toews/kane - "and crazy, too"
Title: and Crazy, Too (or, 9 first kisses they didn't have, and 1 they did)
Fandom: Hawks RPS
Pairing: Toews/Kane
Rating: PG
Words: 2474
Summary: This was basically an excuse for me to write all the first kisses because I really like first kisses. *cough*
-
i. positively impish -
Jon shakes his hand, eyes meeting blue ones alight with amusement and laughter.
“Patrick Kane.”
“Jon Toews.”
“Pleasure,” Patrick says, grinning, then, “You’re cuter than I expected.”
Jon doesn’t know whether to be flattered or nervous, so he settles somewhere in between, and a second later, Patrick flicks a glance over his left shoulder, leans in and pecks him on the lips, quickly, whispering, “This could the start of a wonderful relationship.”
Jon’s known him for all of thirty seconds. He’s flushing underneath his collar, and Patrick’s standing even closer, expectant and flirty and completely serious.
The crazy thing is, he thinks he agrees.
-
ii. do it for the cameras -
Kaner’s laughing, head tilted back, gripping his stick at the roar of the crowd. “Oh, they think they’re clever, don’t they?” He elbows Jon in the side. “Too sexy for our jerseys, huh, Tazer?”
Jon mutters something along the lines of “you fuckin’ weirdo” under his breath, heart rate kicking up a notch even though they’ve been off-shift for close to two minutes and they’re waiting for a faceoff, and then he thinks, what the hell.
He slings an arm over Kaner’s shoulders, glove brushing the back of Kaner’s helmet and drags him in so Jon can give him an exaggerated smooch for the kiss cam that’s firmly fixed on them. Surprised, Kaner twists his head and Jon gets the corner of his mouth rather than his cheek. His skin is both cool from the air and warm from exertion, and then the crowd goes even wilder.
Jon hides a grin, making a show of shoving Kaner away and grimacing.
You love me, Kaner mouths at him, scooting over on the bench because Coach is yelling at them to save it for later and shove over, and Jon shrugs one shoulder, ignoring whatever’s making his skin feel funny.
-
iii. country music and whiskey -
It felt like a good idea at the time, and fuck, yeah, it definitely feels like a good idea now, Tazer hot and hard and heavy against him, pinning him into the wall. The air outside the bar cools his skin, but Tazer’s hands are all over him, burning him from the inside out, kissing him the same way he plays hockey (fierce, aggressive, determined, fluid).
Patrick thinks, nah, he’s good here, he doesn’t need to move, like, ever, and opens his mouth to Tazer’s tongue.
“We should go home,” Tazer says, voice rough in Patrick’s ear, and Patrick shivers, momentarily worrying -
“I don’t want to get caught here, you wanna?” And it sounds so much like a pickup line, so very un-Tazer like that Patrick lets out a low laugh, hips tilting forward automatically to find Tazer just as turned on as he is. He doesn’t need to wonder what’s going on, what this means. Tazer’s staring at him with dark eyes, certain eyes.
That’s enough for Patrick.
“Fuck, yes, take me home, Captain,” he says in an overly breathy tone, and Tazer drags him down the street to hail a cab.
-
iv. and then sharpie was all -
“And make it look real, otherwise you gotta do it again until we’re satisfied.”
The last thing Dunc’s expecting is for them to actually do it. Hoots and catcalls echo around the room, and then something shifts and they’re looking kind of into it, and okay, yeah, this isn’t something he should be watching. It feels intrusive.
Around the twenty five - thirty second mark he starts quietly herding everyone out. He’s heading out the door when he hears a harsh breath and an exhaled, “Shit, what -”
Dunc ducks out the door and risks a glance around the corner, carefully hiding from their view.
“I, uh,” Tazer swallows, dragging a hand through his hair, and Kaner says,
“Yeah,” staring at the floor. “Didn’t… expect that.”
A minute passes, and Dunc watches Tazer fidget. “Maybe we could -”
“Oh, god, yes.”
And that right there, that’s Dunc’s cue to leave, grinning a little to himself. He’ll tell Sharpie all about it tomorrow.
-
v. the time and place -
Joel’s a coach by nature, and that nature is threatening to rip its way out of his throat, but he has enough experience with his top forwards to know when to keep quiet. They’re neither stupid nor ignorant, so he keeps one eye on them and one eye on his bench full of players.
Havi and Doc are supporting Kaner on each side. Joel can recognize a face fighting the urge to wince, and Kaner’s fighting, carefully keeping his weight off his foot. Jon’s waiting in the tunnel, empty of media personnel for the moment, and Joel can hear snatches of conversation between him and Kaner, rapidfire and tense.
“Fucking Calgary -”
“Stop worrying so much -”
“- asshole, you need to -”
“We’ve got him, Jon, now -”
Then there’s silence, and when Joel cranes his head, he sees Jon pressing a hard, fast kiss to Kaner’s lips. He blinks once, thinks, I never saw that, and resolutely refocuses his attention on the bench, where Kitch is hollering something at one of the referees.
When Jon slides back onto the bench, he looks marginally less like he’s about to go after every single player on the Calgary team.
Whatever works.
-
vi. all I want for Christmas -
Tazer ignores it the first time, the sprig of mistletoe right in the doorway of Kaner’s apartment, rolling his eyes and shouldering past Kaner straight through to the living room, where there’s a decorated tree (Kaner worked on it all afternoon), and surprisingly well wrapped box on the coffee table (that took him all morning). The lights are turned down low and there’s a fire crackling in the fireplace.
He raises an eyebrow, as if to say, really, Kaner? And Kaner just grins, shrugs a shoulder and says, “Just open the damn present, Jonny.” He rocks back on his heels, grinning like a kid in a candy store, and Tazer smiles.
-
Sometime during the evening, through presents and video games and tv shows and just hanging out, Kaner can feel the mood shift, a palpable thing. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up and his skin prickle, and for the first time, Jonny looks at him with something unreadable in his eyes, and Kaner can’t meet his gaze.
It’s when Jonny’s leaving, though, that it happens. Stopped at the door, he’d declined to crash on the couch, but he’s biting his lip, just, waiting, and Kaner says, “How about,” and leans up, kissing him once, a quick press of lips before he’s moving back, heat creeping into his cheeks.
“You - oh,” Jonny says, surprised, and just like that he’s reaching out to pull Kaner back in, soft smile at his mouth, eyes affectionate. “You should have said something.”
Kaner’s got his palms flat against Jonny’s chest, skin warm beneath his fingers. “But I’m saying something now,” he challenges, stubborn.
“Thank god,” Jonny breathes, and kisses him again.
-
vii. right in front of the whole, wide world -
They won the Stanley Cup.
They won the Stanley Cup.
Jonny can’t stop grinning, elation and adrenaline buzzing through his entire body, making him feel drunk and dizzy and fan-fucking-tastic, and it’s so loud and Kaner is skating towards him at top speed.
“You did it! We did it!” He whoops into Kaner’s ear as Kaner launches himself at him, arms locked tight around Jonny’s waist and laughing hysterically in his ear.
“We were fucking awesome,” Kaner agrees, still clinging tightly to him, and Jon has the crazy urge to just bury his face in Kaner’s neck and never let go. He’s had that urge a lot lately, but it’s never been this strong, never -
“Jonny, Jonny,” Kaner says, leaning back a little and swaying on his skates, and he’s still got that delirious, giddy smile on his face, but his eyes are soft, focused on Jonny’s face and he’s still standing too close.
Jon thinks, fuck it, and leans in, a quick peck on the lips, and when he pulls back, eyes automatically darting around to see how much the world is about to freak out, Kaner blinks at him, mouth open and red, and suddenly he can’t look anywhere else.
-
viii. think we kissed but I forgot -
It’s the most inopportune moment - across from each other on the ice during a faceoff drill, eyes locked and Patrick resisting the urge to make a face to throw Jonny off his game, and suddenly it hits him like a sack of fucking bricks, so hard that he nearly staggers.
“Holy fucking shit,” he gasps out, and his mind flashes back to last night, when sobriety was long gone, where Jonny’s dark, serious, crazy intense eyes were locked on him, right before Patrick feels himself being slammed up against a wall, Jonny’s leg wedged between his, Jonny’s mouth covering his with an incredibly determined amount of force and hot.
Across from him, Jon pales underneath his helmet.
-
ix. hey you, hands off -
The guy’s hands are on Patrick’s waist, far closer to his ass for Jon to be remotely okay with this, and okay, no, he’s not remotely okay with any part of this at all, any part that resembles Patrick dancing with or making out with or standing with anyone that’s not Jon, so no. Fuck this.
Patrick’s eyes are wide, but not angry as Jon secures him and says, “Party’s over,” and drags him away from his prospective fuck buddy.
“The hell, Jon,” he protests, but Jon gets him around a corner and cuts him off with his mouth, aggressive and desperate and urgent because Patrick fucking needs to know, he needs, he needs, he needs, and Jon needs him, and -
“Oh, okay,” Patrick gasps out when he can manage a breath, hooking one leg around Jon’s knee and pulling him closer. “So it’s like that.”
“Like this,” Jon growls, biting at the sensitive skin under Patrick’s ear, and listens to the low moan he gets in response. “Just. Like. This.”
-
x. you’re fucking it -
Kaner looks defeated. Broken. Devastated. Everything that Jon feels, only he hides it better because he has to, he needs to. They can’t see him fall apart - the media, the team, his family - he’s the Captain. He needs to be okay, that’s his job. Smile or don’t smile, give the right responses, the right answers, the right plans and ideas and the right fucking facial expressions because that’s what he does. That’s what he needs to do.
At this point, he think he’s surpassed anger and depression and has settled on resigned. Defeated, feeling every bit as exhausted as his best friend. A sweep. The worst kind of loss. More than anything, he wants to go home and sleep for two days, crawl into his bed and wallow, and then, when he’s ready, get back up and face the world.
It’s what he does.
Kaner grimaces when the media finally leaves. “That was definitely not how I wanted that to go.”
Jon knows. He overheard bits and pieces, not all of it, but enough. Enough that as Kaner stands, ready to leave, Jon stands as well, saying, “I lo-” and stops, abruptly, because fuck, I love you was about to come out, and that?
That scares the ever loving shit out of Jon.
“I’ll, I’ll drive you home,” he gets out instead, mind whirling and thoughts trailing in a dozen different directions.
He almost wishes he could panic.
He can’t. He would laugh, if it weren’t such a terrifying thought, but no, nothing’s changed, except for this want, this need, this sudden desperate urge to drag Patrick close and bury himself in him, so close that there’s no spaces between them, so close that he can calm Patrick’s mind like Patrick calms him.
By the time they leave, Jon is fighting it, because now that he’s thought the words, all he wants to do is say them say them say them, whisper them, yell them, trace them into Patrick’s skin with his fingertips until Patrick is shivering underneath him, until all his doubts are gone because Jon loves him and Pat should never, ever, ever feel like he’s not good enough.
And that’s it, that’s it, his self-control is shattered into a million pieces on the locker room floor, empty of all teammates and staff and everyone except for them, and Patrick is staring off into space and Jon just can’t. He can’t.
“You,” he starts, chokes out because after this, there is no going back but for once in his fucking life, he knows he needs to take this chance and jump - “Need to listen to me, you’re not, do not ever, you are fucking it, okay?”
Kaner’s mouth is parted, eyes wide and blue and looking up at Jon, his forearm tensed in Jon’s grip and Jon says a prayer and kisses him, pouring in everything he can’t say, everything he feels because god knows his social skills are awful and he’s shit at talking and feelings and relationships in general but this is Patrick and him and Patrick fit like nothing has ever fit in his entire life.
Patrick’s lips quiver underneath his, a tiny gasp of breath before Jon silences him until they can’t breathe. When they part, Jon is mumbling because now his brain will not stop, not stop overflowing with things he wants to say, needs to say, needs Patrick to fucking understand this if it’s the last thing he ever hears from Jon is that - “Please, you can’t, don’t say things like that, they’re not true, please don’t believe, I believe in you, always-”
And then Pat lets out a quiet noise, half-sob, half-laughter, and launches himself back at Jonny and they stumble backwards until Jon’s knees hit the bench and Patrick is on top of him, kissing him, stealing all the breath from his lungs but it doesn’t matter, nothing matters - nothing matters - because Patrick, Pat, Pat, how the hell did Jon not have this for the last four years of his life? Oh god….
His hands explode in a flurry of motion, grasping and roaming over muscles and clothes and fingers through Kaner’s ridiculous mullet (“I’ll cut it off myself,” he mutters into Patrick’s mouth and Patrick nips at his lips, shoots back, “As soon as you shave, Captain.”) and tugs and Patrick’s head tips back, obliging, and fuck if that doesn’t send all the blood in Jon’s body straight to his dick.
“We need to go home now,” Jon says, breathless, and Patrick stills, curls into him, and says,
“Yeah. Yeah.”
[fini]
Fandom: Hawks RPS
Pairing: Toews/Kane
Rating: PG
Words: 2474
Summary: This was basically an excuse for me to write all the first kisses because I really like first kisses. *cough*
-
i. positively impish -
Jon shakes his hand, eyes meeting blue ones alight with amusement and laughter.
“Patrick Kane.”
“Jon Toews.”
“Pleasure,” Patrick says, grinning, then, “You’re cuter than I expected.”
Jon doesn’t know whether to be flattered or nervous, so he settles somewhere in between, and a second later, Patrick flicks a glance over his left shoulder, leans in and pecks him on the lips, quickly, whispering, “This could the start of a wonderful relationship.”
Jon’s known him for all of thirty seconds. He’s flushing underneath his collar, and Patrick’s standing even closer, expectant and flirty and completely serious.
The crazy thing is, he thinks he agrees.
-
ii. do it for the cameras -
Kaner’s laughing, head tilted back, gripping his stick at the roar of the crowd. “Oh, they think they’re clever, don’t they?” He elbows Jon in the side. “Too sexy for our jerseys, huh, Tazer?”
Jon mutters something along the lines of “you fuckin’ weirdo” under his breath, heart rate kicking up a notch even though they’ve been off-shift for close to two minutes and they’re waiting for a faceoff, and then he thinks, what the hell.
He slings an arm over Kaner’s shoulders, glove brushing the back of Kaner’s helmet and drags him in so Jon can give him an exaggerated smooch for the kiss cam that’s firmly fixed on them. Surprised, Kaner twists his head and Jon gets the corner of his mouth rather than his cheek. His skin is both cool from the air and warm from exertion, and then the crowd goes even wilder.
Jon hides a grin, making a show of shoving Kaner away and grimacing.
You love me, Kaner mouths at him, scooting over on the bench because Coach is yelling at them to save it for later and shove over, and Jon shrugs one shoulder, ignoring whatever’s making his skin feel funny.
-
iii. country music and whiskey -
It felt like a good idea at the time, and fuck, yeah, it definitely feels like a good idea now, Tazer hot and hard and heavy against him, pinning him into the wall. The air outside the bar cools his skin, but Tazer’s hands are all over him, burning him from the inside out, kissing him the same way he plays hockey (fierce, aggressive, determined, fluid).
Patrick thinks, nah, he’s good here, he doesn’t need to move, like, ever, and opens his mouth to Tazer’s tongue.
“We should go home,” Tazer says, voice rough in Patrick’s ear, and Patrick shivers, momentarily worrying -
“I don’t want to get caught here, you wanna?” And it sounds so much like a pickup line, so very un-Tazer like that Patrick lets out a low laugh, hips tilting forward automatically to find Tazer just as turned on as he is. He doesn’t need to wonder what’s going on, what this means. Tazer’s staring at him with dark eyes, certain eyes.
That’s enough for Patrick.
“Fuck, yes, take me home, Captain,” he says in an overly breathy tone, and Tazer drags him down the street to hail a cab.
-
iv. and then sharpie was all -
“And make it look real, otherwise you gotta do it again until we’re satisfied.”
The last thing Dunc’s expecting is for them to actually do it. Hoots and catcalls echo around the room, and then something shifts and they’re looking kind of into it, and okay, yeah, this isn’t something he should be watching. It feels intrusive.
Around the twenty five - thirty second mark he starts quietly herding everyone out. He’s heading out the door when he hears a harsh breath and an exhaled, “Shit, what -”
Dunc ducks out the door and risks a glance around the corner, carefully hiding from their view.
“I, uh,” Tazer swallows, dragging a hand through his hair, and Kaner says,
“Yeah,” staring at the floor. “Didn’t… expect that.”
A minute passes, and Dunc watches Tazer fidget. “Maybe we could -”
“Oh, god, yes.”
And that right there, that’s Dunc’s cue to leave, grinning a little to himself. He’ll tell Sharpie all about it tomorrow.
-
v. the time and place -
Joel’s a coach by nature, and that nature is threatening to rip its way out of his throat, but he has enough experience with his top forwards to know when to keep quiet. They’re neither stupid nor ignorant, so he keeps one eye on them and one eye on his bench full of players.
Havi and Doc are supporting Kaner on each side. Joel can recognize a face fighting the urge to wince, and Kaner’s fighting, carefully keeping his weight off his foot. Jon’s waiting in the tunnel, empty of media personnel for the moment, and Joel can hear snatches of conversation between him and Kaner, rapidfire and tense.
“Fucking Calgary -”
“Stop worrying so much -”
“- asshole, you need to -”
“We’ve got him, Jon, now -”
Then there’s silence, and when Joel cranes his head, he sees Jon pressing a hard, fast kiss to Kaner’s lips. He blinks once, thinks, I never saw that, and resolutely refocuses his attention on the bench, where Kitch is hollering something at one of the referees.
When Jon slides back onto the bench, he looks marginally less like he’s about to go after every single player on the Calgary team.
Whatever works.
-
vi. all I want for Christmas -
Tazer ignores it the first time, the sprig of mistletoe right in the doorway of Kaner’s apartment, rolling his eyes and shouldering past Kaner straight through to the living room, where there’s a decorated tree (Kaner worked on it all afternoon), and surprisingly well wrapped box on the coffee table (that took him all morning). The lights are turned down low and there’s a fire crackling in the fireplace.
He raises an eyebrow, as if to say, really, Kaner? And Kaner just grins, shrugs a shoulder and says, “Just open the damn present, Jonny.” He rocks back on his heels, grinning like a kid in a candy store, and Tazer smiles.
-
Sometime during the evening, through presents and video games and tv shows and just hanging out, Kaner can feel the mood shift, a palpable thing. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up and his skin prickle, and for the first time, Jonny looks at him with something unreadable in his eyes, and Kaner can’t meet his gaze.
It’s when Jonny’s leaving, though, that it happens. Stopped at the door, he’d declined to crash on the couch, but he’s biting his lip, just, waiting, and Kaner says, “How about,” and leans up, kissing him once, a quick press of lips before he’s moving back, heat creeping into his cheeks.
“You - oh,” Jonny says, surprised, and just like that he’s reaching out to pull Kaner back in, soft smile at his mouth, eyes affectionate. “You should have said something.”
Kaner’s got his palms flat against Jonny’s chest, skin warm beneath his fingers. “But I’m saying something now,” he challenges, stubborn.
“Thank god,” Jonny breathes, and kisses him again.
-
vii. right in front of the whole, wide world -
They won the Stanley Cup.
They won the Stanley Cup.
Jonny can’t stop grinning, elation and adrenaline buzzing through his entire body, making him feel drunk and dizzy and fan-fucking-tastic, and it’s so loud and Kaner is skating towards him at top speed.
“You did it! We did it!” He whoops into Kaner’s ear as Kaner launches himself at him, arms locked tight around Jonny’s waist and laughing hysterically in his ear.
“We were fucking awesome,” Kaner agrees, still clinging tightly to him, and Jon has the crazy urge to just bury his face in Kaner’s neck and never let go. He’s had that urge a lot lately, but it’s never been this strong, never -
“Jonny, Jonny,” Kaner says, leaning back a little and swaying on his skates, and he’s still got that delirious, giddy smile on his face, but his eyes are soft, focused on Jonny’s face and he’s still standing too close.
Jon thinks, fuck it, and leans in, a quick peck on the lips, and when he pulls back, eyes automatically darting around to see how much the world is about to freak out, Kaner blinks at him, mouth open and red, and suddenly he can’t look anywhere else.
-
viii. think we kissed but I forgot -
It’s the most inopportune moment - across from each other on the ice during a faceoff drill, eyes locked and Patrick resisting the urge to make a face to throw Jonny off his game, and suddenly it hits him like a sack of fucking bricks, so hard that he nearly staggers.
“Holy fucking shit,” he gasps out, and his mind flashes back to last night, when sobriety was long gone, where Jonny’s dark, serious, crazy intense eyes were locked on him, right before Patrick feels himself being slammed up against a wall, Jonny’s leg wedged between his, Jonny’s mouth covering his with an incredibly determined amount of force and hot.
Across from him, Jon pales underneath his helmet.
-
ix. hey you, hands off -
The guy’s hands are on Patrick’s waist, far closer to his ass for Jon to be remotely okay with this, and okay, no, he’s not remotely okay with any part of this at all, any part that resembles Patrick dancing with or making out with or standing with anyone that’s not Jon, so no. Fuck this.
Patrick’s eyes are wide, but not angry as Jon secures him and says, “Party’s over,” and drags him away from his prospective fuck buddy.
“The hell, Jon,” he protests, but Jon gets him around a corner and cuts him off with his mouth, aggressive and desperate and urgent because Patrick fucking needs to know, he needs, he needs, he needs, and Jon needs him, and -
“Oh, okay,” Patrick gasps out when he can manage a breath, hooking one leg around Jon’s knee and pulling him closer. “So it’s like that.”
“Like this,” Jon growls, biting at the sensitive skin under Patrick’s ear, and listens to the low moan he gets in response. “Just. Like. This.”
-
x. you’re fucking it -
Kaner looks defeated. Broken. Devastated. Everything that Jon feels, only he hides it better because he has to, he needs to. They can’t see him fall apart - the media, the team, his family - he’s the Captain. He needs to be okay, that’s his job. Smile or don’t smile, give the right responses, the right answers, the right plans and ideas and the right fucking facial expressions because that’s what he does. That’s what he needs to do.
At this point, he think he’s surpassed anger and depression and has settled on resigned. Defeated, feeling every bit as exhausted as his best friend. A sweep. The worst kind of loss. More than anything, he wants to go home and sleep for two days, crawl into his bed and wallow, and then, when he’s ready, get back up and face the world.
It’s what he does.
Kaner grimaces when the media finally leaves. “That was definitely not how I wanted that to go.”
Jon knows. He overheard bits and pieces, not all of it, but enough. Enough that as Kaner stands, ready to leave, Jon stands as well, saying, “I lo-” and stops, abruptly, because fuck, I love you was about to come out, and that?
That scares the ever loving shit out of Jon.
“I’ll, I’ll drive you home,” he gets out instead, mind whirling and thoughts trailing in a dozen different directions.
He almost wishes he could panic.
He can’t. He would laugh, if it weren’t such a terrifying thought, but no, nothing’s changed, except for this want, this need, this sudden desperate urge to drag Patrick close and bury himself in him, so close that there’s no spaces between them, so close that he can calm Patrick’s mind like Patrick calms him.
By the time they leave, Jon is fighting it, because now that he’s thought the words, all he wants to do is say them say them say them, whisper them, yell them, trace them into Patrick’s skin with his fingertips until Patrick is shivering underneath him, until all his doubts are gone because Jon loves him and Pat should never, ever, ever feel like he’s not good enough.
And that’s it, that’s it, his self-control is shattered into a million pieces on the locker room floor, empty of all teammates and staff and everyone except for them, and Patrick is staring off into space and Jon just can’t. He can’t.
“You,” he starts, chokes out because after this, there is no going back but for once in his fucking life, he knows he needs to take this chance and jump - “Need to listen to me, you’re not, do not ever, you are fucking it, okay?”
Kaner’s mouth is parted, eyes wide and blue and looking up at Jon, his forearm tensed in Jon’s grip and Jon says a prayer and kisses him, pouring in everything he can’t say, everything he feels because god knows his social skills are awful and he’s shit at talking and feelings and relationships in general but this is Patrick and him and Patrick fit like nothing has ever fit in his entire life.
Patrick’s lips quiver underneath his, a tiny gasp of breath before Jon silences him until they can’t breathe. When they part, Jon is mumbling because now his brain will not stop, not stop overflowing with things he wants to say, needs to say, needs Patrick to fucking understand this if it’s the last thing he ever hears from Jon is that - “Please, you can’t, don’t say things like that, they’re not true, please don’t believe, I believe in you, always-”
And then Pat lets out a quiet noise, half-sob, half-laughter, and launches himself back at Jonny and they stumble backwards until Jon’s knees hit the bench and Patrick is on top of him, kissing him, stealing all the breath from his lungs but it doesn’t matter, nothing matters - nothing matters - because Patrick, Pat, Pat, how the hell did Jon not have this for the last four years of his life? Oh god….
His hands explode in a flurry of motion, grasping and roaming over muscles and clothes and fingers through Kaner’s ridiculous mullet (“I’ll cut it off myself,” he mutters into Patrick’s mouth and Patrick nips at his lips, shoots back, “As soon as you shave, Captain.”) and tugs and Patrick’s head tips back, obliging, and fuck if that doesn’t send all the blood in Jon’s body straight to his dick.
“We need to go home now,” Jon says, breathless, and Patrick stills, curls into him, and says,
“Yeah. Yeah.”
[fini]