Work Text:
He can never sit still through press conferences anymore; it's becoming a problem. Malkin tells him to lay off the caffeine, then tells him that he isn't three years old and needs to stop squirming like a toddler, then tells him that the team doesn't care what his fucking problem is but he needs to fucking work it out because Sid is the one who does the fucking press conferences and it's starting to get embarrassing up there to the rest of them. Sidney sighs and says he'll work on it.
The truth is, Sid knows exactly what his problem is. His problem is the black tie that the hockey beat reporter for the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette wears to every goddamn presser he attends. The man must only own one tie, and it's driving Sidney nuts. Because every time he sees it, his brain helpfully provides him with the sound of a quiet voice above him and a little off to his left: Fuck, is the knot too tight? Just tell me, Sidney, you gotta tell me. The Jonny in his brain is always a little out of breath, and he always ties the knots at blindfold and wrists a little tighter than is strictly comfortable, but Sidney never tells him to change it.
He likes the reminder. They don't see each other often; they fuck in secret -- furtive and desperate -- and Sidney thinks it might be unbearable except for the bite of the ties into his skin, the way the blindfold pinches around his ears and makes the absence of light into more than just a way to hide from Jonny's serious, careful face. The constriction of the ties makes the whole thing into something deeply, painfully physical -- sinks him into his own body and anchors him there while Jonny takes him methodically apart. It turns the sex from something shameful into something he just needs, and it means that they can still look each other in the eye across the ice, because he's never looked Jonny in the eye in bed and seen even a hint of vulnerability. They've never looked each other in the eye in bed at all.
None of which, unfortunately, helps his press problem. Because while the blindfolds and restraints are a way for him to have Jonny and not worry about it afterward, he's becoming downright Pavlovian about seeing strips of fabric, be they ties or scarves or even just black tape on the days when he's really desperate (which goddamn Malkin uses to wrap his stick, and something about that combination of images in his head is wrong wrong wrong). On those days, he'll sometimes call Johnny on the phone and let that quiet voice talk him down; obey when Jonny tells him to put his hand on his cock, listen for the tell-tale hitches of breath across the line that tell him exactly when to let go, close his eyes and imagine it's Jonny's fingers in him. It's not as good -- the angle is never quite right when it's just him and Jonny's fingers are slimmer and more agile than his own -- but hearing Jonny whisper Christ, the idea of you, all spread out and begging me for it, God, on a shattered inhale of breath, Sidney; he comes every time, and it just leaves him more desperate the next time the stupid reporter stands up in a conference in front of the team and the whole world in that tie and asks something innocently suggestive like "How can you be more dominant on the ice," then writes diligently while Sid tries to keep his traitorous brain from going there.
The next time they play the Blackhawks at home, there's a knock on his door at 2:47 AM the morning after the game, and Sidney opens the door in a t-shirt and flannel sleep pants to barely catch a glimpse of scuffed running shoes before black cloth is pressed against his eyes and the voice that's been messing with his head for weeks breathes Is this okay?
Yeah, Sidney says, then clears his throat. Yes.
Okay, Jonny echoes, and presses him inside with nothing more than the force of the blindfold pushed against his eyes, settles him against a wall and ties the knot. Sidney hasn't even seen his face, but he can feel Jonny's body heat against his front, millimeters from touching, and the sounds after he got the blindfold on mean that Jonny's hands are probably still on the wall to either side of Sid's head.
Sidney, Jonny whispers, and that's the thing about blindfolds, the lack of sight sensitizes you so that Sid feels the stir of air beneath his nose, practically tastes the word, but in spite of it all he's still shocked motionless when Jonny kisses him.
They don't do this.
But Jonny kisses a little like he fucks, bites at Sidney's lip with a low growl of approval and it's too familiar and too big for Sid to let himself think: that Jonny's wanted this for a while, all those marks over his collarbone the day after from when Jonny buried Sidney's name against his neck and forced Sid's wrists that much harder into the mattress.
Jonny kisses like he's scared to do it but scared not to, no body contact except where their noses rub against each other. It starts rough and gets rougher, bruising pressure gone animal and almost savage until Sid snaps out of frozen surprise and shifts just that little bit, angles for something new and Jonny slows way down until Sidney recognizes him. It's the same way that Jonny skates when he's being lazy, slow spirals across the ice and slow dance of breath and tongues and teeth, like there's some primal rhythm that Jonny lives by and this is just another way of letting it show. Jonny finally steps in that last little bit, hemming Sidney in with his body and shifting his hands closer on the wall until his wrists guide the angle of Sid's head to the one he wants.
It lasts forever. Weirdly, it's maybe the most innocent thing they've done together -- he's had Jonny inside him, for Christ's sake, but somehow kissing feels like something stolen and forbidden. He doesn't even realize he's hard until he hears the shift of one hand from the wall beside him and feels it a moment later on his hip, gliding down to cup over his cock. Yeah, Jonny whispers and it sounds like acceptance on any number of levels, Yeah. Sidney, where's the nearest bed in this place?
He doesn't need eyes to navigate the apartment, and Jonny's hands on his waist correct him when he misguesses a doorway by a few inches. When they get to where the bed should be, Jonny strips him efficiently and pushes him back onto the mattress. Sidney settles himself and listens for the sounds of Jonny shedding pants, shorts, shoes, shirt. The mattress shifts again and Jonny's on top of him for more kisses, still strangely chaste in spite of their nudity, full length against his body and calm like they rarely (never) are with each other. All those phone calls, whispered in dragonfly-wing brushes against his lips, all that hearing you come from just my voice and all I could ever picture was this, wanted you under me so fucking bad. Firm hands down his chest, fingernails carding through the hair at the base of his sternum and following down to just above his cock, Jonny's teeth biting tight against his mouth, Sidney, say you'll let me. Please, and the hand that was so near his cock, so near where he needed it to be, drifts up to yank his wrists above his head and use Jonny's full weight to push him back and down and stretched out, anchored by the pressure of Jonny's hips and his hands and mesmerized by the delicate, desperate touches of his mouth.
Anything, Sidney breathes back, and regrets it as soon as the word gets past his teeth, but it's too late.
Okay, nuzzled into his throat, okay. For a moment Sid wishes he'd never said anything, because Jonny's weight lifts off him and leaves him feeling wary and unanchored. There's more shifting mattress, a sound like a cap popping or maybe unscrewing, Sidney can't tell which. Then Jonny's back with a hand beneath his knee to spread him wider, and this is what the blindfold does for them: without it this would be unbearable, to be so vulnerable in front of someone who isn't team, or family, or spouse. But with the cloth barrier between them, Sid can let this happen. It's okay like this, lack of sight a token concession to safety. The knot of the blindfold tugs at the skin just above his ears when Jonny pulls him down the bed into the cradle of his hips, hard cock nudging teasingly against his ass and God, Sid will kill him personally if he doesn't get on with this.
Then Jonny's inside him, and fuck it always hurts -- whether like this with only the lube on Jonny's cock to help or whether they've taken hours of fingering and teasing and prep. This always hurts like a motherfucker and Sidney grits his teeth through it because he knows that when Jonny's pressed as far as he can get inside, Jonny will bury his panting in Sidney's neck for a moment then pull his head back to hover over Sid's lips. Is this good? he'll ask, and Sidney will shake his head No but smile, and Jonny will huff out the ghost of a laugh and things will be less awkward -- less vulnerable -- between them.
But this time, Jonny doesn't ask, he just pushes as deep as he can get in one thrust then leans down for more kissing. And when Sid is gasping and openmouthed into his kisses and desperate for friction between them, the little bastard pushes his forehead against Sidney's. Do you trust me? Jonny asks, which is not on script, but Sidney answers anyway with his customary No and a smile, writhing down into Jonny's body and reminding him that Got your cock up my ass, yeah, that really says I don't trust you at all, nutcase.
Jonny bites him viciously on the lip, and Sidney shuts up, shocked, and tastes blood the next time he licks out to test whether he's still in one piece. I mean it, Sidney, tell me *right fucking now* if you don't want me to take this to the next level -- and Jonny's probably saying something else, but Sidney's mind got stuck around there's more? and hasn't come back online since.
Tell me, Jonny is whispering, in little kisses that shouldn't even count as talking because they're pressed so carefully into his neck and collarbones and chest. Sidney, you've got to tell me if you don't like this. He's about to tell Jonny to get on with it, that he'd like to be fucked into next Thursday, thanks, but Jonny --.
Jonny runs a hand up his neck, over his cheek, then under the blindfold and pushes it up, so that the only thing between them is Jonny's skin, his hand covering Sidney's eyes -- still -- but that's not cloth, that's him, and Sidney can feel the steady roll of Jonny's hips against his prostate and against the tension in his balls and against his fucking eyes because the only thing keeping that safety zone now is Jonny's hand. He might be breathing too fast. He might be hyperventilating, and shoving down onto Jonny's cock to get this over with, because the faster it ends the faster he can stop feeling worried, feeling this horrible dependence on someone else, the sooner he can gather himself and be Sidney again.
But Jonny, the little bastard, slows down and fights him on this one. Sidney. Sidney, listen to me. Listen to me, and he does because his fucking Pavlovian brain doesn't know how to do anything but obey. Trust me. Sidney, let me.
And he does, because he doesn't know how to do anything else. Jonny rocks up into that deep perfect spot that goes electric at the pressure, takes his time, draws it out and spends a while just barely inside him, toying with the nerves right around his hole, making sure he's sensitized so that the next long thrust arches Sidney's back and sends him clawing the sheets. The whole time, it's only Jonny's hand that he feels, though. There's never a hint that Jonny will move it, that he'll actually have his sight for any of this, and Sidney knows deep down that Jonny wouldn't do that to him, not really, but it's the threat, the intimacy of only Jonny's will keeping him in the dark, that concentrates every fiber of Sidney's being on that point of contact.
It's scarily intimate, strangely even more of an incursion than the way Jonny's hips are gradually working him into a frenzy. It's complete trust between them, and Sidney comes when Jonny whines deep in the back of his throat and jerks inside him. Jonny's orgasm makes him unwary enough that a sliver of light slips through a crack between his fingers and hits Sid's eyelids. That's what it takes, the very idea that he could actually see Jonny open and coming apart because he can't help it, because Sidney feels so good to him. The mental image of Jonny's face so vulnerable puts Sidney over the edge and he squeezes his eyes together, thinks of Jonny's mouth on his and comes in shaking, devastated waves.
When he's next aware, Jonny still has a hand over his eyes, not pressing down, just shielding him. Jonny's mouth is right next to his ear and Sid can feel the breath against the tender inner shell, almost ticklish there, moving the small hairs and sending goosebumps down the back of his neck. Do you want me to put the blindfold back on you? Jonny asks, because he really does understand how this works. Jonny's still inside him, softer but still thick, and they're pressed together as closely as two people can be.
Sidney takes a deep breath. Inhales to feel his chest expand and No, he says, and reaches up. Runs one hand along Jonny's forearm in a gesture that's every bit as sexy as the first time he stroked Jonny's cock. Wraps the very tips of their fingers together and with the lightest pressure imaginable, pulls the hand away.
Jonny's eyes are all pupil, dark and completely shocked. They're joined so intimately that Sidney knows for certain how much he's trembling, knows how unsure Jonny is about this. He can feel Jonny harden just a little inside him, and yeah, it's hot. It's so invasive it hurts, and it might well ruin this weird thing they've got going here, but moving Jonny's hand from over his eyes is easily the hottest thing he's ever done. He pulls down with the barest pressure of his fingers, and presses a kiss into Jonny's palm. Jonny isn't breathing. Sidney isn't either.
When that (first) kiss ends, Jonny's hand drifts down and settles over Sidney's collarbone. Jonny tilts his nose down and feathers it against Sidney's, then they're really kissing: mouths soft and inquisitive and new. Neither of them closes their eyes, even though Sidney thinks that it might be appropriate. They don't want to give up the connection of sight, not now, when it feels so hard-earned. Jonny's hips nudge just a little in the same rhythm as their kiss, as if he's not completely aware of what he's doing, but Sidney arches up to him all the same and Jonny groans low into his mouth. Sidney can feel the vibrations.
When Jonny draws back, he presses their foreheads together, breathless, a look of open wonder on his face as though he can't believe this is happening. Sidney's pretty sure he's wearing the very same expression himself. "Tell me this is okay," Jonny says into his mouth "Tell me, Sidney, you've got to tell me," and Sidney says, "Yeah. Yes. Yes."