base of Patrick’s throat, just above the collar. Patrick’s going to have a whole trail of bite marks down his neck and shoulder, and it won’t be the first time. It’s the kind of bruising he not only allows but likes. The hand-shaped bruises that sometimes show up on his arms are acceptable, too; they make for a nice counterpoint to the rope marks that linger on his body.

“I might make you beg for me tonight,” Jonny says. He might as well be commenting on the weather. “What do you think, Peeks?”

Patrick freezes, but he must make some kind of noise, because Jonny laughs; it’s low and dark and feels as liquid as Patrick’s spine.

Jonny nips his collarbone. “I don’t actually have to ask, you know,” he says, “not when you have my collar on. You don’t want me to ask, do you?”

Patrick shudders. “No. I trust you.”

“I know you do, sweetheart,” Jonny says. He sucks one last mark into Patrick’s shoulder and then sits back to strip Patrick of his flannel pants. Patrick lifts his hips obediently; he wants to reach down and rub his cock, but he keeps his hands loose on the mattress on either side of his head. Jonny doesn’t miss how he twitches, though; he tosses Patrick’s pants on the floor and then leans down and blows on the head of Patrick’s cock. Patrick’s hips jackknife without his permission, and he barely bites back a whine.

“Making you beg might be too easy,” Jonny says. “I think instead you aren’t going to be allowed to beg for me. Do you understand?”

God. Yeah, Patrick understands. “Yes,” he says.

“What are the rules?”

“Don’t—” Fuck, Jonny’s mouth is still so close to his dick. “Don’t beg,” he gets out.

“Good, baby,” Jonny says, and then he steps back off the bed to strip off his own pants. He’s hard, too, and leaking a little; there’s a glistening bead of precome rolling down the underside of his thick cock.

Patrick swallows. “What if I do?”

“If you do what?”

“If I… if I beg.”

Jonny circles the bed and digs around in his nightstand again. The drawer slides shut, and he tosses a bottle of lube so it lands on the bed next to Patrick. (Pjur Back Door—Jonny’s preferred brand. It looks like a parody, but it gets the job done.)

“Open it,” he says. Patrick sits up, unscrews the cap, and carefully tips a little onto his right hand. “Spread your legs,” Jonny adds, and Patrick does that, too; he braces his left hand behind himself and parts his legs. His toes are pointed, his feet are flat against the mattress. He’d almost be happy if Jonny would just come back and breathe on his cock again.

“What happens if you beg,” Jonny says thoughtfully. He’s back at the foot of the bed, and he crosses his arms and leans against the bedframe, totally unconcerned about his own nudity or his fat, hard dick. Meanwhile, Patrick’s right hand is still extended and upturned to hold the little pool of lube, and he can’t stop thinking about how exposed and vulnerable the underside of his wrist feels.

“If you beg, you’d better make the most of it,” Jonny tells him, “because if you can’t convince me to touch you, then we’ll stop everything, and maybe tomorrow we’ll revisit whether you get to come or not. How’s that sound, baby?”

Patrick almost says Please, he almost says Please, no, and he stops himself right before it trips off his tongue. He’s so used to Jonny coaxing him to ask for what he wants—to Jonny pulling his desires out of him—that it’s become unthinking, a feature of that warm gold haze that Jonny guides him into. He’s going to be good, though. He has to be good. No, that isn’t right; he’s good already. He’s wearing Jonny’s collar, and that proves it.

“Okay,” he says.

Jonny grins. “Good, Peeks,” he says. “I want you to finger yourself for me, sweetheart. Spread your legs a little more—there you go.”

Patrick can’t figure out how to spread the lube on his fingers one-handed, so he shifts forward so he can use his other hand, too. The angle isn’t good—or rather, it’s probably good for Jonny, but Patrick isn’t really exposed enough to do more than dip a finger inside his hole. His wrist is rubbing against his cock and balls, though; he lifts his hand to hover over his dick and then glances at Jonny for permission.

“That’s fine, baby,” Jonny says, and he sounds like he’s amused by his own willingness to indulge Patrick. Patrick makes a noise of relief and pets down the length of his cock and then again, this time more firmly, before he wraps his hand around it. The position forces his back into an artificial arch. He lets his head tip back to put his collar on display.

“Does that feel good?” Jonny asks.

Patrick strokes up his length and back down. He’d probably come if Jonny breathed on him. That’s a lie—Jonny would have to tell him he’s allowed to come first.

Patrick’s trying to be careful, but he still shudders. “It feels good,” he admits. He rubs his thumb over the head, smearing lube and precome over the slit and around the crown. “Yeah, it—it feels good.” He glides his hand back down and then starts jacking himself with a loose grip. His cock is throbbing; it’s a good thing he’s wearing his collar, or his restraint would be out the window. There’s a white knot building at the top of his spine and he’s performing for his dom, and if Jonny would just give him permission, he’d be able to—

“Stop,” Jonny says.

Patrick snatches his hand away before he’s aware of what he’s doing. His cock slaps against his belly, and he makes a noise of distress that absolutely qualifies as a whimper.

“Something you wanted to say, Peeks?” Jonny suggests. He isn’t even touching himself. Patrick wants to put a garbage bag over his biceps. A winter coat. If Jonny likes his shoulders half as much as Patrick likes Jonny’s, they’ll never have to worry about a dead bedroom. Saying that wouldn’t count as begging, would it? Patrick isn’t sure. Patrick just wants to come.

“No,” he says. His voice comes out rough, so he tries again: “No.”

“Touch your collar.”

Patrick reaches up with the hand that was on his cock, but he stops just shy. His fingers are still covered in lube. He looks up at Jonny to check with him, but Jonny just looks back, completely impassive. Will it hurt—is it okay to touch the collar? He doesn’t want to harm it or get it dirty, but Jonny’s giving away nothing, so Patrick does as he’s told.

“Good job, baby,” Jonny says. “We can clean it later. You’re taking good care of what I gave you, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “I’m trying.”

“I can tell, sweetheart. Hook your fingers through the front—there you go.” Patrick slides two fingers under it. “After this maybe I’ll let you look at yourself in the mirror. You’re gorgeous in gold.” This is almost more overwhelming than touching his cock; his slick fingers are up against his throat, pressing his collar against the back of his neck and making the twin tails of the chain slide against his nape.

“If I’m so—” Patrick cuts himself off.

“What was that, Peeks?”

“…Nothing.” Anything he asks at this point is going to mean Please touch me.

Jonny smirks. He’s very obviously getting off on this.

“Tug on it,” he says. “Not hard, don’t hurt yourself. Does it feel like it’s going to come off?”

Patrick’s breath hitches. “No,” he says.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s locked.”

“Let go of your collar,” Jonny says. He laughs when Patrick whines. “I know, baby, but I want you to finger yourself.”

Patrick has far too much skin for this to be sustainable. He has far too much skin and he’d really like Jonny to touch him now, please. Instead of begging, though, he pulls his legs under him so he’s on his knees with his ass on his heels. He widens his legs without having to ask.

“Do you need more lube?” Jonny asks.

He has to make himself stop and concentrate to answer. “Are you going to—am I going to take your cock?”

“That’s up to you,” Jonny says. He’s being obnoxiously smug. If Patrick were less inclined to get down on his belly and beg for Jonny to touch him, he’d throw a shoe at Jonny’s head. He shoots Jonny what he hopes amounts to a narrow-eyed look of defiance but which he suspects only suggests pliability and desperation, and then he unscrews the lid of the lube again. Maybe assuming he’ll get what he wants by the end of the night is stupidly optimistic, but Patrick didn’t get this far in life without stupidity, optimism, and a deep well of stubbornness.

He drops his head and reaches behind himself. His erection is flushed a dark, rosy red, and he wonders if pointing out how painful it looks would get him anywhere. He glances up at Jonny and decides—no. Probably not.

He can’t stop himself from gasping softly when his fingers touch his rim; there’s no way Jonny missed the quick shocked way he sucked in his breath, and it makes him aware that he’s rigid, his muscles locked tight against his struggle for control. He exhales and focuses on relaxing his jaw, his shoulders, and his feet, and then he dips a finger inside.

“Take it out,” Jonny says, and Patrick groans and pulls his hand away. “Just touch your rim,” he instructs. “Don’t put your fingers inside. Does your hole feel tight?”

Patrick swallows. “Y-yeah,” he says. He drags his fingertip over his rim and spreads his legs a little wider. He’s always been sensitive here, but it’s a hundred times worse with Jonny’s eyes on him.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” Jonny asks idly. He’s still leaning against the bedpost, and his dick’s still hard, and he still looks like he a self-satisfied king strolling through a castle of his own construction.

He’s gotta… if he wants Jonny to touch him, he has to be careful. “I—Jonny.” No, not that. “I like it when you fuck me.”

“I know you do, baby.” Jonny’s so gentle. “I know you do. Put your fingers inside of yourself. Don’t move them.” Patrick whines again and doesn’t bother hiding it. “I know, sweetheart. You’re being so good for me. Why was it that you can’t take your collar off?”

“Jonny—”

“Why can’t you take your collar off?”

“It’s.” Patrick’s fingers are just shy of pressing against his prostrate, and the anticipation of that lightning-bolt sensation has him shivering. “It’s locked.”

“Who has the key?” Jonny asks.

Patrick wants to move his fingers, he wants to touch his dick. He wants to crawl forward and put his mouth over Jonny’s cock and breathe his hot breath against Jonny’s skin. What was the question?

“Who has the key to your collar,” Jonny prompts.

Oh, that’s—

“You,” Patrick says.

Jonny laughs softly. “That’s right, Peeks,” he says, and then he holds out his fist and opens it. A chain drops down; there’s a little gold key caught on the end. It’s so small that from where he is, Patrick can’t even see the notches. He leans forward for a better look and has to catch himself on one hand when he loses his balance. It jars the fingers he has hooked inside of his ass, and he grunts at the jolt and then whines in frustration.

“All right, baby,” Jonny says. “Take your fingers out and wipe your hand.” Patrick’s blown past thinking about keeping the sheets clean, but Jonny still says, “I’ll change them later. Now come here, sweetheart. Bring the lube with you.”

Patrick fishes the lube out of the blankets and then crawls forward until he’s perched on his knees at the edge of the bed. He’s shaking with the difficulty of not crawling straight into Jonny arms—but that’s tantamount to begging with his body, isn’t it? He’s no longer sure what counts.

“Hold your hand out,” Jonny says, and then he drops the chain so it pools in Patrick’s cupped palm. He isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do with it. Does Jonny want him to take off the collar? He looks up at Jonny, and Jonny smiles and says, “Put it on me.”

Patrick doesn’t know if he can manage a clasp; his hands are still a little slippery with lube, but when he lifts it up, he realizes it’s long enough to slip over Jonny’s head. It hangs to Jonny’s breastbone, and Patrick has a sharp shock of realization: he hasn’t ever seen Jonny wearing a key before, not even one tucked down the front of his shirt. A key worn by a dom only means one thing.

Jonny’s never given a collar to a sub before.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Jonny says. He reaches out to cup Patrick’s face. “Now kiss me.”

If Patrick were any less an exposed nerve, he’d be beaming. As it is, he’s shaking as he presses against Jonny. Their cocks brush together, and the only reason he doesn’t come is that Jonny bites down on his lower lip. No, that isn’t true; he’s not allowed to come. If he asks for permission, he loses, and he doesn’t want to lose. He just wants to rub his cock against Jonny’s.

Jonny pulls back and kisses the tip of Patrick’s nose. “Slick my cock up.”

Yeah. Okay. That sounds like—like maybe it could be a step in the right direction. His hands aren’t steady; when he opens the lube, he spills it and then jerks back in horror.

“You’re okay,” Jonny says. “Look at me, Peeks—there you are. It’s okay, sweetheart, you didn’t do anything wrong.” He takes the lube out of Patrick’s hands and screws the cap back out. “You’re good, baby.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. He doesn’t apologize, because he doesn’t need to apologize. “Yeah. I am good.”

“You are,” Jonny says, and he takes Patrick’s slick hands in his own and then bends forward to press a kiss to his forehead. “You okay to keep going?”

“Yes ple—” Patrick clamps his mouth shut and shudders. “Yes,” he says. “Yeah, Jonny, I want to keep going.” He might not have gotten that exactly right, but Jonny will know what he means—that he means please outside of the scene, not within it.

Jonny kisses his forehead again. “Okay,” he says. “Get my cock wet. Think you have enough lube?”

There’s a joke Patrick could make here, but it isn’t coming to him. He’d really like Jonny to touch him—fuck him, jack him off. Breathe on his cock. “Yeah,” he says, but he isn’t really paying attention. He sits back and wraps one hand around Jonny’s cock and then the other, works them up and down to smooth the lube along his length, twists his wrists because his fingers don’t meet around the girth of it. A little of this lube goes a long way. Even with how big Jonny is—if Jonny fucks him—

He likes how Jonny’s cock feels against his hands, against his fingers. He likes the tactile sensation of the lube. Jonny’s skin is so warm. He draws his flat palm over the very tip of Jonny’s dick and shivers.

“—Peeks,” Jonny’s saying. “There you are. That’s good enough, baby. Lie back for me.” He touches Patrick’s shoulder to steady him, and Patrick quivers. Under his breath, Jonny says, “Patrick, fuck.”

The problem is that Jonny keeps touching him at discrete points: his mouth, his shoulder, his hands. It isn’t enough. Patrick wants to press his whole body against Jonny’s. He wants not just touch but weight. He wants Jonny to touch his skin.

But Jonny settles him and arranges him with minimal touch. He ends up with his ass at the very edge of the bed, which was custom-built to Jonny’s height and for Jonny’s comfort while fucking a sub. Is Jonny going to fuck him? He wraps his hand around Patrick’s ankle, and Patrick shudders.

“Anything you want to say, baby?” Jonny says.

The lock at the back of Patrick’s collar is pressing into his neck. “Jonny,” he says.

“Yeah, Peeksy?”

Patrick opens his mouth, shuts it, and swallows.

Jonny laughs, but for the first time it sounds strained. “Okay, sweetheart,” he says. “I’m going to fuck you. You aren’t allowed to come. Understand?”

Yeah. Yes, Patrick understands. If he asks to come, he loses, and Patrick Kane doesn’t lose.

“Answer me,” Jonny prompts.

Oh. “Yes,” Patrick says, and then he feels the tip of Jonny’s cock against his hole as Jonny pushes in.

They go slow. They have to go slow. Patrick’s better at this than he used to be, but Jonny’s dick is mammoth. Patrick’s shaking with the effort of not coming—of not asking to come. By the time Jonny’s all the way in him, Patrick is nothing but tension. Jonny presses into him, and then he goes still.

And then he stays still. He’s looking down at Patrick and his eyes are so dark; there are times when looking at Jonny makes Patrick too overwhelmed to contain what he feels, so he shies away from looking, but he’s looking now. He can feel how his hole is stretched wide and tight around Jonny, and he thinks about how Jonny’s inside of him and Jonny’s looking down at him and Jonny put a collar on his neck, and his back arches and his entire body contracts around Jonny’s cock. His hands are knitted together under his chin, his elbows are clamped against his sides; he isn’t looking at Jonny anymore, because his eyes are scrunched shut to contain the tears that he can’t keep from building.

Jonny has his arms hooked under Patrick’s knees, but he transfers one of Patrick’s ankles to his shoulder before leaning forward. It opens Patrick up in an asymmetric stretch that shifts Jonny’s dick inside of him. He’s so slick with excess lube that it would feel frictionless if Jonny weren’t so big.

“Look at you,” Jonny says, and he brushes a thumb under Patrick’s eye. Patrick shakes. “You’re so good, baby.” If he opens his mouth and begs Jonny to move or to touch Patrick’s cock or to give him permission to come, then Jonny’s going to pull out; but if Patrick doesn’t beg, is he just going to stay like this? Spitted on Jonny’s cock until Jonny releases him?

Jonny traces the front curve of the collar, and Patrick has to clap a hand over his own mouth to stop himself from pleading.

“I didn’t think I’d ever have this,” he says, and he shifts again; the key on the end of his necklace drags lightly over Patick’s chest. Patrick’s never fought so hard to control himself in his life, but Jonny doesn’t want him to come and Jonny doesn’t want him to beg so he’s back to enduring.

There’s a moment of silence, and Jonny adds: “I never thought I’d give someone a collar.” He touches the hollow of Patrick’s throat, and then says, even more quietly, “I never thought I’d give you a collar,” and what drives Patrick over the edge is the implication that he’s special.

He shoves a fist against his lips, but it escapes anyway: “Please.”

He knows what comes next. Jonny’s going to—maybe he’ll chuckle, and say he knew Patrick wouldn’t be able to hold out—that he knew Patrick wouldn’t be able to beg prettily enough to convince him. He’s going to pull his cock out of Patrick and Patrick’s going to be left empty and hard, with his dick twitching against his belly and his entire body wracked with the pain of delay. He’ll pull out, and then maybe he’ll make Patrick get down on his knees, and that means Patrick will have to remember how to unwind his body enough to move. The anticipation’s already making him ache with absence.

But he feels a nudge against his cheek, and then Jonny’s kissing him. Jonny kisses him soft and slow, and then he says, “Again.”

Patrick peels his hand away from his mouth; his arm trembles until he reaches up and hooks it around Jonny’s neck. He tries to drag his attention back together to say I want you or I love you or I’m yours or even Let me come you jackass, but all he manages is, “Please.”

Jonny still isn’t moving even though Patrick’s hole is clinging to him. “You want to come, baby?”

“Jonny—”

“Are you going to come around my cock?”

Patrick trembles even harder. “If you want,” someone says. Is that him?

“If I want?” Jonny says. “Patrick,” he says, “I want,” and that’s how Patrick comes.

He shakes apart in place; not once does Jonny move in him, although Patrick’s hips jerk upwards of their own accord as he comes all over his stomach, and just that increment of motion drives Jonny’s cock into him enough to make him toss back his head and shout. He’s aware of being pinned in place beneath Jonny, and then he’s aware of nothing. It’s a good thing he has his collar to anchor him, or else he might drift away—

He hears someone sobbing.

He hears himself sobbing, feels his chest contract and his shoulders hitch and the way he’s curled into himself and he’s an exposed nerve or a ball of light and Jonny must not understand that he’s already come because he’s fucking Patrick now, he’s finally fucking Patrick, he’s moving in Patrick, Patrick has blown past pleasure and now he’s unfolding. It’s too immense. He can’t hold on to it.

“Peeks.” He’s being kissed even while he’s crying. Too much of a good thing blows you open. It feels incredible. “Peeks,” he hears. “Fuck. Patrick.”

Something heavy covers him, and he shoves his free hand against his face to try to dam his tears. He’s never felt release like this in his life; he might still be coming. “Shh, baby. It’s okay. You’re okay, let it out. You’re so good for me.” Jonny’s holding him; that’s better. “You’re okay, Patrick,” Jonny says. “We’re okay.” He’s right. They are.

-

Postscript.

“Didn’t you say you’d change the sheets?”

Jonny tightens his arm around Patrick. “Hey,” he says. “I thought you dozed off.”

Patrick shoves his face into the crook of Jonny’s shoulder. He’s feeling less like a man than a puddle. A puddle person. Puddle-Man. Either the exhaustion or the dopamine is hitting him hard. “Can’t,” he mumbles. “What if I roll over into the wet spot.”

“I’ll let you have the TV remote for a month if you can roll over right now,” Jonny says.

“Watch me,” Patrick says into the thick muscle of Jonny’s shoulder. He’s so tired. Satisfied, and also tired.

There’s a pause, and then Jonny says, “I’m waiting.”

“I’m not rolling over?”

“No, baby.”

“S’okay, I’ll do it in the morning. Hey,” he says. “Don’t take my collar off.”

Jonny laughs; Patrick feels more than hears it. “Okay, Peeks,” he says. “You got it.”

Trussed Fall by trademarkgiggle

Series: Trust Fall [3]
Fandoms: Men’s Hockey RPF
AO3 Categories: M/M
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Status: Completed
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2023-11-16 23:50:16
Summary:

Scraps, shorts, & more.

1. Post-Safeword Jonny Interlude

Jonny’s opinion is that part of being a responsible dom is knowing what your sub is going through. Obviously he can only relate to a degree—to pick the most blatant example, Jonny’s satisfaction comes from tying someone else up, not from being tied up himself—but there’s nothing he’s done to a sub that he hasn’t first had done to himself.

Once he’d started studying more intricate forms of rope bondage, he’d made a point of putting himself in controlled situations that would make him safeword or drop or both, too; if he and his sub both safeword at the same time, only one of them’s in a position to cut the other free. Delaying the crash that followed so he had time to provide care had been one of the most valuable lessons he’d learned as a dom. He doesn’t use it often, though, thank god, and he never delays the crash the crash indefinitely. It’s impossible, and it’s unhealthy to try, which is regrettably not a common attitude because a lot of doms are macho dipshits.

He also makes a point of encouraging his subs to safeword, but he doesn’t often run into a situation where one of them does, either. Reading a sub is another invaluable skill, and Jonny likes the challenge of it, of learning when to coax or push or pull back within the boundaries of a sub’s limits. And he’d never expected to run into a surprise with Patrick, who’s the most beautifully responsive sub Jonny’s ever met. He’d thought that before they’d ever fucked, before they’d ever kissed; Patrick could go under lightly but obviously just from sitting beside Jonny on the couch and having his hair stroked. He often asleep without ever coming back up at all. Those nights were the only time Jonny allowed himself to care for Patrick like a dom might care for a sub; a blanket, a bottle of water, and a cup of coffee made for some pretty shitty aftercare, but not violating Patrick’s boundaries was always more important.

He’d been shocked stupid when Patrick had admitted he didn’t ever fall into subspace in bed, which was the only reason he’d offered to sleep with Patrick at all, but then Patrick had said okay, he’d said yes, and now Jonny gets to have him like this: stretched out and bound, his pretty pink flush made obvious by the bareness of his body. He gets to tell Patrick, “You’re so good,” and, “You’re so good for me, baby,” and remember how Patrick had fallen apart when Jonny had called him Mrs. Toews; he gets to tell Patrick that he’s the best sub, that he’s Jonny’s best sub, and remember fucking him out on the couch before taking him out on a date.

It’s a pleasure, it’s a privilege, it’s the best damn feeling Jonny’s ever had in his life: nothing compares to having Patrick under his control. And maybe that’s why he’s so caught off guard when Patrick says, “Nineteen.” It’s the gasp that catches his attention, not the word. How Patrick gasps now isn’t the sobbing gasp he’d given when Jonny told him he was a pretty bride, or the the desperate gasp he’d given when Jonny dragged a paintbrush down his cock, or the eager gasp he’d given when Jonny first slid a finger into him. This is a new gasp, and it’s a bad gasp, and it’s wrong.

Patrick says it again. He says it again: “Nineteen,” and Jonny stops, and he’s already going for the shears just from Patrick’s tone, from the way he sounds, from the lost, desperate look on his face, and that reaction is reflexive, it’s one Jonny trained into himself, he’s moving before his brain catches up to him; but then Patrick says it again, “Nineteen,” and that’s when it hits Jonny that Patrick is safewording. Patrick pulls himself up and starts scrabbling at the rope like a trapped animal, and Jonny has to physically pin him down and make him be still so he can cut through the rope without hurting Patrick. He lets go but immediately reaches out in invitation—to hold Patrick, to find out what’s wrong, to check his wrists for injury—but Patrick isn’t there anymore. Patrick has left the building. Patrick is intent on leaving.

“Baby,” Jonny says. Patrick’s face is bloodless like he’s about to pass out, so Jonny says it again: “Peeks,” he says, “baby,” he says, “What’s wrong, you’re okay, sweetheart you’re free.” He’s on his feet, trying to calm Patrick down without going near him for fear of startling him more, but Patrick’s dragging up pants without stopping for underwear, and then he’s yanking on Jonny’s sweatshirt and shoving his feet into the wrong shoes, and then he’s out the door before Jonny, who’s pretty fucking wrecked himself, can go after him.

And Jonny stands there, locked in place
and thinks, Is he hurt,
and, Did I hurt him,
and, If I hurt him, how do I go on
and he’s left with the image of Patrick gasping “Nineteen,” of having to guess that nineteen was Patrick’s safeword, of figuring out that Patrick’s real safeword is inextricably linked to Jonny himself. He’s left wondering. He’s left reeling. He’s left without Patrick, and that’s the fucking worst thing of all.

But Jonny always rises to the occasion, so he shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath; and lets it out; and takes a deep breath; and breathes it out; and takes a deep breath, and lets it go. His underwear and pants are still on the floor, but he has to dig for a t-shirt and jacket since Patrick took his top, and then he makes himself put on boots instead of shoving his feet into sandals because the last thing he needs is frostnip from the snow. He takes the time to dig out two powerbars and two bottles of water, too, so he can eat on the way and still have a spare of each for Patrick. He doesn’t have to go digging for Patrick’s spare key; it’s already on his keychain, right next to his own, jangling against his car remote as he locks his door behind him.

2. Married Baby Hockey Players AU

Notes for the Chapter:

heartstrings came up with the idea for a “TF au where they figure out their feelings about ten years earlier and ended up married as baby hockey players” and could I resist that? I could not.

“You can’t be serious,” Patrick says.

“I’m Captain Serious,” Jonny retorts, and even though Patrick can’t see his face, he knows Jonny winces. “Sorry. I don’t even like that nickname. But yeah, baby, I’m serious.” He hooks his chin over Patrick’s shoulder and turns the ring box over. There’s a logo on the top: two hands bound together. Patrick would’ve known the jeweler that logo belongs to even if he didn’t have sisters; they’re famous the world over. If you have the money, there’s only one place to buy a collar for your sub, and that’s Frey & Merritt.

“We’re only nineteen,” Patrick gets out, and then he huffs a little laugh, because he knows what Jonny’s going to say. “Fine, you’re twenty.”

“Does that matter?” Jonny asks.

Patrick looks down at his hands, at their hands. They’re sitting in bed together, Patrick’s back to Jonny’s chest, his legs bracketed by Jonny’s, after a very long and very enjoyable day of experimenting with different ways to tie Patrick up. Patrick likes watching Jonny work through problems with his quick hands and quicker mind almost more than he likes actually being bound. He’s trying not to give that away just yet to Jonny, though, even though Jonny probably knows. Jonny could take Patrick apart with just his hands and voice and the weight of his body right from the start; giving him a piece of equipment and challenging him to master it really wasn’t fair. Once Jonny decides he knows enough to feel comfortable suspending Patrick, Patrick’s afraid that the rest of his life (including hockey) is going to start feeling like filler to keep him busy while he isn’t having sex with Jonny. Actually, that’s already a looming problem.

He lifts the box out of Jonny’s palm. “We haven’t even brought hockey back to Chicago yet,” he jokes.

“I didn’t realize that was a contingency, but I’ll drive to Detroit right now. See if maybe they’re willing to fight it out.”

“They’re gonna bury you, and then who’s going to be our captain? Sharpy?”

“I could take on the Red Wings,” Jonny teases, and then, a little more seriously, he says, “I’d take on the Red Wings for you.”

“I know,” Patrick says.

“If you don’t want it—”

Patrick ducks his head towards the side of Jonny’s face. “Of course I want it,” he says, “you know I want it, jackass, don’t act like you’re getting it back now.”

Jonny laughs and then wraps his hands around Patrick’s to crack the box open. The ring is gold, with two polished bands bracketing the braid that circles the middle. “Listen,” he says, “I really am serious about this. We don’t have to go public. We can have a long engagement, or figure out how to keep it a secret. I’m not interested in making you a bigger target.”

It doesn’t cross Patrick’s mind that Jonny doesn’t want to go public; he’d probably tattoo his name across Patrick’s ass if he thought he could get away with it. “Yeah,” Patrick says, “we do. I don’t want—I don’t want it to be a secret, Jonny.”

“Okay, sweetheart,” Jonny says. “Then we’ll figure that out, too.” He kisses Patrick’s ear.

“So, uh,” Patrick says, “are you going to put it on me?” He means it humorously, in the hope he can get another chuckle out of Jonny, but it comes out all wrong: breathy, breathless.

Jonny takes the ring out of the box, lifts Patrick’s hand, and slides it onto his finger. And there it is: his engagement ring. The only way it could be more to Patrick’s taste is if it had inset garnets that wrote out “88.” Jonny slides his hands back, but he doesn’t let go; his fingers circle Patrick’s wrists, right over the rope marks from that morning.

Patrick catches himself staring at the ring while he thinks about the future. It feels a hell of a lot heavier than it looks, maybe because there’s one obstacle he’s not sure they can overcome. They can fight a lot of fights, but this one might break him.

“Baby?”

“What if they make us stop sharing a room on the road?” Patrick blurts.

“What? They’re not—Peeks, they aren’t going to make us stop sharing a room because we’re engaged.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, “but now they’ll know what we do in the room.”

“We’ve been doing that all along,” Jonny says. “Nothing’s changing.”

“Yeah, but what if they do?” Patrick persists. He tries to think about it—being forcibly separated from Jonny out of some misguided belief about what makes them play better, or what looks better for the team—and shudders.

“I’ll sneak down the hall.”

“What if they give me a roommate?” Patrick says. “Jonny, we’re going to have to have sex next to a vending machine.”

“Look,” Jonny says. “If they try to make us room with other people, we can quit hockey and you can support us as a basketball coach.” From the sound of his voice, he’s clearly trying to fight back a smile; he may not have laughed outright, but Patrick’s winning anyway.

“Deal,” Patrick says.

“And maybe next year we can get you some silver to go with that, eh?”

Patrick grins to himself. “See,” he says, “that’s how I know you’re a keeper.”

3. Collaring Jonny POV

Notes for the Chapter:

This was the beginning of the original version of Carcanet. I ended up restarting the story because I kind of felt like it worked better from Patrick’s POV, but here’s Jonny’s view of (a slightly different version) of him offering Patrick a collar!

Jonny has not a single fucking clue how to bring it up. He got as far as ‘tonight?’ and ‘in bed?’ before running out of ideas. It’s a novel feeling; he’s only been uncertain of how to act around Patrick a handful of times, none of them particularly good. This could be good, though. Maybe. If he can figure out how to ask.

Patrick’s in one of his quiet moods, though, so maybe Jonny needs to postpone the asking. He’s lying on his side in bed facing the wall, still but not asleep; Jonny can tell from the set of his thick shoulders, from the long line of his back, that he’s awake. Also, the blankets are pooled around his hips, and Patrick rarely falls asleep without at least one cover up to his shoulders. He doesn’t pull in on himself like this often anymore. Not the best night for asking, then.

“Hey.” Jonny slides into bed behind Patrick and drops a kiss to the cap of Patrick’s shoulder; he’s rewarded when Patrick rolls onto his back and looks up at him.

“Hey,” he says, and he smiles: not the full-on grin with dimples that makes him duck his head like he can’t contain his own joy, but a small, sweet, thoughtful smile. “Took you long enough to get to bed.”

“I couldn’t find my cannon pinion remover,” Jonny says, distracted by Patrick’s exposed navel. Is he naked under there? Fifty-fifty. Someone should probably pin him down and find out.

“Your what?”

“Cannon pinion remover, it’s for removing cannon pinions.” They don’t have to be anywhere tomorrow morning. If Patrick isn’t tired…

“Yeah. No, I got that, thanks,” Patrick says. “What is a cannon pinion?” And then he immediately follows up with, “Watch parts. It’s a watch part.”

“Yeah,” Jonny says.

“You know you’re never going to fix that thing, right?”

“Not without my cannon pinion remover,” Jonny says, and smirks down at him. Patrick huffs, one of those crooked half-smiles of his revealing a dimple.

“You just don’t want the watch to beat you,” he says. His stubble’s coming in, a shade or two darker than the gold of his lashes. His eyes are starting to dilate just from looking up at Jonny, and there’s nothing Jonny loves more than how easy Patrick is for him, but he wants Patrick in a clear headspace in case… just in case. And also because Jonny wants to know what’s on his mind. He’s been pensive the whole evening.

Jonny rolls over on his back and stuffs an extra pillow under his head. “Hey,” he says, “come here,” and Patrick obediently turns over and lets Jonny guide him. He ends up lying mostly on top of Jonny, his fists stacked on Jonny’s chest so he can rest his chin on them. Jonny cups his cheek, brushes a thumb over his cheekbone, and watches as Patrick tips his head into the touch, openly seeking it.

“What were you thinking about?” Jonny asks.

Patrick exhales, and then he says, “Have you ever collared a sub?”

Holy shit.

Patrick must misinterpret the look on Jonny’s face, because he says, “I’m not—it’s not a problem if you have, I swear, I’m just curious. We haven’t really… you know. Talked about it. I’m not jealous,” he adds, which is good, and healthy, even if some days he seems determined to not let the slightest bit of possessiveness over Jonny show. It doesn’t seem like the leading question Jonny thought it was, either.

“No,” Jonny says. “No, I’ve never offered a collar to a sub before.”

Patrick blinks. “Really?”

“Really,” Jonny says.

“Oh. I… yeah, that wasn’t what I thought you were going to say.” Patrick lifts his head, shoves his hair back off his forehead, and resettles with his arms folded over Jonny’s chest. “Was it because you don’t want to…?”

“I want to,” Jonny says. “It just never felt right.” He’s always known he romanticizes it; offering a sub a collar isn’t half as binding as offering them a ring. It doesn’t have to symbolize anything more than a lasting but not permanent connection. There’s still a weight to it, though; only adynamics used to offer their spouses rings.

“Do you think…” Patrick starts, but he doesn’t finish thought. “How come?”

“How come—oh, why didn’t it feel right?” Jonny loves Patrick, but sometimes he wonders if there are two nickels to rub together in Patrick’s skull. “Peeks, do you seriously not know?”

Patrick frowns a little, and then his eyes widen. “Oh!” he says. “Oh… Really?”

What Jonny likes best about this part is that he now knows exactly how to reframe the conversation so Patrick will understand. “Have you accepted any collars?” he asks. It wouldn’t bother him if Patrick did—not much—but he knows the answer. People have been telling them they’re two of a kind for most of their lives, but Jonny’s only really starting to appreciate how deeply true that is.

“No,” Patrick says. “I mean, nobody ever—but even if they had, I would’ve turned them down, because…” He laughs a little at himself. “Because it didn’t feel right.”

“What do you mean, nobody ever?”

“I’ve never been offered a collar,” Patrick says. “Hey, I’m not—it’s fine, you don’t have to be sorry about it.”

“No,” Jonny says, “it isn’t.”

“Yeah, it is. I mean it. I wouldn’t be—” He catches himself. “I’m not the kind of sub who wears collars, anyway.”

Jonny doesn’t know what the hell that means, but it sounds like one more box Patrick’s been made to think he belongs in. “Why not?” he asks carefully.

“I wouldn’t be comfortable wearing one in public,” Patrick says. “Which is probably pretty obvious.”

That’s true, he’s right; it is obvious, but only because Jonny knows him and knows their industry. Wearing a collar in public would make him an even bigger target for accusations that he was flaunting his dynamic and arguments that subs should’ve play in the NHL at all. And, in that sense, it might mean inviting the presence of all those outsiders into his personal life, and Jonny has no desire to have the specter of anyone else in their bedroom. That’s their space—his and Patrick’s alone.

Swish by trademarkgiggle

Series: Trust Fall [4]
Fandoms: Men’s Hockey RPF
AO3 Categories: F/F
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Characters: Jonathan Toews, Patrick Kane
Freeform Tags: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Cunnilingus, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Female Jonathan Toews, Female Patrick Kane, Kneeling, Lingerie, Orgasm Control, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Size Kink, Strap-Ons, Subspace
Status: Completed
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2023-11-16 23:50:21
Summary:

Jonny puts her sub on her knees.

Swish

Author’s Note:

- For heartstrings.

Love to thundersquall for her beta job. Mind the tags for this one!

And most importantly, to the only other person in the world I knew without a doubt would also enjoy 1988 femslash daddy kink: HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!!! 💙💜🧠🥳😘

Pat’s been on her knees for three-quarters of an hour, and she’s so far down Jonny could do anything to her—anything that Jonny wanted. She won’t; there is no circumstance including having a gun to her head that would compel her to do anything to Pat that Pat doesn’t want; but the power is heady.

Pat’s nuzzling gently at Jonny’s cunt, not even eating her so much anymore as breathing against her dom’s skin. Every now and then she pulls back to give little licks to Jonny’s clit. Jonny’s not even bothering to hold Pat’s hair back anymore; her arms are stretched wide across the back of the couch, and her legs are spread, because she doesn’t have to force Pat to stay on her knees. There’s no place Pat would rather be, and for that reason and a hundred thousand others Jonny adores her.

“Good, sweetheart,” Jonny says. “You’re so good for me, aren’t you?”

Pat makes a soft noise and presses the side of her face against Jonny’s thigh.

“Answer me, baby.”

This time when Pat pulls back, Jonny does reach down and gather her curly hair, brushes it away from her face; the strands near her left temple are damp not from sweat but from Jonny, who’s come twice in the past hour and intends to come at least once more tonight.

“Yeah,” Pat says. “Yes.”

“Since you’re so good, how should I reward you?” Jonny asks. She leans forward even further and slides her hand under the thick fall of Pat’s long hair to span her fingers across the back of Pat’s neck over her collar. Pat shudders and blinks up at Jonny, those incredible blue eyes of hers hazy; her pupils are blown wide. It blows Jonny’s mind that she can turn Pat on from such simple displays—a hand on her back, a hand on her neck. Rolling her onto her back. Just pressing her up against a wall can make her start to sink into subspace. It takes Jonny back to their first time roleplaying, when she’d lowered Pat down onto a lounge and settled on top of her and then caught Pat’s pupils in the process of dilating from just that minimal gesture.

She makes the soft noise and drags her eyes open. Jonny thinks she’s going to have to coax Pat again, but Pat says, “You could… I could eat you out.”

Jonny laughs softly and leans down to kiss her forehead. “You could, Peeks,” she says, “but you’ve been doing that. I was thinking we could do something for you, eh? What did you think about while I was out of town?” She straightens the ivory strap of Pat’s pretty top, which is less pale than her skin, and smooths it down over the wing of Pat’s shoulder blade to give Pat time to think.

Jonny doesn’t have to wait for Pat to decide, but she likes doing this—making Pat engage, drawing answers out of her. Jonny had been out of town for three days, just long enough to say hi to her parents and show up to a Canadian Tire photoshoot, while Pat held down the homefront, but it was three days too long. They’d talked every evening, and the phone sex is getting better as Pat gets more used to it, but it’s nowhere close to as good as this.

“Maybe,” Pat says, “maybe I could… would you let me come?”

“Of course I’ll let you come, baby.” She uses her grip on Pat’s hair to pull her head back and then traces the plush bow of her mouth. “How should I make you come?”

Pat blinks again slowly. “Tell me to.”

That’s always her first answer, and it’s as sweet as it is sexy. They’d never even talked about it; once they’d started sleeping together, Pat had apparently decided unilaterally that Jonny was in charge of when and how she came, and now she doesn’t even masturbate without asking for permission. She’s so good it takes Jonny’s breath away.

“I can tell you to come, that’s right,” Jonny says. “You’re so good for me, baby. How else?”

“I don’t,” Pat says, which means she doesn’t know, or she doesn’t know right away. Jonny traces a thumb over her brow and her pert, straight nose, and finally she says, “You could. You could fuck me.”

“Is that what you want?” Jonny asks. “You want me to fuck your hot little pussy?”

A pink flush spreads over Pat’s face from her nose out, but she says, “Yeah. Please.”

“Say it for me, baby.” Pat’s brow starts to furrow, so Jonny repeats, “Say you want me to fuck your pussy.”

“I want… Jonny,” Pat begs. “I can’t.”

Jonny’s clit throbs. “You can, baby,” she says. “You’re so good, and you want to be good for me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Pat says immediately.

“Then ask for it, Peeks,” Jonny says.

Pat shuts her eyes; her breathing picks up; but she gets it out. “Jonny,” she says. “Jonny, I want…”

“You can do it, love.”

“Jonny,” Pat says. “Jonny, I want you to f-fuck my pussy.”

Fuck, Jonny’s proud of her. Jonny’s so proud. Pat struggles with it still—with her dynamic, with what she wants, with how much she craves submission and gentle handling. She spent so many years building a wall between what she needed to say and what she let herself say that even a moment as small and quiet as this one is a milestone.

And still Jonny can’t help but push. “Your pussy’s so wet for me, isn’t it? It’s so sweet and delicate, baby.” She pauses. “I think you should ask me to fuck your empty little pussy.”

Pat lets out a quiet half-sob. “Jonny,” she pleads. Two years ago, even a year ago, Jonny wouldn’t have asked more of her, but now she knows Pat even more intimately than before, and she knows how much Pat loves doing what Jonny tells her to do even when it’s hard for her.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” Jonny says.

“I,” Pat says. “I, I want you to fuck my empty little pussy.”

“Say please.”

“Please,” Pat says.

“Good, baby. One more time. Ask me to fuck your pretty pink pussy.”

Pat makes an aborted little jerk with her chin, like she’s about to shake her head and then stops herself. “Jonny,” she begs.

“Tell me,” Jonny orders. “Ask nicely.”

“Please fuck,” Pat says. Her eyes screw shut again, and she forces it out in a rush: “Please fuck my pretty pink pussy.”

“Look at me,” Jonny says, and when Pat meets her eyes, she smiles. “You’re so good for me. Do you know how proud I am?” Pat shakes her head. “I’m so proud, sweetheart,” Jonny tells her. “Come up here.”

It takes her a moment to find her feet, no matter that she could keep comfortably kneeling for another hour or more, and when she climbs into Jonny’s lap, she immediately curls into Jonny and buries her face against Jonny’s throat.

“There you are, baby,” Jonny says. She rearranges Pat’s long hair. It’s still a treat to see it unbound like this instead of pulled back in a bun or shoved up underneath her helmet, even though they’ve been married for a year and she usually wears it loose when they’re home. The third collar Jonny had bought her had a series of links that tangled in her hair. Jonny hadn’t realized at first, because her own hair, except the side that was shaved, barely reached her shoulders. She’d caught Pat wincing one day, had promptly gone out to buy a replacement, and now only spoiled Pat with collars that wouldn’t snag.

Pat sighs and melts into her, and Jonny steals a moment to stroke her hair and let the burn between them bank itself to a smoulder. When she judges Pat on the verge of drifting off, Jonny slides a hand under her ass and then stands. She makes a little curious murmur when Jonny carries her into the kitchen, and then a grunt of displeasure when Jonny sets her on the counter and steps away.

“Just a second, Peeks,” she says, and she fills up a glass of water. Pat drinks it down eagerly and then licks her lips when Jonny takes the glass away. “Food?” Jonny asks.

Pat blinks and shakes her head.

“I’ll order takeout later,” Jonny promises, and then she scoops Pat up again. There’s a wet spot on the counter where she was sitting. Jonny makes a note to disinfect it later, before Pat remembers and spends half an hour on it with her full rotation of cleaning products.

Pat winds her arms around Jonny’s neck and crosses her ankles behind Jonny’s back; the filmy fabric of her lingerie top bunches up between their breasts. Jonny kisses her cheekbone and then carries her down the hall past the dom room and the office before she reaches their bedroom, more importantly, the bed.

Some nights she’d just toss Pat down—haul her around a little, maybe grab her by the ankles—but Pat’s still so out of it that Jonny lays her out gently. She has to work to disengage; Pat doesn’t want to let her go, but when Jonny guides her wrists over her head and works her thighs apart, she goes limp against the mattress. She won’t move now unless Jonny tells her to move.

Jonny takes a step back and just looks at her. She’s wearing an off-white top that falls in loose, filmy folds to just below her tits; the neckline is edged with ruffles that suggest flower petals. Her panties are part of the set, and with the way she’s sprawled, Jonny can see the wet patch of fabric between her legs. She’s absolutely soaked.

“Stay there,” Jonny says, and Pat’s lips purse in a pout, but she obeys. Jonny steps away from her only with difficulty—seeing her in Jonny’s bed, in their bed, and knowing that every part of her belongs to Jonny… who would be happy to turn away?

A lot of their heavier equipment stays in the domming room (Pat still jokingly calls it Jonny’s dungeon, even though it isn’t in a basement), but Jonny has a cabinet next to Pat’s second lingerie chest in their closet where she keeps some of her favorites. The length of silky champagne-colored rope hanging just inside the door makes her pause; but they have a game tomorrow, and she doesn’t want to wring Pat out to the point that it takes her the entirety of tomorrow to come back up again. And yesterday she’d suspended Pat in an asymmetric upside-down pose before threading a riot of flowers through her bindings and shooting her with a whole roll of film. Nothing too demanding for tonight, Jonny decides. The only things she takes out of the cabinet are a bottle of lube and her favorite strap-on. She toys with the idea of making Pat put it on her, but Pat’s already gone under to some dreamy space where all that exists are Jonny and what Jonny makes her feel.

Which means that when Jonny walks back into the room, Pat’s eyes are already trained on her. Jonny laughs and says, “Hi, baby.”

Pat blinks slowly and smiles.

“Gonna let me make love to you?”

Pat blinks again, licks her lips. “Yeah,” she says.

“I know you are, sweetheart.” Jonny steps into the harness and guides it up over her thickly muscled thighs and ass. When she has it settled into place, the dildo juts out in front of her, long and thick, and the series of soft ridges at the base nestle against Jonny’s clit. She smooths a little lube up and down the length of it before dropping the bottle on the floor.

“Come here,” Jonny says. She rubs her hand up and down the length of the dick while Pat gathers herself enough to roll over and crawl to the edge of the bed. She settles down with her legs tucked under her and looks up at Jonny with total trust. The pert shadows of her hard nipples are just barely suggested through the fabric of her pretty top.

“Look at you,” Jonny says. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Whatever… whatever you want—” She bites off the final word, and Jonny notices but doesn’t push her.

“That’s right,” Jonny says. “Whatever I want, because you’re mine.” It’s too bad all the Mrs. Toews panties are dirty, which is saying something; Pat’s chest of bridal lingerie had cost more than her dress. Jonny sometimes thinks half-seriously that putting a JT tattoo on Pat’s ass would be the best solution to the shortage.

Jonny leans over and unties the bows on each of Pat’s hips, and the dildo bobs right in front of Pat’s chin without ever quite touching her. That’s by design. When Jonny straightens back up and brings Pat’s panties with her, Pat’s lips are soft and parted.

Jonny wraps the panties around her strap-on and jacks them up and down, and not only for Pat’s reaction, although the way Pat’s eyes hone in on it gives Jonny exactly what she wants.

“Peeks,” Jonny says, requiring her attention; and when she has it, she says, “Kiss my cock.”

Pat folds over her knees. It does amazing things to her ass when she gets her legs under her and arches her back, and Jonny knows the pose is exposing her pussy, reminding her that she’s vulnerable but also that she’s safe being vulnerable. She lays a soft kiss just on the tip of Jonny’s dick, so soft Jonny doesn’t even feel the other end move against her clit, and then sits back to look up at Jonny.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Jonny says. “Lay back for me.” Pat does, and Jonny says, “Spread your legs,” because she can’t wait any longer for that view. Pat is wet, glistening—dewy, even, if that isn’t too poetic. Jonny knows exactly what she smells like between her legs right now. Sometimes Jonny thinks about keeping her like this always, tying her here or ordering her to stay, which amount to the same thing. She’d miss Pat on the ice too much to ever do it—would miss Pat, her partner outside of the bedroom, who is every bit Jonny’s equal—but it’s not a bad idea for their next bye week.

“Do you like me looking at you?”

“Yeah—” Pat says, cutting herself off again. “Yeah—Jonny, I like it a lot.”

“Take your top off for me, baby,” Jonny says. Pat shoves her head back into the pillow to lift herself up enough to squirm out of it, and she starts to drop it over the side of the mattress, but Jonny’s right there, in her space, a knee between her legs and looming over her. Pat goes limp, and Jonny takes her top and the panties and sets them in a silky little pile on the nightstand.

And then she takes Pat up on her invitation, and just looks.

This is Jonny’s. All of this is Jonny’s: Pat’s thick, heavy fall of hair, the long fringe of her eyelashes, the hard muscle of her shoulders. The generous breasts, the small rosy nipples, the sleek strong planes of her flanks and belly. Her slender legs, her wet pussy. Her blue blue eyes and the mouth made for kissing. She belongs to Jonny. She wants to belong to Jonny.

“Ask me to fuck you,” Jonny says.

Pat flushes, but she says, “Please, fuck me please.”

“Say my name.”

“Jonny.”

Jonny’s not touching her, but she’s pinning Pat all the same. She leans in, kisses Pat’s cheekbone, and says into her ear, “Call me what you want to call me.”

The way Pat squirms is almost as good as a climax. She shudders under Jonny, and it’s so incredible Jonny has no doubt her own cunt is as wet as Pat’s is. Jonny lives for this moment of anticipation before Pat says what she most wants to hear.

“Say it,” she says.

“Do I,” Pat says, “do I have to—”

“I think you want to, sweetheart,” Jonny says, and Pat shuts her eyes. Jonny gives her a moment to build up to it, to let her live in the realization that Jonny’s going to make her admit to it rather than forcing her to say it.

Her eyes crack open, a little glimpse of blue hidden by the gold fan of her eyelashes. She swallows. Inhales. Hesitates. And finally breathes out, “Daddy.”

“Again,” Jonny says.

Pat puts it together immediately, because she’s that clever and that attuned to Jonny even when she’s this deep under. She shivers again and then she says, “Please—please. Daddy, fuck me.”

And when she asks like that, how can Jonny deny her?

She gets her other knee between Pat’s; her fake cock bobs up against her stomach, and then she settles back just long enough to get her arms under Pat’s legs and fold her in two. When she’s back over Pat where she belongs, she finds Pat watching her with the wide-eyed fascination that never gets old. Jonny can’t help but kiss her. This is her sub. Pat has been her sub all along, even before Jonny knew it. Pat has been her sub the whole time. Pat is now her wife.

“Put me in you, sweetheart,” Jonny says, and Pat’s heaving so hard it takes her a moment to comply. Jonny takes a little of the pressure off of her so she can get a hand between them, but she stops just short. Jonny kisses her; and while she’s kissing her, she reaches down and guides Pat’s hand to her cock.

“There you go,” Jonny says, and Pat fumbles between them and finally gets the dildo at her entrance. Jonny pushes the head in, smooth and slow, and then stops. And waits.

But not for long. “Daddy,” Pat says again, and Jonny fucks into her a little more. As big as her cock is, Pat’s pink little pussy is more than wet and relaxed enough to accommodate it, and Jonny hasn’t even let her come today.

“You want daddy to fuck you?” Jonny asks, and she presses a little more steadily into Pat. “Want me to fuck you with my fat cock?”

“Yes, sir,” Pat says, and that’s a sign of how far gone she is. Jonny’s always sir, rarely ma’am, and that’s the way she likes it.

She kisses Pat again, gently, because there are only a few women in the NHL and only a few subs and exactly one player who is both, and she deserves to be treated with as much love and tenderness as Jonny can muster; and then she slides all the way in.

Pat gasps against Jonny’s mouth. It’s a lot for her to take, even if she likes the stretch, and the fullness of it. Jonny likes it too, likes how the heaviness of her silicone dick feels echoed against her clit, how the harness helps distribute the weight over her hips. She can’t get enough of it—can’t get enough of Pat under her, falling apart just from Jonny’s touch.

“It’s, it’s good,” Pat says. “It’s really…”

“I know, baby.” Jonny rolls her hips. “You like how I feel, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Pat says. “Yeah, I like—I like it a lot.”

Jonny fucks in hard. “Gonna last?”

“N-no,” Pat says, and then she lets out a sweet little grunt when Jonny fucks her just right. “Can, can I…?”

Jonny swallows. She’s close on edge herself, and when she speaks, her voice comes out rough. “Yeah, sweetheart,” she says. “Touch yourself.”

Pat’s hand goes back between their bodies, and Jonny knows she isn’t touching her clit, just framing it with the V of her fingers, because she’s too sensitive for direct contact. Jonny grinds against her, and she whimpers; but Jonny doesn’t give her permission to come. At this point, Jonny suspects it’s less a matter of wanting Jonny’s permission than needing it, of being psychologically unable to orgasm without her dom telling her she can. It’s so intrinsically submissive and such a clear sign of her attachment to Jonny that just the thought of it makes her want to rub one out.

Jonny doesn’t have to wait long.

Pat whines, and then she says, “Daddy.”

“Mm,” Jonny says. “What is it, baby?”

“Can I,” she says. “Can I—”

Jonny cuts her off. “Come,” she snaps out, and Pat goes off like a shotgun.

It slams through her full bore: she shakes apart under Jonny, thighs spasming, head flung back involuntarily, and it’s the way her pussy clenches around Jonny’s cock and from there to her clit that sets Jonny off, too. She shoves in deep and hard, grinds her pelvis against the nub of the dildo, and falls over the edge. At some point the pleasure is too much, and she collapses on top of Pat; but all that does is fire Pat off a second time, and they shudder against each other, soaring.

-

Jonny rouses herself when Pat shifts under her and murmurs. She pushes herself up, careful not to move her hips too much, and looks at Pat’s face. She’s still out cold. Jonny slides out of her carefully, aware that Pat’s going to be tender tomorrow morning, and then squirms a hell of a lot less gracefully out of her silicone cock and leather harness. She rolls out of bed just long enough to retrieve a hair tie, and then she slides back into bed and bundles Pat up against her.

If anything is better than the sex, it’s this: having Pat in her arms, know that she took Pat to the place that satisfies her to the point of senselessness. She’ll be extra happy tomorrow, loose and a little languid, and reluctant to leave Jonny’s orbit until she kicks into game mode in the evening.

Jonny fingercombs her thick tangle of curls while she thinks about cleaning the kitchen countertop, and then about something she read the other day about geothermal energy, and then about how fucking fantastic it is to have Pat call her ‘daddy’ while begging to be fucked. Pat finally stirs when Jonny’s halfway through braiding her hair. There’s too much of it to leave it loose overnight, and even when it’s braided back, Jonny occasionally wakes up with a wad of hair in her mouth. She’s working from an awkward angle, but hopefully this will do the trick.

“Jonny?” Pat says.

Jonny smiles. “Hi, Peeks.”

“Braiding my hair?”

“Yeah, baby, I’m braiding your hair.”

“Please don’t screw it up,” she says, and then she passes out again on top of Jonny.

Jonny can’t help but laugh. Her wrists brush against Pat’s collar as she works, and the whole room smells like sex. God, does Jonny love it. “No promises, sweetheart,” she says, but she undoes the bread and combs her fingers through Pat’s hair; and then she starts all over again once more.

Notes for the Chapter:

Here’s the suspension set-up from the day before.

Pat’s lingerie.

And, as a bonus! How Jonny looked on their wedding day, and how Pat looked, too.

The Garden by trademarkgiggle

Series: Trust Fall [5]
Fandoms: Men’s Hockey RPF
AO3 Categories: M/M
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Characters: Jonathan Toews, Patrick Kane
Freeform Tags: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Crossdressing, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Lingerie, Orgasm Control, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Riding, Rimming, Size Kink
Status: Completed
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2023-11-16 23:50:24
Summary:

In summer, the rest of the world falls away.

The Garden

Author’s Note:

- For thundersquall.

This takes place after Patrick gets his collar (in Carcanet) but before their wedding (and the main timeline version of Swish). It is, predictably, inspired by a Snow Patrol song, this time Chasing Cars.

Thank you so much to heartstrings for her beta work!! 💜💙

And finally, HAPPY BIRTHDAY to thundersquall, you beautiful tropical fish!!!! I’m keeping my fingers crossed that you forgot we talked about this, or at least that it serves as a little bit of a (hopefully good) surprise…! 🥳🎉❤️❤️❤️🍑🍆

Patrick’s barefoot in the kitchen when Jonny comes home, and the only reason he doesn’t greet Jonny at the door is that he’s in the middle of chopping fruit for dessert. The strawberries Jonny picked up yesterday at the farmer’s market are so ripe and sweet that Patrick can smell them in the air even through the thick scent of the summer peaches he just finished slicing. Their juice is still sticky on his hands all the way up past his wrists, coating not only his skin but the blade and the handle of his chef’s knife, caught between his fingers, smeared in an unlikely patch on his elbow. Thank god he’s wearing an old baggy t-shirt of Jonny’s over everything else; neither of them are great cooks, and while Patrick feels capable of handling a fruit salad, he doesn’t feel capable of handling a fruit salad without making a mess.

He tracks the sound of Jonny: walking through the door and shutting it, dumping his keys and bags on the front entry table, remembering that Patrick put hooks up in the mud room specifically to hold keys, relocating his keys. He shucks his boots in there, too, and then Patrick loses track of the sound of him and has to rely on whatever strange sense he has that lets him lock on to Jonny blindfolded in the dark. The back of his neck prickles when Jonny’s directly behind him, and then Jonny’s arms slide around him and Patrick’s being held. He feels held, always, when Jonny’s in the room; but nothing matches the still shocking perfection of this.

“I missed you,” Jonny says.

Patrick leans back, lets Jonny take some of his weight, and smiles down at the cutting board. “You were gone for an hour,” he says, and takes the top off a strawberry.

“And I missed you for an hour, Peeks,” Jonny teases. He turns his face into the side of Patrick’s head and inhales. “You smell good.”

Patrick picks up a slice of peach and offers it over his shoulder without looking. Jonny inhales again, breathing in the sweet scent, and then he eats it from Patrick’s hand, careful that his teeth don’t close around Patrick’s fingers. Summer peaches for Patrick’s summer boy.

“I missed you, too,” Patrick admits.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He puts down his knife, tries to wipe his hands—fails, and settles for wrapping them in the dishcloth before turning in Jonny’s embrace. “I always miss you,” he says, more quietly, against the warm clean skin of Jonny’s neck. “Every time you’re gone, I miss you.”

“That’s alright then,” Jonny says easily. The chain around his neck moves against Patrick’s jaw. He smells like warm, clean sweat—a little like a garden store, which is regrettably now a good association in Patrick’s mind.

“Get your mulch?” he asks.

“Forty percent off,” Jonny says.

“We need to buy you a truck.”

Jonny laughs. “You just want another car.”

“I just want you to stop getting dirt all over the inside of the SUV.” He leans a little more firmly into Jonny’s body, and Jonny shifts accordingly. There are times when the adoration and gratitude Patrick feels to be here in this life with this man threaten to overwhelm him; at their lake house during high summer, it’s constant. “And I want another car,” he adds.

Jonny chuckles again and reaches behind Patrick, probably for another slice of fruit. “What’s this for?”

“Dessert,” Patrick says.

“We already ate,” Jonny says. He’s still chewing.

“Second dessert,” Patrick amends. “I figured you’d still be hungry.” Jonny spent all day working in the garden—weeding, digging, planting. Communing with Mother Nature. Patrick’s vague on the details even though he’d been present for most of it; he’d set up camp out on the patio with a stack of paperwork and, later in the afternoon, had dragged a lawn chair out to the patch of shade closest to where Jonny had been working to doze between rounds of Jonny recruiting him to help haul dirt and hoses around.

“Thank you, baby,” Jonny says. He kisses Patrick’s ear. “You’re so good to me, aren’t you? And so good for me.”

“Yeah,” Patrick murmurs, because he can’t say it any louder than that. He doesn’t have his collar on; should he have put on his collar?

“Yeah, you are,” Jonny tells him, and he rubs his hand down Patrick’s back. Patrick can tell the exact moment Jonny realizes that Patrick’s wearing something under the old UND shirt. His breath hitches, and when he exhales, he spreads his palm just above Patrick’s tailbone.

“What are you wearing under there?”

“It’s a surprise,” Patrick mumbles. His sweatpants are Jonny’s too; they’re knotted around his waist and pool around his ankles. He’d wanted something loose to avoid crushing the ribbons; making a surprise of it meant he’d had to forgo the matching shoes and stockings, but he’d decided it was well worth it to make a gift for Jonny.

“A surprise?” Jonny says. He starts lifting the hem of the t-shirt up the small of Patrick’s back. “Do I get to find out what it is?”

“It’s supposed to be for later, you dork.” What Patrick should be doing now—what he told himself he’d do—is pull away, swat playfully at Jonny’s hands, and finish making the fruit salad to take out on the patio. The double doors that lead to the backyard are open; if Patrick ignores the throbbing of his heart, he can hear a bee buzzing lazily around outside. As much as he misses hockey, nothing beats summer by the lake. “You’ll have to be patient.”

“Are you telling me what to do?” Jonny asks. It’s mild. It doesn’t have to mean anything. But just like that, the atmosphere shifts; Patrick isn’t being held by his lover, he’s being restrained by his dom.

He swallows and thinks about how he wants to respond. Because what Jonny does next is going to be based on the cue Patrick gives him. Maybe. Probably. There’s a chance that Jonny’s made up his mind already, that he made up his mind when he felt the ribbons, that he made up his mind on the drive home. The good news—the best news—is that Patrick doesn’t have to guess; whatever happens next is going to be exactly what he wants to happen. He doesn’t have to guess with Jonny. All he has to do is give himself over.

“No,” he says.

“No?”

“No,” Patrick repeats. “But maybe… maybe you’re telling me what to do?”

Jonny’s hand tightens at the small of Patrick’s back, pulling the shirt tight. “Is that what you want?” He asks. His voice is low but light; he wants to make Patrick say it.

“Yeah,” Patrick says; his forehead’s pressed against Jonny’s shoulder, but he slides his arms up and wraps them around Jonny’s neck. “I always want that.” He pauses, waits while Jonny settles an arm more firmly around his body. He’s been trying out a new thing lately—being braver. Being bold. Laying all his cards on the table for Jonny to see. So he says, “I always want you,” and flexes his spine just to feel the boning and laces flex with him. Like all of Patrick’s lingerie, what he’s wearing is custom-made. He says, “I’m yours,” and trusts that Jonny will know what he means.

“Yeah, baby,” Jonny says. “You are mine.” He inhales and fits his hands around Patrick’s waist. Patrick doesn’t tightlace, so there’s no significant reduction in his waist size, but Jonny enjoys the natural contrast between Patrick’s broad shoulders and round ass and his more slender hips and legs. “You know I’m not going to wait, don’t you?”

Patrick nods.

“Good,” Jonny says, and then he untangles Patrick’s arms from around his shoulders. Patrick doesn’t entirely succeed in biting back a whine, and Jonny definitely doesn’t succeed in biting back a smug grin. He settles Patrick back down on his heels. “Wash your hands.”

The worst part is when Jonny steps away, but Patrick can bear it. He’s borne it before, and it’s okay, because Jonny always comes back. He drops his dishcloth on the counter and scrubs his hands and arms all the way up to his elbows with dish soap that smells like apples; after a moment of consideration, he puts the knife in the sink, too. Jonny didn’t tell him to do that. He does it on his own.

When he’s finished, he stands at the end of the counter and waits for Jonny. The sun is about four fingers above the horizon, and the lake is starting to glow with its nearness. Patrick can relate. When he started spending more time up here, he wasn’t sure how much he’d enjoy offloading most of his offseason life to a part of Canada that is, while certainly not remote, also more than thirty minutes by car from a Loblaws. It’s kind of a moral failing that he even knows what Loblaws is. At any rate, the lake house is… incredible. Incredible is the only word that comes to mind.

Part of him had been hesitant, too, about offloading his entire life to Jonny’s spaces. In summer, they live here, mostly; in Chicago, they live in Jonny’s condo. What had worried Patrick was the idea that he’d always feel like an echo, or maybe that he’d feel the echoes of the other subs who had passed through Jonny’s life, but he’d been wrong. Those places were theirs, and they always had been.

Jonny’s shirtless and carrying a blanket and a bottle of lube when he comes back. He reaches out for Patrick’s hand and then draws him out through the open doors. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he says.

“Out here?”

“Yeah, baby, out here.”

“I don’t have shoes on,” Patrick says. They look down together at Patrick’s bare feet for a second, and Patrick might as well be able to read Jonny’s mind, because he knows exactly what Jonny’s thinking. “Should I—”

Jonny swallows. “No,” he says. “No, uh—just wait there.” He leaves Patrick at the threshold and does not duck around him to go back to the bedroom and retrieve a pair of shoes. Patrick stands there obediently while Jonny snaps the blanket out and then comes back. He doesn’t try anything fancy, just gets an arm under Patrick’s ass and hoists him up like he’s about to spin them both around. Patrick curls over Jonny’s shoulders and doesn’t bother fighting the warm glow that only comes from having a very large and very attentive dom haul him around like he isn’t five-eleven and one-eighty. Which, of course, he isn’t; but being carried is pretty great nonetheless.

Jonny isn’t wearing shoes or socks either, but he doesn’t mind; he sets Patrick down in the middle of the blanket, takes a step back, and drops down in a sprawl that leaves him propped up on one elbow looking at Patrick.

“Well?” he says.

Patrick clears his throat. “I—should I…?”

“You should,” Jonny says. “I want to see my surprise. Pants first,” he adds, the cocky fuck.

They’ve had sex out here before a couple of times, but always at night. It isn’t exactly an exposed spot when their closest neighbors are at least half a mile away around the shoreline and the landscaping—both natural and manmade—shelters the house, but it feels exposed. Patrick feels exposed. Jonny doesn’t give a flying fuck and probably wouldn’t put on clothes all summer if he didn’t have to, but being outside makes Patrick vulnerable.

He’s used to being vulnerable around Jonny, though, and the discomfort is always worth the reward. He doesn’t think twice about untying the knot of the drawstring, although he does glance up at Jonny before he eases the pants over his hips. Does Jonny want him facing away, or…?

“That’s good, sweetheart,” Jonny says. Patrick shivers. “Look at me, Peeks.” Jonny’s back is to the lake, but Patrick’s facing the setting sun; it makes looking at Jonny even harder than usual. “There you go, baby, that’s good.”

Patrick’s careful to reach back and guide the sweatpants gently over his hips and ass, and then he lets them drop and steps out of them. Jonny’s eyes have gone dark, predatory, but all he says is, “Now the shirt.”

Patrick has to be just as careful with this part, too, although—if Jonny were doing this, the odds were fifty-fifty that he’d bypass being careful and just tear the shirt apart. That thought keeps him distracted while he pulls the shirt over his head, keeps him from thinking too hard about what he’s doing. Jonny’s eternally invested in making Patrick engage, making him be as active a participant as possible. Before Jonny, Patrick had always thought that level of engagement went against what it meant to submit. He’d thought he was supposed to be the object, not the subject, of the act. But he was wrong, that was so fucking wrong; letting himself be coaxed and gentled and led into not only showing but telling Jonny how much Patrick wants him is the deepest sublimation of will Patrick can imagine.

He stretches out an arm and drops the shirt on top of the pants, and only then does he look Jonny in the eye. Patrick’s body wants to fold in on itself, cross an arm across its chest, turn to the side to present a smaller profile; but he makes himself square his shoulders and hips, and he lets Jonny drink him in.

He feels drunk. Jonny keeps Patrick’s gaze for a long moment, then he releases it and drops his eyes to the top of Patrick’s blush pink corset. The front is cut high, and overlaying the pink foundation is a layer of lace. Patrick matches the roses. He’s surprised Jonny doesn’t make a joke about stems.

Just this is enough to make him hard—just being drunk by Jonny. His matching blush panties do nothing to hide the bulge of his cock. No, that isn’t right; the swell of his cock beneath the blush-colored lace of his panties makes it clear exactly how turned on he is.

“Turn around,” Jonny says, and Patrick turns.

What follows is a long moment of silence. Patrick can hear his own breathing, the far-off lapping of the lake at the shore, a familiar glutted bee buzzing lazily from flower to flower; but he can’t hear anything from Jonny.

Until Jonny says, “Did you lace yourself into that?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. His head drops forward. “Yeah, I—”

Patrick hears Jonny breathe now. “I didn’t know you could do that,” he says, rough-voiced. It’s a new trick; Patrick had to watch a video online to figure out how to do it without dislocating his shoulders, but he’s got it down now, just like a real sub would.

“Is it,” Patrick asks. “Is it okay?”

Jonny laughs hoarsely. “Yeah, Peeks, it’s okay,” he says. “It’s… fuck. Sweetheart, it’s okay. It’s gorgeous. We’re going to have to buy you more ribbons.”

Patrick feels his anxiety go still. “Okay. Okay,” he repeats. “That’s good.”

“It is good. It’s so good, sweetheart, you’re so good,” Jonny says.

“Thank you,” Patrick says, because he never knows what the right answer to that is, but it’s important to let Jonny know he’s grateful.

“You’re welcome,” Jonny says. “Come here.”

Patrick spins to face him. He’s sitting up now, leaning forward over his knees to offer a curled hand in invitation. Patrick stumbles forward to take it and then lets Jonny guide him down until he’s settled in Jonny’s lap.

Jonny smiles at him. “Hi, Peeksy,” he says.

“Hi, Jonny.”

“You always give me the best surprises,” Jonny says, and he leans forward and fits his mouth over Patrick’s to drink him in again. Patrick tilts his head and lets himself be sipped.

Jonny’s warm, even warmer than the thick heat of the summer evening, and he smells like earth; Patrick had showered earlier, but he hadn’t, and there’s still a streak of dirt up one of his forearms. He takes Patrick languidly, easily, without any urgency whatsoever; or maybe it’s more like the urgency is banked. Patrick doesn’t control that, it’s in Jonny’s hands entirely.

And then Jonny gathers the pink silk ribbons lacing up Patrick’s corset in his fist and yanks, and Patrick grunts as the breath peels out of him.

Jonny laughs lowly into his mouth and tugs again, and Patrick’s hips jerk forward of their own accord to grind against Jonny’s lap. Jonny’s just as hard as he is; the thick line of his dick is tucked between Patrick’s legs, and Patrick wonders if—he thinks maybe—

He must be right, because Jonny falls backward until he’s sprawled out under Patrick. Now he’s gonna, he’s going to pick up the lube and open Patrick up—

“Come up here,” he says.

Patrick’s left blinking. “What?”

“Come up here,” Jonny says. He gestures again, and finally Patrick gets it.

“Oh. Oh.” Patrick scrambles so fast he almost falls face-down over Jonny, but Jonny steadies him and helps him arrange his knees on either side of Jonny’s head. “Should I,” Patrick tries to get out. “Do I need to, I was going to…”

How Jonny always manages to understand what Patrick’s trying to say is a mystery. “You don’t need to do anything, baby,” Jonny says.

Patrick looks down. He’s more or less resting with his ass on Jonny’s upper chest, and Jonny’s grinning happily up at him from between Patrick’s thighs; he has one hand on the small of Patrick’s back and another rubbing just above his cock.

“I was going to do it the other way,” Patrick tries to explain.

“Yeah?” Jonny says. “Were you going to get on your knees for me?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says.

“Worship my cock?” Jonny asks, and Patrick nods. “God, baby, you’re so good for me. What a good sub you are.” Jonny’s hand creeps around to Patrick’s ass, and his fingers hook under the edge of Patrick’s panties. “My best sub,” he says, and he yanks them aside.

Patrick’s moan is swallowed in another grunt. Jonny hikes him up, drags him up, until Patrick’s positioned over his face. He has to hold the ribbons up out of his way. Patrick can feel his breath, he’s so sensitive there that all Jonny has to do is blow gently on his hole to make Patrick lose his mind.

Within seconds, he’s shaking with anticipation. Jonny says something muffled by Patrick’s ass, and at another time Patrick would tease him for being unable to stop talking, but Patrick has left the building. Patrick’s head is an empty room. There’s a joke in there about Patrick’s basement, but any thought Patrick tries to catch blows away like a feather out an open window.

Jonny takes his time. He starts with slow, soft kisses on Patrick’s perineum and around his rim, but it doesn’t matter; Patrick’s already trembling with anticipation, and the feeling of Jonny’s stubble alone is enough to… it should make him uncomfortable, knowing he’ll have beard burn on his ass and thighs tomorrow; but instead, it heightens the sensation.

When Jonny finally lays a gentle kiss directly on his hole, Patrick jolts forward and automatically shoves a hand down to rub at his dick. There’s a wet patch on the front of his panties, and how Jonny’s tugging them aside so they pull on the crease of his opposite thigh isn’t helping; between that and the corset, the feeling of restriction is so exquisite he can’t focus, can’t even feel anything else.

Jonny starts to eat him out in earnest, pressing the flat of his tongue to Patrick’s little hole before licking past the tight ring of his rim, getting him wet where he’s already so sensitive and hot to the touch. It astonishes Patrick and surprises him and turns him on that Jonny has to work to get a finger or his tongue into Patrick, and yet Patrick can take his cock over and over—not entirely without difficulty, not so easily that they can fuck twice a day every day, but still with a hunger that occasionally seems to rattle even Jonny. He’d explained it once: what makes the difference is how Patrick relaxes for him.

Patrick doesn’t have to try—it just happens. Jonny touches him, and he melts. He understands now that the melting feeling is subspace, even though it’s weird to him to give it a name or to associate subspace with himself at all. That feeling is still one he primarily associates with being around Jonny and only secondarily associates with being a sub.

For the past couple of weeks, he’s been dwelling on it more than usual. Patrick goes so hazy so fast when Jonny puts hands on him that he has trouble retaining concrete impressions of scenes, even scenes as light and informal as this once, but fortunately he doesn’t have to be stuck alone in his head with it; he has Jonny to help sort it out. Patrick has a million questions: Why do I sound like that? Why do I have trouble answering you? Why is it so hard to—

And Jonny, thank god, has a million answers. He doesn’t know everything, and he doesn’t try to bullshit Patrick into believing he does, but he’s intuitive and observant, and he’s had training as a therapeutic dom. Maybe more importantly, he has an entire lifetime of paying close attention to Patrick under his belt. Patrick still has difficulty understanding that all along Jonny’s been just as devoted to Patrick as Patrick’s been to him. The magnitude of his own feeling is impossible to imagine reflected back at him. Patrick’s the sharpest star there is out on the ice, but off it he doesn’t have a fucking clue what he’s doing.

Jonny pulls back and breathes on him, and that’s it, that’s enough, Patrick gasps and tries not to grind down and pitches forward in the process. He catches himself on the grass, because Jonny’s head is at the edge of the blanket. His cock shoves down against the flat of his hand and it makes him shudder, and then Jonny reaches between them and closes his hand around Patrick’s wrist and jerks it away.

He loses the fight and grinds down against Jonny’s mouth. Jonny wraps an arm over Patrick’s thigh and keeps him there. He laves Patrick with the flat of his tongue and follows with his rough chin, soothes Patrick’s delicate hole and nips the rim and soothes him again. Patrick’s hands have clenched shut; he has blades of grass caught between his fingers, and he’s so close, he keeps spiraling up and up, and the knot of Jonny’s fist at the small of his back might as well be a knot wrapped around his spine. With how he’s pitched forward his weight is on his hands and his back is arched and the strain of both of those is inconsequential, all Jonny has to do is keep kissing him between his legs and Patrick’s going to fly right off the ground no matter how tightly he holds on to the grass, and then the breath goes out of him in a punch and Jonny snarls, “Don’t come.”

Patrick’s good for Jonny. He fights it off while he’s still chasing his breath. Jonny must’ve—he used his grip on the ribbons lacing up Patrick’s corset to jerk him back, because he’s perched on Jonny’s middle and heaving as much as he can.

“I didn’t,” Patrick says, “I didn’t, Jonny, I—” He’s trembling with effort.

“Shh, sweetheart, I know,” Jonny says. “You’re so good, Peeks. You know why I stopped you, baby?”

“Because,” Patrick tries, “because I didn’t, you didn’t tell me I could.”

Jonny laughs. “Come here and kiss me,” he says, so Patrick curls over him obediently and kisses him. When he pulls away, Jonny says, “You know I never told you that you had to ask for permission to come every time, right?”

“I don’t,” Patrick says.

“You’re okay, love, easy.”

“I don’t, I just—you’re in charge of it,” Patrick says helplessly.

“I’m always in charge of it?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. He wasn’t sure if that was the right answer, but Jonny doesn’t seem disappointed; he never seems disappointed in Patrick. It’s confusing. He is in charge of when Patrick comes, though, and it’s even more confusing he didn’t—was Patrick still supposed to decide…?

“You’re perfect,” Jonny says. That doesn’t seem right, either, but Jonny’s in charge, so Patrick doesn’t argue. “Look at you,” he says. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Whatever you want.”

“That’s right,” Jonny agrees. “Whatever I want.” And then he smacks Patrick on the ass; Patrick jumps more from the sound than the sensation, and his dick twitches and leaks. “And you know what I want?” Jonny says. “I want you to show a little love to my cock.”

Does that mean he gets to blow Jonny? He tries to squirm down Jonny’s body, but Jonny’s still holding the ribbons in one hand and the gusset of Patrick’s panties in the other, so he doesn’t get very far. He can come—if Jonny lets him, he can come just from sucking Jonny off. But Jonny doesn’t relinquish his grip, even when Patrick struggles weakly; he just laughs again. “No, baby,” he says. “I want to feel your tight little ass around me.”

Oh. Fuck. Yeah; Patrick wants that too. He’s already wet and open and relaxed from Jonny’s mouth; he reaches back and fumbles at the front of Jonny’s shorts, thinks about how all he’ll have to do is get up on his knees, maybe push up a little with his toes, and then sink back and down until he’s gripping Jonny’s thick fat cock—

“Stop,” Jonny says, and Patrick freezes like the hand of god just closed around his heart and started to pull.

“Don’t move,” Jonny says, and some distant part of Patrick realizes that they need lube. Jonny lets go of the ribbons, and his hands move together at the crease of Patrick’s ass. Patrick feels a jab, hears a ripping sound, realizes that Jonny tore a hole in the seat of his underwear and almost loses it all over again. He can’t come, though; Jonny hasn’t given him permission to come. One of the wisteria trees catches the edges of his vision. It smells faintly sweet.

He’s already so open that he feels pressure more than wetness when Jonny starts to rub lube into him. His hand bumps against Patrick’s ass, and Patrick realizes that—Jonny must be, he’s slicking up his cock, jacking it—and he feels a tug higher up and finally understands that Jonny has the ribbons from Patrick’s corset wrapped around his cock.

They’re going to be dirty after this. They’re silk, and Patrick knows now what come and lube do to silk; but the idea is indescribably hot, and he’s not even allowed to turn to see it. He can picture Jonny’s long dick, so thick and hard it looks angry, with the trailing ends of the ribbons tangled in Jonny’s fist as he works it up and down his dick, up and back down, his thumb and the crown of his cock bumping against Patrick with every stroke.

“Jon.”

“Touch yourself,” Jonny says. “Take your cock out. Good, baby. You can move your hand.” Patrick drags his fingers away from his balls and runs them up his cock, still half-covered by the panties, and back down. “Slower,” Jonny says. “Slower.” His hand bumps Patrick’s ass again, and Patrick realizes: he wants Patrick to stroke his cock in time with Jonny, but Jonny’s dick is long enough that they can’t move at the same speed. So Patrick slows down, keeps his grip light, doesn’t move anything except his hand and forearm. The sunset is lighting the sky the same color as the tomatoes in the garden bed beside them; it glimmers off the gold chain around Jonny’s neck, and the key he keeps on it.

“Feel good, baby?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “Yes, sir.”

“Gonna let me fuck you?”

Patrick shudders with his full body. He isn’t jacking his cock now so much as grinding into his palm.

“Yeah, you are. You’re gonna let me fuck you, gonna make me feel good,” Jonny says. He sounds out of breath himself, but not out of control. He gets off on this, fucking loves it, loves seeing Patrick do as he’s told. He takes Patrick by the hips and forces him to kneel up, transfers his grip to Patrick’s ass, and lowers him so his soft little hole is just kissing the tip of Jonny’s dick.

“You want it?” Jonny asks.

Patrick nods. He can feel—the ribbons are still back there.

“Tell me.”

“I want,” Patrick says, “I want it, please.”

“Tell me what you’re going to do for me.”

“Be good,” Patrick says immediately.

“Sweetheart, you’re always good,” Jonny says. “What else?”

“I’m going to, I’m. Ride you,” Patrick’s brain finally comes up with. He’s still grinding forward as best he can against the heel of his hand, but he has no leverage. “I’m going to ride your, um.”

“Ride my what?” Jonny prompts.

“Can I please?”

“Ride my what, Peeksy?”

“Your, your cock,” Patrick says. “Can I, please—”

“You can,” Jonny says. “I’m going to let you. I’m gonna let you keep my dick warm and wet and tight, gonna let you make my dick feel good, because that’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, and Jonny presses the head of his cock inside.

“You’re here for me to use to make myself feel good,” Jonny adds. “For me to use your tight, pink little hole. I bet it matches your corset, sweetheart. You’re pink all over for me. Is that right, baby? Are you here for me to use?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. It comes out half a gasp. “Yeah, that’s—that’s what. That’s what I’m for.”

Jonny presses in a little deeper. “And you like it, don’t you?” he says. “Me using you for myself, using your body to make my cock feel nice. Taking you. You belong to me, don’t you?

“It’s too big, please.”

“You can do it, baby,” Jonny says, and he lets Patrick slip another inch down his dick. “Because it doesn’t really matter what you want, does it? The only thing you want is to submit to me.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. He’s sticky all over with sweat. “Yeah, that’s all I. Just to, just to you.”

“That’s right,” Jonny says, “just me,” and he drops Patrick that last little bit so Patrick’s fully seated on him. Patrick—it’s so overwhelming. Patrick is crying.

“Shh,” Jonny says. “Shh, sweetheart, it’s okay. You’re gonna make me come like this.”

Patrick sobs, but he tries… he starts trying to roll his hips. Jonny’s so big, even when he’s home inside Patrick like this he’s too big, but Patrick can, he wants to make Jonny come, make Jonny feel good, show Jonny that he’s a good sub—

“No,” Jonny says, and Patrick freezes. “Hold still,” Jonny says. “Now squeeze around me.”

He has to work out what that means; his hand is still covering his cock but providing as little pressure as possible. A breeze picks up and makes him shiver, and Jonny jerks as the shiver is conveyed through Patrick’s body, and Patrick thinks—like that. He clenches down around Jonny’s dick, clutches him, and starts slowly petting his own cock again.

“Can you come like this?” Jonny demands.

“Yes,” Patrick says. “Yeah, I.” He puts the slightest little motion of his hips into it, and Jonny lets him. Every time he moves around Jonny it feels like a thumb shoves into his prostate. The feeling never recedes, though; Jonny’s too big for that, Patrick doesn’t get to catch his breath. “I, Jonny—”

“What is it, sweetheart?”

“I,” Patrick says. He can’t remember. Jonny’s gripping his ass cheeks so tightly he’s going to have bruises in the shape of Jonny’s fingerprints there tomorrow. He can’t remember what he was going to say, so he says, “I love you.”

“I love you too, baby,” Jonny says.

“I love you—Jonny, I love. I love you so… so much,” Patrick gets out, and he squeezes Jonny’s cock again, contracts around him, does his best to make Jonny feel good. That’s what he’s here for, isn’t it? To make Jonny feel good, to be good for him and good to him. To love him; that’s why Patrick’s here.

“I know, Patrick, shh, I know.” Patrick’s cheeks are wet. He must still be crying. “I know, sweetheart,” Jonny says, “I love you too, so much and so long—” Patrick throws his head back and gasps or sobs or keens. “Yeah,” Jonny says. “Fuck, sweetheart, that’s so—”

The breeze kicks up again, and Patrick sees the roses over the arbor move in the wind. “You can,” Jonny says, “come whenever you—”

He doesn’t make it any further. Patrick starts to scream, and he has just enough sense left to throw his arm over his mouth and bite down while he comes. Jonny shouts too and his back arches, he tries to fuck up even deeper into the clutch of Patrick’s hole and he’s coming in Patrick and Patrick’s coming all over himself, all over Jonny; he’s making Jonny feel good, loving Jonny and loving himself and loving the high heat of summer laying heavy over them both as they make love together in the garden.

Jonny laid all the beds here himself. It took him the better part of the season, with only occasional help from Patrick. If there’s a pattern, Patrick can’t discern it; the vegetables run headlong into the roses, the wisteria trees are planted right in front of the best view, the grass occasionally gives way to patches of pollinator flowers ringed with stones Jonny dragged back from the woods himself. It doesn’t work together, or it shouldn’t, but Jonny’s tended to it with such devotion that it’s incredible anyway. Patrick’s no gardener, but he adores Jonny and every side of Jonny and every passing passion Jonny gets in his head and every lasting passion, too, and not least among them is the summer garden.

“Hey,” Jonny says, and Patrick opens his eyes.

“Hi,” Patrick says. They’re both lying on their sides on the picnic blanket, and the only reason Patrick isn’t cold is that it’s eighty in the shade. He feels sore, well-used, luminous, and unconcerned with how he’s wrinkling his corset. “I like your eyes,” he adds.

Jonny grins. “Thanks,” he says. “I’m pretty fond of ‘em.”

“Me too.” They’re dark right now, and lazy—sleep, content. Happy. Patrick’s favorite pair of eyes. “Think we could take this place back to Chicago with us?”

“I don’t think it’s portable, but we could just stay here forever.”

“Okay,” Patrick says.

“Yeah?” Jonny says, still smiling. “Okay, then.”

Notes for the Chapter:

Patrick’s corset was inspired by this one!

At some point shortly after this, Jonny does in fact tell Patrick he has nice stems.

Table of Contents

- Trust Fall

- Title Page
- 1. Chapter 1
- 2. Chapter 2
- 3. Chapter 3
- 4. Chapter 4
- 5. Chapter 5
- 6. Chapter 6
- 7. Chapter 7
- 8. Chapter 8
- 9. Chapter 9
- 10. Chapter 10

- Carcanet

- Trussed Fall

- Title Page
- 1. Post-Safeword Jonny Interlude
- 2. Married Baby Hockey Players AU
- 3. Collaring Jonny POV

- Swish

- The Garden