#pk88

My Muse

synopsis: a collection of the aftermath of kane’s trade, everyone’s favorite photographer mourning her muse

pairing: pkane88 x fem!photographer!reader

faceclaim: none / pinterest photos

warnings: slight age gap intended, nothing serious

PK88.||patrick kane.

smut not really.

throwing patty off his game.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Patty moaned, his head thrown back against the padded locker stall, his breath hitching as I let his cock slide from my lips with a wet, popping sound. I made sure to swallow every last drop, throat working hard to clear him completely, my eyes never leaving his flushed, handsome face.

He looked dazed, his grip tightening on the fabric of his jersey as the aftershocks rippled through his body, his hips still twitching involuntarily against the edge of the bench.

The rest of the team was already out there, the muffled roar of the crowd filtering through the heavy metal doors, but Patrick Kane had been done with the game—at least for the moment. After a particularly frustrating penalty, he had stormed into the locker room, crashing out in a fit of rage. I had followed him in, desperate to calm him down, and realized that "encouraging head" was exactly the kind of distraction he needed to reset his focus.

“Okay, baby,” I whispered, wiping a stray drop from my chin before standing up from the cold, rubber-matted floor. I reached up, pulling his hands away so I could fix his gear. “Pull up your pants and get back out there. Go score for me.” I pressed a firm, lingering kiss to his lips, watching as he sat there in a state of absolute shock, his chest heaving, his eyes dilated and hazy from the pleasure.

I hurried back to my seat in the crowd just in time to see the tunnel door swing open. A moment later, Patty skated out onto the ice at the United Center, the crowd roaring with anticipation. I smiled, feeling a surge of pride, until I noticed the way his skates caught the ice—his stride was choppy, and his knees buckled just for a split second. A wave of instant, cold regret washed over me. I had weakened him too much.

His coach watched him with a narrowed, suspicious gaze, immediately signaling for him to head to the bench. As he collapsed onto the wooden seat, shaking his head and gulping down water, I bit my lip until it bled, terrified I had cost him the game. He looked pale, his legs visibly trembling under the bright arena lights, and the coach kept him sidelined for several agonizing minutes.

But just when I thought he was done for the night, the fire returned to his eyes. He stood up, testing his weight, and despite the lingering tremors in his thighs, he jumped back over the boards.

He moved with a desperate, frantic energy, his legs shaking slightly as he regained his balance, He surged forward, cutting through the defense with a lethal grace, and as he gained possession of the puck, he wound up for a blistering slapshot. The puck whizzed past the goalie, burying itself in the back of the net. The stadium erupted into chaos as the Blackhawks secured the win, and from my seat, I let out a shaky breath, watching him celebrate, knowing exactly what—and who—had gotten him that goal.

i hate writing oral.

You’ll never convince me that that wasn’t his one big love, the one you spend a lifetime waiting for and a lifetime missing.

(Pictures borrowed from Pinterest)