Lyman Karlinsky

It's been a while since I wrote something adventurously porny, so when this prompt showed up, it seemed like a good excuse:

I would love for this to be BDSM-flavored, but more about placing Kane into an intensely focused sub-space, rather than the typical BDSM 101 checklist. I want the mental/emotional intensity of submitting, not the more typical “I've handcuffed you to the bed, so you're submitting,” fare. I want Toews to dismantle him hard and then put him back together again gently.

Focus
Jonathan Toews/Patrick Kane, NC-17, slight power dynamics issues, size kink, toys, sounding, Patrick Kane and sex deserves its own warning, ~3000 words

Disclaimer:All of this is so completely fictional. I do not purport to own the people about whom I write, or their images. No harm is meant, and no money is being made.

*

Pat Kane spends a good part of his life at Jonny's side. They stand together for fans to take pictures, they ride together to practices and games, and for as much as Q blusters about changing things in the lineup, he's rarely on the ice without Jonny there beside him, comforting presence so attuned to Pat's skating that they don't have to look at each other to pass and they know by instinct which of them will chase which dump-in.

Some other things are becoming instinct too, routines that make Pat's life flow smoothly. Jonny is the one who talks to their agent while Pat nods along at the right times. They're in an SUV on their way back from an appearance at a local middle school, and the agent is in the front passengers seat, while he and Jonny share the bench seat in back, needing the space for their equipment. Pat's attention drifts outside his window to the passing buildings, the wrought-iron bars on the doorframe of one store across the corner when they stop at a light. His hand drifts down, tugs on the tape around his socks then smooths it flat again. A donut shop flashes by outside and Pat scratches his nose wistfully, thinking of the smell.

“I want donuts,” he says, and Jonny glances at him sideways with a disapproving slant to his eyebrows. “What? It's true.”

“We were talking about the phone commercial,” Jonny says and presses his lips together.

“Sorry.” Jonny turns back toward the agent and Pat's attention drifts again. Endorsements are the boring part of being a hockey star, but at least he doesn't have to hash out the details. Jonny takes point on things like contract negotiations and promotion deals, just like Pat's the one who steps up first to talk to kids when they do things like today's school trip. Division of labor. Jonny's getting better at seeming natural when they do appearances, but he's still uncomfortable in the middle of the kids' hero worship, while Pat tends to bask in the spotlight.

Jonny elbows him subtly. “What? Oh, yes,” Pat says, because Jonny seems to be expecting some sort of response.

“Well then, it's settled,” the agent says, closing his executive notebook, and Pat wonders what he just agreed to do. Hopefully whatever it is won't be too embarrassing. He slants a questioning glance in Jonny's direction, trying to convey that he hasn't really heard a word of the conversation. Jonny sighs, closes his eyes, nods minutely. He'll explain it all again when they get home.

*

“You could have paid more attention back there. I could have signed you up for a commercial for hemorrhoids cream for all you know.” Jonny strips out of his undershirt and crosses to his closet, dropping the shirt in the laundry basket.

“Are we really talking about this now?” Pat's clothes are already in the basket, removed methodically almost as soon as they got home. Pat would never tell him, but he likes the way Jonny touches him to strip when they're both eager for it. There's something frank in his hands, no coyness or hesitation and no hurry, just the single-minded intensity that Jonny brings to most things he does. They'd only just gotten through the door when Jonny had tugged Pat's shirt off and pointed him in the direction of the bed.

Pat stretches his arms above his head and closes his hands around the wooden slats of the headboard, flexing his biceps just because it feels good, watching as Jonny steps out of his underwear and jock and bends over to rummage through the closet. It's a nice view; even for a hockey player Jonny has a fantastic ass. It's another thing Pat will never tell him, though when he does stuff like this Pat suspects that he already knows.

“Why shouldn't we talk about it now?” Jonny straightens and turns back to the bed, a shoebox in his hands. “Stay like that, don't move your hands.” Pat flexes his arms again and obeys, one leg bent and falling open, displaying himself. It doesn't take much to get him hard, and the way Jonny is looking at him is more than enough. The shoebox goes on the side of the bed near the foot and Jonny climbs up to straddle him, wrapping his hands around Pat's wrists and stretching out to pin Pat in place. It lines their cocks up nicely and Pat nudges his hips up, encouraging. “You weren't concentrating,” Jonny says and Pat blinks, trying to remember the thread of the conversation.

“It was boring,” he says and turns his head so that Jonny can nip at the shell of his ear. “Besides, do you really want to talk about our agent when you're naked with me?” Pat tilts his hips again to punctuate his statement, but Jonny's weight limits his range of motion.

“I'm not talking about him, I'm talking about you.” Jonny's hand settles under his jaw and turns his head back so that he's forced to meet Jonny's eyes, wide and dark. Their mouths are very close. Pat's breathing slows and settles into a deeper rhythm. “Don't do that again, okay? I don't like it when you agree to things and you don't know what they are. I don't want to get us into something you don't want to do.”

They stare at each other, close enough that his eyes can't see all of Jonny's face, so Jonny resolves into separate images — lashes, pupil, nose. “Okay,” he breathes, and Jonny kisses him lightly then pulls his knees beneath himself, sits up. Air rushes in to fill the space between them, suddenly cooler, and Pat shivers at the absence of skin. Jonny's still watching, all that focus and energy narrowed to the way his thumb drags across Pat's cheekbone, and Pat squirms under the scrutiny, restless.

“Don't move your hands,” Jonny repeats, and turns away to pull the shoebox closer. It's sexy in a strange way, laying there with his arms above his head, stretched out and vulnerable because he wants to be, because he wants Jonny to have that sort of access to his body. It's not the same feeling as with cuffs or scarves — and Pat knows there are scarves in the shoebox, maybe Jonny will tie him up later — but he likes the feeling of being restrained only by Jonny's will and his own desire to please.

Jonny sorts through the contents of the box and pulls out a black dildo and a small bullet vibrator. Pat is curious about the idea of both at once, but he's even more curious about the other thing Jonny removes: a long flat wooden case only a few inches high. They keep half of their toys at Jonny's apartment and half at his own home, but he's never seen that particular case before.

“What is it?” He nods in the direction of the case, tilting his chin and craning to see. Jonny's smirk goes secretive and pleased.

“You'll see.” Pat's head falls back to the pillow, frustrated. “Which do you want first?”

Pat bites his lip, considers. If Jonny's in a teasing mood then the vibrator will be hell. Jonny's got a knack for taking him right to the edge and leaving him there, not letting him come until he's half-crazy for it and over-sensitive. “That one.” He nods at the dildo and curls his hands more tightly in their grip on the headboard. He can't help but peek at the wooden case, sitting nearby just out of the direct range of his vision.

A few seconds more of fishing around in the box to find lube and Jonny turns back to him, smile sly and dangerous. He turns the dildo in his hands to slick it and nudges at Pat's thigh, making room for himself. The first circling touch of fingers is gentle, and Pat feels a vaguely formed gratitude that Jonny seems to be playing nice tonight. Sometimes when he gets in these moods, he's rough enough not to bother with much prep. The gentleness is suspicious, though, not quite matching the eagerness Pat finds in his eyes or the edge of something different about his posture.

It takes barely any pressure at all to fit a finger inside, a slow glide that Pat arches down into, pushes his feet against the coverlet to raise his hips. Jonny snorts through his nose but doesn't try for anything more, content with the lazy rhythm of fingering, penetration and withdrawal, sometimes twisting his wrist to press against the muscle, stretch it wider. Pat gives him stifled, pleased noises. The first time they'd done this, he'd been almost afraid to say anything, silence the long habit of years of jerking off quietly on the road so that no roommate would hear. He's become used to the way Jonny lights up when he's louder, though, so now Pat makes an effort.

“Here,” Jonny says and Pat feels the cool, blunt tip of the dildo against his hole, below where two of Jonny's fingers are still inside him, their pads settled just against his sweet spot. “Deep breath.”

“You're not –,” Pat starts, but he is, and the sentence turns into a disbelieving groan as Jonny works the toy inside him, pushing with careful, steady pressure. The stretch of it starts bright and shocking, far too much, overwhelming. Jonny hasn't moved his fingers at all, still inside and pressed up tight against the black silicone shaft. When it's in as far as it can go, he twitches his hand and Pat's breath heaves in giant gasps of air against the massive stretch. Jonny presses his free hand against Pat's stomach, the touch meant to steady him, anchor.

“It's okay,” he says, and Pat would beg to differ because Jonny's not the one pulled so wide it aches, so wide he can barely breathe around the feeling of it. Jonny's fingers twitch against his prostate again and Pat tenses reflexively, squeezing down around the fingers and the dildo still more and gasping at the thickness. It's too much.

“I can't,” he says, and Jonny's eyes laser to his face. Pat sounds foreign to his own ears, voice strangled and thick around words. “I can't.”

“Yeah, you can,” Jonny corrects gently, and his free hand draws a trail from Pat's stomach over his hip, down the crease of his thigh to tug at and roll his balls. It makes him feel even more vulnerable than before, arms held up and useless above his head, legs spread wide enough to leave him feeling revealed and splayed out, Jonny's thumb firm against the delicate, delicate skin of his sac. Pat closes his eyes and pushes his face against his bicep, ignoring the sheen of sweat there. “If you really want me to stop, take your hands off the headboard and I will. But you can take this.” One easy stroke up and down his cock has Pat struggling not to tense up again, not to squeeze down. “Concentrate on my fingers. Don't think about the stretch, think about what my fingers are doing.” He flutters the tips of them against that sweet spot, and the sensation runs like lightning through the base of Pat's spine. “You look so good like this.”

Pat tries to tune out the ache from the size and concentrate just on the steady rubbing motions that really do feel good now that he's thinking about it. He tries to cheat his hips down, get a better angle for more of that pressure, and Jonny allows him. It's good, it's so good, and Pat finds a place where he doesn't have to think about it, where he can just ride the feelings. It spreads like a liquid ache between his hipbones, radiating out like lava to his bone until he's warm all over and his hands are so tight in fists that his fingers tingle.

“So good,” Jonny whispers, and Pat gets a few seconds of warning buzz that the vibrator is on before Jonny cups it up against the head of his cock and Pat nearly levitates off the bed.

“Fuck, oh fuck,” he breathes, barely able to squeeze the words out, struggling not to fall apart instantly when the vibrator strokes down to his sac. Jonny nestles it there between his balls and Pat shoves down, uses the headboard for leverage to fuck himself into the pulsing feeling.

“Don't come,” Jonny says and Pat bites down into his bicep to try and clear his head because just hearing the words put him that much closer to the edge. “Concentrate on my fingers. Pay attention to those, not the vibrator.”

Pat groans. “Jonny,” but he's right, it does help back him away from the ledge when he focuses on the fluttering rubs deep inside him, far more subtle than the devastating sensation of the vibrator. When he opens his eyes and glances down, wanting to see, Jonny's gaze is glued to his face, so very intent, pupils blown. Pat gives a full-body writhe down into his hands and Jonny smiles, bright and unshuttered.

“I have something for you,” Jonny says and Pat struggles to interpret the words, still wrapped up in the sensation of fingers, not able to jerk his attention too far away from that deep rhythm against his prostate lest he lose all control. “I think you'll like it. I've been wanting to do this with you for forever.” There are other words but Pat loses them, his eyes rolled back when Jonny shifts his hand and hits just the perfect amount of pressure, perfect angle, perfect everything.

The reason Jonny shifted his hand though was to move it, slide his fingers out and the dildo, turn off the vibrator. He leans across a thigh to shove the toys to the other side of the bed and grab the lube again, pull the wooden case closer. Pat barely stifles a whimper, left desperate and wanting and alone. He can still feel the tingle in his balls from the vibrator, like an echo in his nerves, and his hole feels wide and loose, empty.

Jonny's attention returns soon though, and he slicks a quick hand over his cock then shifts Pat's leg for a better angle and slides inside. Pat clenches down around him; the returned sense of something inside him feels amazing, and he hopes that Jonny will give up the teasing and just fuck him, make it hard and deep and claiming after all the vulnerability. But instead Jonny shoves himself in deep and stays there, stroking Pat's leg once then picking up the case and sitting it on his stomach.

It opens to reveal a line of thin metal rods, each shades wider than the next. Pat frowns, uncomprehending, head still fuzzy with pleasure. He doesn't get it until Jonny tips the lube bottle up against the head of his cock and lets the slick run down against his slit.

Pat opens his mouth but can't make any words come out. He never thought, never even considered. Jonny's told him about how much he wants to do to Pat, how much he wants to do with him, but this never even crossed his mind. Now all he can do is try to breathe, a deep broken inhalation that quivers through his chest and sticks there, makes the case on his stomach shake. Jonny looks up and meets his eyes, stills.

“We can stop if you want to,” he says, voice low. “If you want to stop, just move your hands. I'll stop, I swear. But –,” his eyes fall away, glance down then back up and Pat realizes that this is Jonny asking to be given this, this is something he wants badly enough for it to be important. “But please, this can be good, okay? You are gonna look so amazing.” Pat wets his lips with a tongue that's too dry to do much good, watches Jonny's eyes follow the movement. All he can think about is the image of Jonny owning him that completely, able to do whatever he wants with Pat's body. He nods in jerky, tiny movements and Jonny lights up, beaming, and selects one of the thinner rods from the case.

Pat's lungs go tight at the way the light gleams off the shining metal, suddenly too-small for his chest. There isn't enough air in the room for the way that Jonny focuses on him to the exclusion of everything else in the world. He tightens his hands on the headboard as though the tension through his arms could brace him. His balls tighten both from fear and the need for release of just moments ago, the skin across his sac practically goosebumps. Jonny bites his lip and wraps two fingers around the base of his cock to steady him, then runs the tip of the rod under his foreskin, dipping it in the lube there and toying with the stretch of skin.

Pat's throat has forgotten how to swallow and he can't bear to tear his eyes away from the distortion of the rod beneath thin, fine skin. Jonny might be saying something, he can't tell, his whole universe has narrowed to the point where that rod teases against his slit, slips in by barely a centimeter, pulls out, slides in fractions deeper. Jonny goes very still to watch it slide in, and it's the visual as much as the feeling that staggers him, the very idea that Jonny has his cock in Pat's ass, and is now fucking him with this piece of metal too, working his cock over from the inside out.

A few more flirtations with only a few inches, then Jonny slides it really deep and Pat bows up so hard his spine twinges. It stretches, it really stretches his slit and the feeling is so completely alien that Pat's body doesn't know how to handle it, can't blink away, can't inhale, shuts down to everything but that single stunning sensation. There's a low, constant murmur from Jonny now, and while Pat's brain refuses to attach meaning to the words, the sound itself is encouraging, full of wonder and praise and reassurance. He trusts Jonny, he does, but this is so much that there's nothing in his experience to give him a way to begin to process it and part of him rebels, terrified.

A shift in the flaring pressure in his cock, and he realizes Jonny is twisting the rod, tugging little circles. He opens his mouth and syllables spill out, a litany of “Oh,” and “Fuck,” and “Jonny”. It doesn't make any sense but it's a release valve somehow, a way of keeping the buzz of fire that's building in his brain and in his spine from burning him alive. Jonny pulls the rod out, slips it back in again, wraps his whole hand around Pat's cock and strokes him firmly around the incredible stretched feeling. And that, that that that thisthisthis. There isn't enough lightning in all the world for the storm along his nerves, green and red flashes behind eyes that he didn't even know he'd closed, roaring in his ears, sparks off fraying nerves so intense they hurt in the best possible way. It feels like forever, unbearable to continue, unbearable for it to end, before his brain closes down completely in blissful silence.

*

When he wakes up, Jonny is bent over him with both hands holding his face, touch achingly delicate and concerned. “Pat? Patrick? Come on, tell me you're okay.”

He tries to say something, but his vocal cords aren't quite back online yet and it comes out as more of a croak, so he settles for nodding. The lines across Jonny's forehead relax a bit, relieved.

“I thought that I'd hurt you. There at the end, I mean. I didn't want to –,” but Pat shakes his head and Jonny falls silent, still holding him, examining him. “You're really okay?”

“I'm good,” Pat says, rusty. His throat feels like it's been dragged over a mile of sandpaper. He might have been yelling, there at the end. His hands are still wrapped around the headboard, he realizes, and releases his fingers to bring them down and comb through Jonny's hair. After so long above his head, they feel weighty and half-numb, clumsy like the rest of him. “I'm really good, actually.” Jonny chuckles contentedly and lips at his ear, then buries his face in the sweaty curve of Pat's neck and lets Pat take his full weight, exhausted. Pat lets his brain float and says the first thing that comes to mind. “You know that this wasn't exactly a deterrent for me drifting off in boring meetings.”

“I'll just have to try harder next time,” slurs Jonny, half-asleep and stiflingly warm. Pat doesn't bother to ask him to move. Jonny's breath is moist and ticklish on his skin, but he's so over-stimulated that it feels bizarrely good.

“Next time, can I try them on you?” he asks, not sure how Jonny will feel about turnabout.

“Maybe.” Soft huffs of breath feel like laughter along the hairs at the nape of his neck. “Maybe the next time I have a really good game.”

“Your next hat trick.”

“Patrick,” Jonny agrees, dozing, and Pat doesn't bother to correct him.

Title: Dostana

Director: Tarun Mansukhani

Producer: Karan Johar and Hiroo Johar

Cast:

Abhishek Bachchan…… Sameer

John Abraham…… Kunal

Priyanka Chopra…… Neha

Bobby Deol…… Abhimanyu

Synopsis: Dostana is Karan Johar’s upcoming movie as a producer. An NRI romantic comedy, Dostana, is full of fun and humor. The background of the movie is set in Miami, famous for its beaches, parties and clubs. Two friends- Sameer (Abhishek Bachchan) and Kunal (John Abraham) are looking for apartments and the landlady of the apartment turned them down because the last thing she wants is some young men corrupting her beautiful niece, Neha (Priyanka Chopra).

Now, the two desperate friends pose as gay to get the land lady’s approval. Neha, without knowing Sameer and Kunal’s real intention, befriends with them. Sameer and Kunal, once two friends, turns enemies as they compete for Neha’s love. In the mean time, a third person enters the scene; Abhimanyu, Neha’s boss, and this makes the situation more confusing, fun and interesting.

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