Fic: Jonathan Toews Gives Patrick Kane a Blowjob in a Bathroom
Title: Jonathan Toews Gives Patrick Kane a Blowjob in a Bathroom
Fandom: Hockey RPS // Chicago Blackhawks
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Jonathan Toews/Patrick Kane
Words: 1,653
Notes: I wrote this six days after the Hawks won the Stanley Cup. That's 1.5 years ago. BUT since I'm procrastinating on grad school applications, I figure the world can finally see it. Anyone want to edit a manuscript of original fiction work? Or read it at least and tell me what you think?
Summary: The Blackhawks win the Stanley Cup so Jonathan Toews gives Patrick Kane a blowjob in the locker room bathroom in Philadelphia.
Jonathan Toews Gives Patrick Kane a Blowjob in a Bathroom
In the din of the post-victory locker room, Patrick Kane hoists the Stanley Cup above his head and gives the camera a loud whoop. He's on his fourth beer of the evening, and they haven't even started drinking from the Cup yet, eyes already glassed over and hair plastered to his forehead from the champagne Kopy had sprayed on them earlier. Tazer probably got the worst of it since everyone's out on an unspoken mission to loosen him up, but Kaner knows without looking that, out of the two of them, he's the one who looks more debauched.
The left side of his shirt is soaked through with alcohol and clings stickily to his skin despite his best efforts to pull it away. Drops of champagne trickle steadily from his hair to slide beneath his collar, leaving an uncomfortable, tingling trail to his jeans.
He chooses to ignore the beginnings of a low, unsettled feeling in his stomach that's likely a combination of equal parts adrenaline and alcohol. How Tazer keeps it together, he has no idea.
Jonny's shirt is even darker with moisture than Patrick's, eyes brighter and blown wider than he's used to seeing them but still leveled with the same quiet intensity and patented single-minded focus. It's got to be the good four inches he has on him, Kaner decides hazily, and the liver of steel that comes with the extra weight.
The photographers snap a few more pictures, the guys behind them popping open another bottle. Kaner makes the executive decision to leave the Cup in the hands of Ladd and Duncs, mind set on winding his way through the white noise of the crowd until he finds the pile of booze calling his name like a wanton siren. It takes him a moment to realize that there's a warm hand wrapped around his wrist, attached to a practically vibrating Captain who licks his lips, looking more openly wild and fucked-up than when they were in front of the cameras.
"I, uh, need to do something with myself," Tazer says desperately, drawing in closer, rocking on his heels while Kaner gives him a lazy, smug smile and tips his head back.
Pushing all thoughts of beer aside, he knows exactly what Tazer wants. With their playoffs beards came Tazer's self-instated no playoffs sex rule, made all the more difficult by the fact that they were already tense and restless and sharing a room. They spent many a night silently jacking themselves off in separate beds, hissing through their teeth that This is stupid and Come on, I just want to touch you and No, God, we-ah, we have to wait. Fucking torture, that's what it was, walking around half-hard pretty much all the time with no real release but the one his hand and some spit could give him. Especially when he had someone perfectly willing to accommodate him just a few feet away.
After weeks of waiting, he can finally look at Tazer with the same heated glances he's been getting the entire night. Oh, it's so on, he thinks, as he pushes fumbling but insistent fingers under Tazer's shirt to bring his hips closer.
"Come on," he breathes and jerks his head in the direction of the hallway. It's not a classy endeavor by any means, but they could do worse for themselves and right now, neither of them is in any position to care.
Tazer pushes them deeper into the crowd, dodging an oddly exuberant Q and vainly trying to get out of the spray of the champagne Campbell dumps over their heads, all the while, Tazer resting his hand on Kaner's back, fingers exploring the inch of skin just above his waistband. They'll get back to the celebration soon enough, he tells himself, but for right now, he needs exactly this.
Daring and a little reckless, he leans in to lick the side of Patrick's neck, tasting sweat and champagne, before nipping the skin with his teeth. A throaty moan is his response, quiet enough that only Tazer can hear it above the cheers and noise.
As they reach the edges of the crowd, they just manage to avoid running into Sharpie who's carrying what looks like whiskey and tequila in his arms. He brings his alcohol closer, almost protectively to his chest, narrowing his eyes, suspicious. "What are you boys doing so far away from the-"
And then he notes the wandering hands between their bodies, a hot flush blossoming up Kaner's neck, and a dazed, hungry look in Tazer's eyes that can't quite be fully explained by alcohol. "Ah," he says and then, gives his blessing with a nod, and mouths an appreciative, "Nice," before disappearing into the crowd.
When they finally make it to the bathroom, past a long narrow hallway mostly empty except for a few stray beer cans, Kaner is already hard as hell, barely able to wait before pushing Tazer up against the wall once the door closes behind them and kissing him, hot and dirty with too much tongue and teeth.
He twists his fingers into Tazer's shirt, pulling it up to spread his palms over his stomach. Jonny's muscles quiver. God, his skin feels so hot beneath Patrick's hands.
When Tazer slips his tongue along the roof of Kaner's mouth, he can't help but groan aloud, sliding his spit-slick lips to Tazer's neck, letting out puffs of air against his collar bone while trying to force his hands into the front of Jonny's pants. Tazer reaches behind himself to turn the lock on the bathroom door, and then abruptly, as if he can't help himself with feverish want, pushes Kaner into the stall directly behind him, closing the door with his back.
He pulls away to get a good look at Kaner. His lips are red, eyes insistent but half-lidded in his arousal, chest heaving slightly. Without a word, Tazer drops to his knees, distantly ignoring the uncomfortable tiles and the bone-weary tiredness that accompanies a playoff series-Stanley Cup Finals series, and they won, he thinks, he and Patrick won-and begins undoing the zipper on Kaner's pants.
Kaner doesn't protest in the least. He watches the top of his Captain's head, imagining his mouth set in a firm line-all concentration-as if ready for a challenge. He'd be lying if he said that he doesn't get off on seeing Jonny like this.
Not submissive, exactly-it's just that Jonny's so put together all the fucking time that Patrick takes every opportunity he can to just mess him up. He strokes a hand through his hair, knocking off the cap, just because he can.
Tazer growls a bit when Kaner tugs at the wet, messy tangle on his head, puts his hands on either side of Kaner's hips and pulls his pants down below his knees. The angle is awkward and this all going to be over way too soon, Kaner thinks as Tazer grips his cock and lightly circles the thumb around the head, pushing his shirt up with the other to curl his fingers possessively around his side. Kaner's hands still in his hair at the view.
"God," he breathes and almost chokes on the sudden influx of air to his lungs.
And then Jonny gulps audibly, mouth hovering an inch above Kaner's cock, looking at him right through his lashes, and dear sweet Jesus, Kaner might just come right there.
He thinks he may have whimpered then, an embarrassing little sound at the back of his throat, but he's not sure because Jonny's mouth closes around the tip and then it's fast and dirty, tongue on the underside, flat and hot, like he's out to prove a point, and his mouth so wet that Kaner nearly rocks back so hard that he hits the wall, putting his hands up onto either side of the stall to steady himself before Jonny pushes him down onto the seat and takes his cock back into his mouth again.
Jonny pushes his tongue against Kaner's slit, Kaner wrapping a leg around his back in an effort to bring him closer, to push himself further into his mouth, and then Jonny hums, low and throaty and he moves his hand faster and spit and pre-come is dripping down between his fingers and his mouth is stretched obscenely around Kaner's cock and he can't stop himself from coming into Jonny's mouth, just barely managing to keep his eyes open and not gripping Jonny's hair too tight between his fingers. But fucking hell if that doesn't feel amazing, over so fast that it takes a while for him to come back down after the suddenness of it all.
He whines in the back of his throat.
Jonny keeps licking at his cock, getting the last droplets of come from his shaft before he leans up, tips Kaner's head down for a slow kiss that has less of the fever and urgency of the ones before it but all of the affection. We won it, he thinks as they kiss, chest swelling.
Tazer's fingers are wetting his cheeks-oh God, with Patrick's come-and their beards are creating friction that makes for an uncomfortable rasping burn, but neither of them care.
Kaner breaks away from Jonny, voice a little shaky as he says, "Let me, uh, just," reaching down for the zipper on Tazer's pants. He pushes his hand into Jonny's pants only to find him slick and half-erect. He presses a grin to Tazer's mouth, cocky, "I made you-"
Tazer runs his blunt nails up Kaner's thighs. "Yeah, you did." He pushes himself further into the space between Kaner's legs, pliant and content as he brings them closer together in the ways they couldn't during the playoffs. Kaner grins against his mouth and says the only thing that comes to his hazy, drunken, post-orgasmic brain: "Nice."
Fandom: Hockey RPS // Chicago Blackhawks
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Jonathan Toews/Patrick Kane
Words: 1,653
Notes: I wrote this six days after the Hawks won the Stanley Cup. That's 1.5 years ago. BUT since I'm procrastinating on grad school applications, I figure the world can finally see it. Anyone want to edit a manuscript of original fiction work? Or read it at least and tell me what you think?
Summary: The Blackhawks win the Stanley Cup so Jonathan Toews gives Patrick Kane a blowjob in the locker room bathroom in Philadelphia.
Jonathan Toews Gives Patrick Kane a Blowjob in a Bathroom
In the din of the post-victory locker room, Patrick Kane hoists the Stanley Cup above his head and gives the camera a loud whoop. He's on his fourth beer of the evening, and they haven't even started drinking from the Cup yet, eyes already glassed over and hair plastered to his forehead from the champagne Kopy had sprayed on them earlier. Tazer probably got the worst of it since everyone's out on an unspoken mission to loosen him up, but Kaner knows without looking that, out of the two of them, he's the one who looks more debauched.
The left side of his shirt is soaked through with alcohol and clings stickily to his skin despite his best efforts to pull it away. Drops of champagne trickle steadily from his hair to slide beneath his collar, leaving an uncomfortable, tingling trail to his jeans.
He chooses to ignore the beginnings of a low, unsettled feeling in his stomach that's likely a combination of equal parts adrenaline and alcohol. How Tazer keeps it together, he has no idea.
Jonny's shirt is even darker with moisture than Patrick's, eyes brighter and blown wider than he's used to seeing them but still leveled with the same quiet intensity and patented single-minded focus. It's got to be the good four inches he has on him, Kaner decides hazily, and the liver of steel that comes with the extra weight.
The photographers snap a few more pictures, the guys behind them popping open another bottle. Kaner makes the executive decision to leave the Cup in the hands of Ladd and Duncs, mind set on winding his way through the white noise of the crowd until he finds the pile of booze calling his name like a wanton siren. It takes him a moment to realize that there's a warm hand wrapped around his wrist, attached to a practically vibrating Captain who licks his lips, looking more openly wild and fucked-up than when they were in front of the cameras.
"I, uh, need to do something with myself," Tazer says desperately, drawing in closer, rocking on his heels while Kaner gives him a lazy, smug smile and tips his head back.
Pushing all thoughts of beer aside, he knows exactly what Tazer wants. With their playoffs beards came Tazer's self-instated no playoffs sex rule, made all the more difficult by the fact that they were already tense and restless and sharing a room. They spent many a night silently jacking themselves off in separate beds, hissing through their teeth that This is stupid and Come on, I just want to touch you and No, God, we-ah, we have to wait. Fucking torture, that's what it was, walking around half-hard pretty much all the time with no real release but the one his hand and some spit could give him. Especially when he had someone perfectly willing to accommodate him just a few feet away.
After weeks of waiting, he can finally look at Tazer with the same heated glances he's been getting the entire night. Oh, it's so on, he thinks, as he pushes fumbling but insistent fingers under Tazer's shirt to bring his hips closer.
"Come on," he breathes and jerks his head in the direction of the hallway. It's not a classy endeavor by any means, but they could do worse for themselves and right now, neither of them is in any position to care.
Tazer pushes them deeper into the crowd, dodging an oddly exuberant Q and vainly trying to get out of the spray of the champagne Campbell dumps over their heads, all the while, Tazer resting his hand on Kaner's back, fingers exploring the inch of skin just above his waistband. They'll get back to the celebration soon enough, he tells himself, but for right now, he needs exactly this.
Daring and a little reckless, he leans in to lick the side of Patrick's neck, tasting sweat and champagne, before nipping the skin with his teeth. A throaty moan is his response, quiet enough that only Tazer can hear it above the cheers and noise.
As they reach the edges of the crowd, they just manage to avoid running into Sharpie who's carrying what looks like whiskey and tequila in his arms. He brings his alcohol closer, almost protectively to his chest, narrowing his eyes, suspicious. "What are you boys doing so far away from the-"
And then he notes the wandering hands between their bodies, a hot flush blossoming up Kaner's neck, and a dazed, hungry look in Tazer's eyes that can't quite be fully explained by alcohol. "Ah," he says and then, gives his blessing with a nod, and mouths an appreciative, "Nice," before disappearing into the crowd.
When they finally make it to the bathroom, past a long narrow hallway mostly empty except for a few stray beer cans, Kaner is already hard as hell, barely able to wait before pushing Tazer up against the wall once the door closes behind them and kissing him, hot and dirty with too much tongue and teeth.
He twists his fingers into Tazer's shirt, pulling it up to spread his palms over his stomach. Jonny's muscles quiver. God, his skin feels so hot beneath Patrick's hands.
When Tazer slips his tongue along the roof of Kaner's mouth, he can't help but groan aloud, sliding his spit-slick lips to Tazer's neck, letting out puffs of air against his collar bone while trying to force his hands into the front of Jonny's pants. Tazer reaches behind himself to turn the lock on the bathroom door, and then abruptly, as if he can't help himself with feverish want, pushes Kaner into the stall directly behind him, closing the door with his back.
He pulls away to get a good look at Kaner. His lips are red, eyes insistent but half-lidded in his arousal, chest heaving slightly. Without a word, Tazer drops to his knees, distantly ignoring the uncomfortable tiles and the bone-weary tiredness that accompanies a playoff series-Stanley Cup Finals series, and they won, he thinks, he and Patrick won-and begins undoing the zipper on Kaner's pants.
Kaner doesn't protest in the least. He watches the top of his Captain's head, imagining his mouth set in a firm line-all concentration-as if ready for a challenge. He'd be lying if he said that he doesn't get off on seeing Jonny like this.
Not submissive, exactly-it's just that Jonny's so put together all the fucking time that Patrick takes every opportunity he can to just mess him up. He strokes a hand through his hair, knocking off the cap, just because he can.
Tazer growls a bit when Kaner tugs at the wet, messy tangle on his head, puts his hands on either side of Kaner's hips and pulls his pants down below his knees. The angle is awkward and this all going to be over way too soon, Kaner thinks as Tazer grips his cock and lightly circles the thumb around the head, pushing his shirt up with the other to curl his fingers possessively around his side. Kaner's hands still in his hair at the view.
"God," he breathes and almost chokes on the sudden influx of air to his lungs.
And then Jonny gulps audibly, mouth hovering an inch above Kaner's cock, looking at him right through his lashes, and dear sweet Jesus, Kaner might just come right there.
He thinks he may have whimpered then, an embarrassing little sound at the back of his throat, but he's not sure because Jonny's mouth closes around the tip and then it's fast and dirty, tongue on the underside, flat and hot, like he's out to prove a point, and his mouth so wet that Kaner nearly rocks back so hard that he hits the wall, putting his hands up onto either side of the stall to steady himself before Jonny pushes him down onto the seat and takes his cock back into his mouth again.
Jonny pushes his tongue against Kaner's slit, Kaner wrapping a leg around his back in an effort to bring him closer, to push himself further into his mouth, and then Jonny hums, low and throaty and he moves his hand faster and spit and pre-come is dripping down between his fingers and his mouth is stretched obscenely around Kaner's cock and he can't stop himself from coming into Jonny's mouth, just barely managing to keep his eyes open and not gripping Jonny's hair too tight between his fingers. But fucking hell if that doesn't feel amazing, over so fast that it takes a while for him to come back down after the suddenness of it all.
He whines in the back of his throat.
Jonny keeps licking at his cock, getting the last droplets of come from his shaft before he leans up, tips Kaner's head down for a slow kiss that has less of the fever and urgency of the ones before it but all of the affection. We won it, he thinks as they kiss, chest swelling.
Tazer's fingers are wetting his cheeks-oh God, with Patrick's come-and their beards are creating friction that makes for an uncomfortable rasping burn, but neither of them care.
Kaner breaks away from Jonny, voice a little shaky as he says, "Let me, uh, just," reaching down for the zipper on Tazer's pants. He pushes his hand into Jonny's pants only to find him slick and half-erect. He presses a grin to Tazer's mouth, cocky, "I made you-"
Tazer runs his blunt nails up Kaner's thighs. "Yeah, you did." He pushes himself further into the space between Kaner's legs, pliant and content as he brings them closer together in the ways they couldn't during the playoffs. Kaner grins against his mouth and says the only thing that comes to his hazy, drunken, post-orgasmic brain: "Nice."