toews/kane, "capische"
Title: Capische
Fandom: Hawks RPS
Pairing: Toews/Kane
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1782
Summary: .... Just porn. See note.
Note: For vancouverr. She told me to write porn. I asked her, Patrick-sitting-on-the-kitchen-counter-with-Jonny-between-his-legs porn, Patrick-straddling-Jonny-on-the-couch porn, or Jonny-fucking-Patrick-against-the-wall porn? Her response: ALL OF THE ABOVE. This is.... pretty much that.
Patrick's sitting on the island, ignoring Jon's attempt to push him off - "I cook there, get your ass off" - and he's swinging his legs while he watches Jonny clean up the vegetables and weird shit he used to make supper.
He keeps up a steady stream of chatter as Jon works. Jon's unusually quiet, so Pat smoothly keeps the kitchen from becoming silent, and it makes him feel lighter, happier, when Jon's hands will stutter and he'll shake his head in amusement, or when the corners of his mouth curve before he turns away (but not fast enough that Pat misses it; Jon's not fooling anyone).
Jon turns back to face him, and Pat grins shamelessly at Jon tucking the corner of his bottom lip between his teeth, reaching forward to grab the jar sitting by Patrick's hip.
"C'mon, dude, lighten up. You know you wanna," Pat cajoles, taking the opportunity to poke Jon in the stomach.
"Brat," Jon swats at his hand and misses, and Pat grins wider, can hear the affection in Jon's voice and drops his hand onto his leg. Jon shakes his head, eyes laughing but he's stilled, jar in his hand, eyes flicking over Pat's face.
"Haven't you heard? Laughter's the best medicine," Pat tells him, then gives him a ridiculous wink. "Plus you look way prettier when you smile."
"Ha ha," Jon deadpans.
Then Pat feels the warmth against the inside of his thighs, realizes just where Jonny's standing, and freezes.
Jon looks at him, dark eyes, eyebrows raised a fraction of an inch.
Pat swallows, shifts before he can think about it. He and Jonny are close, they don't have issues with personal space, but this, something about this, it's different. The air feels... charged. Like, if Pat touches him, they'll spark. It throws him enough that he breaks eye contact and pulls his legs closer together, ignoring the instinct to reach out and touch.
Jon's eyes drop down. "Right."
"Jon-" But Jonny's already moved back, putting the jar back into the fridge, wiping the counter, doing everything other than looking at Pat.
And shit, it stings a little. Pat has no idea what the hell just happened.
It’s quiet for too long.
Jon's still bent over, head stuck in the fridge, rummaging around. "Beer? We can uh, watch a movie or something. If you want."
Pat slides off the counter, stomach doing a flip. "Yeah. Sounds good."
-
Somewhere in the back of Jon's mind, John McClane is whooping, "Yipee-kai-yay, motherfucker," but it's fuzzy where everything else is sharp and clear.
Patrick's hands, one over Jon's arm, the other curled around his side, over his ribcage. Patrick's legs, his knees pressed into Jon's hips, calves along Jon's thighs, toes tucked behind Jon's knees. Patrick's nose bumping against his, their lips this close to touching.
It's entirely possible his heart is about to pound out of his chest.
This.... Jon doesn't know what it is. It's new, and terrifying, and exhilarating. "What are you -" He
breathes out, and Pat cuts him off.
"I'm sitting in your lap," Pat says in a serious whisper, and his eyes are so blue and so close Jon wants to look away, but he can't. He doesn't. "And I'm going to kiss you. Okay?"
And Jon can only nod and let him.
"Okay," Pat repeats.
He surges forward a little, and the result is their lips bumping together in a way that's less than ideal, but Pat huffs and tries again. This time is more successful, Jon thinks. Not that he really has anything to compare it to. So he just opens his mouth and goes with it.
"Better," Pat nods, and the third time it happens, Jon's skin feels like it's on fire. In a good way, like after a workout. Then he stops thinking altogether, and closes his eyes, lets his hands fall on Pat's hips and kisses back.
Jon isn't inexperienced with kissing guys. Kissing Patrick, though, isn't something he ever consciously thought about. But it's good. It's more than good. His hands tighten around Pat's hips as Pat tips his head, nose nudging at Jon's, encouraging.
Pat squirms a little to get closer, knees still tucked in tight around Jon's waist as he licks his way into Jon's mouth, hesitant like he's never done it before, so Jon obliges him. Lets him in in every sense of the word, until Pat whines and they're kissing , lips and teeth and "tongue-wrestling", as Pat would probably call it, with that cheeky grin of his.
Long minutes pass, with Pat showing no signs of stopping, hands roaming so he can graze his fingers under Jon's shirt. It makes him jerk, their mouths parting so he can get some air, muttering, "Nnn. Tickles."
Pat grins delightedly. "I'm filing that away for later."
Jon tries to catch his breath, pulse still racing, and the rest of his body is beginning to take notice of Pat, soft and solid and warm all over him, and only after a moment manages, "Later?" He's not even sure if
it's a question or a statement, but Pat doesn't seem to care, sliding his hand higher and skimming his thumb over a dip in Jon's ribs.
"Yeah," Pat says, smooth. Simple. "Later. For now, let's get back to the-" and he cuts himself off, still smiling, and kisses Jonny again, practically melting into him.
Jon thinks, okay, yeah, and keeps him closer by tangling his fingers in Pat's still-too-short hair. It feels needy and possessive but Pat makes an urgent nose and grinds forward, and Jon pushes his hips up and oh, fuck.
Their lips meet again, more a brush than an actual kiss, both too short of breath to manage the coordination for it, but it’s just as good, if not hotter than before. Pat tips his head down and nips at Jon's jaw. Not hard enough to leave a mark, but enough that Jon bites back, the vulnerable curve of Pat's neck asking for it, and Pat whines in the back of his throat.
Jon breathes, face buried in Patrick's skin, and closes his eyes. He's almost afraid to move, afraid to say anything, afraid of ruining this. Ruining them.
"Stop thinking so loud," Pat's voice is amused, right in his ear, and Jon licks across his skin, making Pat jump in response.
"I'm not," he says, but even he doesn't believe himself.
Pat slides his hands up to Jon's shoulders, splayed over the back of his neck. "I think you should take me to bed."
Jon breaks into a grin, heat creeping into his face. "You sound like a romance novel." He doesn't say no, though, eyes drifting over his hands, back on Pat's hips, curled tighter than they need to be.
“I want you, I need you, oh baby, oh baby,” Pat intones, and there it is, the cheeky little grin, and Jon has to laugh, head falling back because only Patrick would quote lines from 10 Things I Hate About You while making out on the couch. Maybe Jon should be embarrassed that he knows that, but Pat’s wriggling off his lap and threading his fingers through Jon’s and tugging him to his feet, standing on his tiptoes to kiss the corner of Jon’s mouth.
There’s still a half-smile on his face, cheeks tinged red, a hint of nervousness in his expression. “Jon-”
Jon shakes his head and the words tumble out before he can stop them, fingertips rubbing over the back of Pat’s hand where their hands are joined. Pat’s standing too far away for his liking. “I want to.”
“Me too,” Pat says in a quiet voice.
And it’s those words that keep Jon from crashing to the ground like he’s just jumped off a cliff without a parachute, it’s those two words that jerk him up at the very last minute. So he smiles, pushes out every thought in his mind until the only thing in his head is PatrickPatrickPat -
It’s like winning the Stanley Cup.
Then he’s got Pat pressed up against the wall, surprising them both into laughter. Jon smothers it with a kiss, eager to encourage more of those soft, urgent noises Pat was making just minutes before. Pat’s hips are pressed snugly against his, aborted movements that drive Jon fucking crazy. A leg hooks around his calf, a hand spread warm and possessive over the back of his neck, holding him against Pat’s clever mouth.
“Yeah,” Pat breathes, rocking into him with a needy sound. “Fuck, just like that.”
Jon says, “Shit, shit, fuck,” and jerks forward with a bitten-off groan, coming all over the inside of his jeans.
Pat leaves fingerprint bruises around his biceps, shuddering out a laugh, and grins wide and wicked, tipping his chin up to kiss Jon’s mouth. “I’ll take that as a challenge,” he breathes out, and Jon doesn’t know what he means, but shit.
-
Ten minutes later, Patrick’s sprawled on the bed, legs spread and hands alternately clenching and releasing the sheets, hips twisting and jerking as he rocks himself down onto two of Jon’s fingers, and Jon’s pretty sure all his brain cells are completely fried. Forever.
Patrick’s skin is slick with sweat and Jon can’t look at anything other than the way his fingers are curling deeper and deeper inside of him. The feeling is unlike anything else in the world, and listening to Patrick moan and gasp and mutter curses makes it incredibly, mindblowingly hot.
“You - are such - a fucking - tease -”
Jon crooks his fingers, rubs them carefully just so, and Patrick’s hips arch clear off the bed and he comes with a startled noise, Jon’s other hand wrapped loosely around his cock, slow gentle pulls until he whines and shoves ineffectually at Jon’s arm, oversensitive.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he groans, and his voice is absolutely wrecked, and Jon should absolutely not even be close to being able to get hard again, but his body disagrees. But Patrick tries to pull him back up by the wrist, using the blanket to wipe off his stomach and very smoothly slotting his leg in between Jon’s, and plants his face in Jon’s chest.
His intent can’t be mistaken at all.
Jon relaxes.
“We are so doing that again. Frequently,” Patrick adds, mumbling into his skin. “For a very, very long time. Capische? No, stop laughing at me and answer the question,” he bitches when Jon’s chest shakes with laughter. “Capische, comprende, under-fucking-stand me, you dickface. All the fucking time.”
Jon slides his fingers into his hair. “All the fucking time,” he agrees, and lets his eyes close.
Fandom: Hawks RPS
Pairing: Toews/Kane
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1782
Summary: .... Just porn. See note.
Note: For vancouverr. She told me to write porn. I asked her, Patrick-sitting-on-the-kitchen-counter-with-Jonny-between-his-legs porn, Patrick-straddling-Jonny-on-the-couch porn, or Jonny-fucking-Patrick-against-the-wall porn? Her response: ALL OF THE ABOVE. This is.... pretty much that.
Patrick's sitting on the island, ignoring Jon's attempt to push him off - "I cook there, get your ass off" - and he's swinging his legs while he watches Jonny clean up the vegetables and weird shit he used to make supper.
He keeps up a steady stream of chatter as Jon works. Jon's unusually quiet, so Pat smoothly keeps the kitchen from becoming silent, and it makes him feel lighter, happier, when Jon's hands will stutter and he'll shake his head in amusement, or when the corners of his mouth curve before he turns away (but not fast enough that Pat misses it; Jon's not fooling anyone).
Jon turns back to face him, and Pat grins shamelessly at Jon tucking the corner of his bottom lip between his teeth, reaching forward to grab the jar sitting by Patrick's hip.
"C'mon, dude, lighten up. You know you wanna," Pat cajoles, taking the opportunity to poke Jon in the stomach.
"Brat," Jon swats at his hand and misses, and Pat grins wider, can hear the affection in Jon's voice and drops his hand onto his leg. Jon shakes his head, eyes laughing but he's stilled, jar in his hand, eyes flicking over Pat's face.
"Haven't you heard? Laughter's the best medicine," Pat tells him, then gives him a ridiculous wink. "Plus you look way prettier when you smile."
"Ha ha," Jon deadpans.
Then Pat feels the warmth against the inside of his thighs, realizes just where Jonny's standing, and freezes.
Jon looks at him, dark eyes, eyebrows raised a fraction of an inch.
Pat swallows, shifts before he can think about it. He and Jonny are close, they don't have issues with personal space, but this, something about this, it's different. The air feels... charged. Like, if Pat touches him, they'll spark. It throws him enough that he breaks eye contact and pulls his legs closer together, ignoring the instinct to reach out and touch.
Jon's eyes drop down. "Right."
"Jon-" But Jonny's already moved back, putting the jar back into the fridge, wiping the counter, doing everything other than looking at Pat.
And shit, it stings a little. Pat has no idea what the hell just happened.
It’s quiet for too long.
Jon's still bent over, head stuck in the fridge, rummaging around. "Beer? We can uh, watch a movie or something. If you want."
Pat slides off the counter, stomach doing a flip. "Yeah. Sounds good."
-
Somewhere in the back of Jon's mind, John McClane is whooping, "Yipee-kai-yay, motherfucker," but it's fuzzy where everything else is sharp and clear.
Patrick's hands, one over Jon's arm, the other curled around his side, over his ribcage. Patrick's legs, his knees pressed into Jon's hips, calves along Jon's thighs, toes tucked behind Jon's knees. Patrick's nose bumping against his, their lips this close to touching.
It's entirely possible his heart is about to pound out of his chest.
This.... Jon doesn't know what it is. It's new, and terrifying, and exhilarating. "What are you -" He
breathes out, and Pat cuts him off.
"I'm sitting in your lap," Pat says in a serious whisper, and his eyes are so blue and so close Jon wants to look away, but he can't. He doesn't. "And I'm going to kiss you. Okay?"
And Jon can only nod and let him.
"Okay," Pat repeats.
He surges forward a little, and the result is their lips bumping together in a way that's less than ideal, but Pat huffs and tries again. This time is more successful, Jon thinks. Not that he really has anything to compare it to. So he just opens his mouth and goes with it.
"Better," Pat nods, and the third time it happens, Jon's skin feels like it's on fire. In a good way, like after a workout. Then he stops thinking altogether, and closes his eyes, lets his hands fall on Pat's hips and kisses back.
Jon isn't inexperienced with kissing guys. Kissing Patrick, though, isn't something he ever consciously thought about. But it's good. It's more than good. His hands tighten around Pat's hips as Pat tips his head, nose nudging at Jon's, encouraging.
Pat squirms a little to get closer, knees still tucked in tight around Jon's waist as he licks his way into Jon's mouth, hesitant like he's never done it before, so Jon obliges him. Lets him in in every sense of the word, until Pat whines and they're kissing , lips and teeth and "tongue-wrestling", as Pat would probably call it, with that cheeky grin of his.
Long minutes pass, with Pat showing no signs of stopping, hands roaming so he can graze his fingers under Jon's shirt. It makes him jerk, their mouths parting so he can get some air, muttering, "Nnn. Tickles."
Pat grins delightedly. "I'm filing that away for later."
Jon tries to catch his breath, pulse still racing, and the rest of his body is beginning to take notice of Pat, soft and solid and warm all over him, and only after a moment manages, "Later?" He's not even sure if
it's a question or a statement, but Pat doesn't seem to care, sliding his hand higher and skimming his thumb over a dip in Jon's ribs.
"Yeah," Pat says, smooth. Simple. "Later. For now, let's get back to the-" and he cuts himself off, still smiling, and kisses Jonny again, practically melting into him.
Jon thinks, okay, yeah, and keeps him closer by tangling his fingers in Pat's still-too-short hair. It feels needy and possessive but Pat makes an urgent nose and grinds forward, and Jon pushes his hips up and oh, fuck.
Their lips meet again, more a brush than an actual kiss, both too short of breath to manage the coordination for it, but it’s just as good, if not hotter than before. Pat tips his head down and nips at Jon's jaw. Not hard enough to leave a mark, but enough that Jon bites back, the vulnerable curve of Pat's neck asking for it, and Pat whines in the back of his throat.
Jon breathes, face buried in Patrick's skin, and closes his eyes. He's almost afraid to move, afraid to say anything, afraid of ruining this. Ruining them.
"Stop thinking so loud," Pat's voice is amused, right in his ear, and Jon licks across his skin, making Pat jump in response.
"I'm not," he says, but even he doesn't believe himself.
Pat slides his hands up to Jon's shoulders, splayed over the back of his neck. "I think you should take me to bed."
Jon breaks into a grin, heat creeping into his face. "You sound like a romance novel." He doesn't say no, though, eyes drifting over his hands, back on Pat's hips, curled tighter than they need to be.
“I want you, I need you, oh baby, oh baby,” Pat intones, and there it is, the cheeky little grin, and Jon has to laugh, head falling back because only Patrick would quote lines from 10 Things I Hate About You while making out on the couch. Maybe Jon should be embarrassed that he knows that, but Pat’s wriggling off his lap and threading his fingers through Jon’s and tugging him to his feet, standing on his tiptoes to kiss the corner of Jon’s mouth.
There’s still a half-smile on his face, cheeks tinged red, a hint of nervousness in his expression. “Jon-”
Jon shakes his head and the words tumble out before he can stop them, fingertips rubbing over the back of Pat’s hand where their hands are joined. Pat’s standing too far away for his liking. “I want to.”
“Me too,” Pat says in a quiet voice.
And it’s those words that keep Jon from crashing to the ground like he’s just jumped off a cliff without a parachute, it’s those two words that jerk him up at the very last minute. So he smiles, pushes out every thought in his mind until the only thing in his head is PatrickPatrickPat -
It’s like winning the Stanley Cup.
Then he’s got Pat pressed up against the wall, surprising them both into laughter. Jon smothers it with a kiss, eager to encourage more of those soft, urgent noises Pat was making just minutes before. Pat’s hips are pressed snugly against his, aborted movements that drive Jon fucking crazy. A leg hooks around his calf, a hand spread warm and possessive over the back of his neck, holding him against Pat’s clever mouth.
“Yeah,” Pat breathes, rocking into him with a needy sound. “Fuck, just like that.”
Jon says, “Shit, shit, fuck,” and jerks forward with a bitten-off groan, coming all over the inside of his jeans.
Pat leaves fingerprint bruises around his biceps, shuddering out a laugh, and grins wide and wicked, tipping his chin up to kiss Jon’s mouth. “I’ll take that as a challenge,” he breathes out, and Jon doesn’t know what he means, but shit.
-
Ten minutes later, Patrick’s sprawled on the bed, legs spread and hands alternately clenching and releasing the sheets, hips twisting and jerking as he rocks himself down onto two of Jon’s fingers, and Jon’s pretty sure all his brain cells are completely fried. Forever.
Patrick’s skin is slick with sweat and Jon can’t look at anything other than the way his fingers are curling deeper and deeper inside of him. The feeling is unlike anything else in the world, and listening to Patrick moan and gasp and mutter curses makes it incredibly, mindblowingly hot.
“You - are such - a fucking - tease -”
Jon crooks his fingers, rubs them carefully just so, and Patrick’s hips arch clear off the bed and he comes with a startled noise, Jon’s other hand wrapped loosely around his cock, slow gentle pulls until he whines and shoves ineffectually at Jon’s arm, oversensitive.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he groans, and his voice is absolutely wrecked, and Jon should absolutely not even be close to being able to get hard again, but his body disagrees. But Patrick tries to pull him back up by the wrist, using the blanket to wipe off his stomach and very smoothly slotting his leg in between Jon’s, and plants his face in Jon’s chest.
His intent can’t be mistaken at all.
Jon relaxes.
“We are so doing that again. Frequently,” Patrick adds, mumbling into his skin. “For a very, very long time. Capische? No, stop laughing at me and answer the question,” he bitches when Jon’s chest shakes with laughter. “Capische, comprende, under-fucking-stand me, you dickface. All the fucking time.”
Jon slides his fingers into his hair. “All the fucking time,” he agrees, and lets his eyes close.