Bandom ficlet: keep spinning, keep spinning, send us off to sleep (Bob/Patrick, R)
Title: keep spinning, keep spinning, send us off to sleep
Fandom: Bandom - Fall Out Boy/My Chemical Romance
Pairing: Bob Bryar/Patrick Stump
Rating: R
Words: ~640
Disclaimer: Not mine, alas.
Summary: Bob wonders if Patrick knows that he drums in his sleep.
Notes: Written for Porn Battle VI, prompt “Bob/Patrick, drums” (original thread here). Title from the song “P.S.” by James. All feedback and constructive criticism is, as always, much appreciated.
Bob wonders if Patrick knows that he drums in his sleep.
Not all the time, or even most of the time. Probably more often than not he hums, or presses chords to the mattress with his left hand, or mutters the same lyric over and over like he’s trying to figure out where to slot it into a song. Bob thinks he even saw Patrick air conducting once after falling asleep on the couch in the living room. Most of these things, Bob has no problem sleeping through. Bob is highly experienced at sleeping through many types and levels of disturbance, up to and including Frank and Jamia having reunion sex in the bunk across from his. But every once in awhile, Patrick’s hand will start tapping out drum lines against the wall.
It infiltrates his dreams, echoes in the hollows of his mind, and this time when it tugs him into consciousness, he can feel his heart throbbing in time to the downbeat of each and every measure.
He can’t go back to sleep.
The last time this happened, he ended up tapping out a counter rhythm for two and half hours until Patrick finally slipped into a different stage of sleep.
The time before that, it had been late enough in the night that he just went with it, and ended up having a smoke out on the balcony while watching the sky drift from deep charcoal to pale blue.
This time, though. This time he has a different problem.
Sadly, his sleep-deprived brain cannot avoid realizing that his heart is not the only part of his body pulsing in time with the beat.
He tries to ignore it, but after a few minutes Patrick’s rhythm acquires a syncopated flourish every other measure, and Bob swears it feels like the tip of a finger running up the underside of his cock every time he hears it. Shit.
He’s lying sideways on the bed, face half-mashed into a pillow and legs tangled in the bedsheets. He kicks his legs free and shoves his hand down past the waistband of his threadbare grey sweatpants.
He breathes a deep sigh into the soft cotton of his pillowcase as he wraps his hand firmly around his dick. For a minute or two he just stays that way, motionless, holding his dick and breathing and trying to ignore the way his inner ear seems to have picked up Patrick’s beat. But eventually, almost of its own volition, his hand starts to move.
At first, he takes care to vary his strokes, to not fall into any particular rhythm or counter-rhythm. But jerking off has its own imperatives, and slowly, almost imperceptibly, his movements start to even out, until each drag of his hand down the length of his dick coincides exactly with the rhythm of Patrick’s drumming, each syncopated flourish matches a stuttering twist over the head, and pre-come smoothes out the entire motion into a double-time hot summer haze, frantic but steady, detached but intense, like there’s nothing to him but rhythm and movement, and somehow within this he comes with a muffled groan, spilling over his hand as he slows through the aftershocks and sinks into the bed as his mind starts to float, tethered only by the faint hollow tap that still thrums through his body as he lets go.
It occurs to him that maybe he should pull his hand out of his pants and clean up a bit, but before the thought can take hold, his mind is drawn again to Patrick’s rhythm. It’s still going, that same precise beat, except sometime in there he seems to have pared it back down to the original version, sparse and simple and steady steady steady. . .
Bob falls asleep thinking softly, in the very back of his mind, Patrick.
Fandom: Bandom - Fall Out Boy/My Chemical Romance
Pairing: Bob Bryar/Patrick Stump
Rating: R
Words: ~640
Disclaimer: Not mine, alas.
Summary: Bob wonders if Patrick knows that he drums in his sleep.
Notes: Written for Porn Battle VI, prompt “Bob/Patrick, drums” (original thread here). Title from the song “P.S.” by James. All feedback and constructive criticism is, as always, much appreciated.
Bob wonders if Patrick knows that he drums in his sleep.
Not all the time, or even most of the time. Probably more often than not he hums, or presses chords to the mattress with his left hand, or mutters the same lyric over and over like he’s trying to figure out where to slot it into a song. Bob thinks he even saw Patrick air conducting once after falling asleep on the couch in the living room. Most of these things, Bob has no problem sleeping through. Bob is highly experienced at sleeping through many types and levels of disturbance, up to and including Frank and Jamia having reunion sex in the bunk across from his. But every once in awhile, Patrick’s hand will start tapping out drum lines against the wall.
It infiltrates his dreams, echoes in the hollows of his mind, and this time when it tugs him into consciousness, he can feel his heart throbbing in time to the downbeat of each and every measure.
He can’t go back to sleep.
The last time this happened, he ended up tapping out a counter rhythm for two and half hours until Patrick finally slipped into a different stage of sleep.
The time before that, it had been late enough in the night that he just went with it, and ended up having a smoke out on the balcony while watching the sky drift from deep charcoal to pale blue.
This time, though. This time he has a different problem.
Sadly, his sleep-deprived brain cannot avoid realizing that his heart is not the only part of his body pulsing in time with the beat.
He tries to ignore it, but after a few minutes Patrick’s rhythm acquires a syncopated flourish every other measure, and Bob swears it feels like the tip of a finger running up the underside of his cock every time he hears it. Shit.
He’s lying sideways on the bed, face half-mashed into a pillow and legs tangled in the bedsheets. He kicks his legs free and shoves his hand down past the waistband of his threadbare grey sweatpants.
He breathes a deep sigh into the soft cotton of his pillowcase as he wraps his hand firmly around his dick. For a minute or two he just stays that way, motionless, holding his dick and breathing and trying to ignore the way his inner ear seems to have picked up Patrick’s beat. But eventually, almost of its own volition, his hand starts to move.
At first, he takes care to vary his strokes, to not fall into any particular rhythm or counter-rhythm. But jerking off has its own imperatives, and slowly, almost imperceptibly, his movements start to even out, until each drag of his hand down the length of his dick coincides exactly with the rhythm of Patrick’s drumming, each syncopated flourish matches a stuttering twist over the head, and pre-come smoothes out the entire motion into a double-time hot summer haze, frantic but steady, detached but intense, like there’s nothing to him but rhythm and movement, and somehow within this he comes with a muffled groan, spilling over his hand as he slows through the aftershocks and sinks into the bed as his mind starts to float, tethered only by the faint hollow tap that still thrums through his body as he lets go.
It occurs to him that maybe he should pull his hand out of his pants and clean up a bit, but before the thought can take hold, his mind is drawn again to Patrick’s rhythm. It’s still going, that same precise beat, except sometime in there he seems to have pared it back down to the original version, sparse and simple and steady steady steady. . .
Bob falls asleep thinking softly, in the very back of his mind, Patrick.