Pete/Patrick ficlet, part 2.
A sequel to my Let's Get It On Pete/Patrick ficlet. (repost) With much love to the late night damnyouwentz crew for encouragement and beta work. This is prompt #7 on my slashfic25 - Below.
Nothing’s actually very easy in the lounge, and even when Patrick tries to move them up to a couch Pete is stubborn and refuses to move. So they end up staying on the floor, Patrick half slumped against the bottom of the couch and Pete balanced above him, palms on the edge of the seats behind him to keep him steady. Slow, just too fucking slow for Patrick to really let go, Pete’s working himself up and down, deliberate twists of his torso and straight down through his hips.
Patrick’s very vocal. He’s quiet when people he’s not sure he can trust are around, but he makes it a point to only sleep with people he trusts, and thus he doesn’t have a problem moaning and babbling and just going on and on in bed, nonsense mostly, with the occasional full sentence thrown in for variety. Pete, on the other hand, is surprisingly quieter than Patrick. He’s all focused energy when he’s fucking - and that’s how Patrick always thinks of it, as Pete fucking him, despite the fact that he’s technically fucking Pete. But Pete just takes charge, of everything, with demanding little looks over his shoulder when Patrick’s got him on hands and knees on stiff hotel sheets, or the insistent pressure of Pete’s heels in the small of his back, or now, Pete on top and working himself lower, inch by inch, mouth slightly open but eyes sharp.
Pete starts moving faster, his thighs clenching around Patrick’s sides, and Patrick practically squeaks and shouts “oh fuck, fuck.” Pete always thinks it’s funny, Patrick’s vocalizations, and without stopping his motions he whispers, jerky and off beat, "shh, shh or Joe'll come back here."
Not that that’s really a concern for Pete, who used to get blowjobs from random guys in the back of the van on short drives between gigs, with no pretense of being quiet about it. That’s the real story of why the driver got distracted and crashed the van, and why Pete is so fucking thankful to be alive after it, and still have a dick intact. Not that they ever talk about it, and especially not the fact that Pete had the exact same lines every time - “just like that, baby, feels so good” -- and that the first time Patrick had blown Pete he’d been expecting to hear exactly that, and was pleasantly surprised not to. Instead Pete went almost incoherent, and Patrick had been inordinately proud of himself and smiled like a fool through all their interviews the next day. There were a lot of things Pete and Patrick Just Did Not Talk About.
But Pete shushing him, on a fucking huge tour bus with semi-soundproof doors, is a little absurd. And so Patrick just gets louder, practically screaming, “fuck, fuck Pete, more” until there’s a really loud banging on the door and Joe’s sleepy-angry voice booming, “some of us would like to fucking sleep and not be reminded that our girlfriends are miles away, thanks!” Pete cracks up, and Patrick can feel it all around him, the tiny little shudders of Pete’s laughter, and it’s a million times hotter than everything else combined. So Patrick comes with this look of panicked embarrassment on his face and Pete can’t stop laughing for the life of him, and eventually falls off Patrick and curls up on the last available floor space, hugging himself.
“Oh, oh jesus, your face.” Pete hiccups a few times and rolls back and forth on the carpet.
If Patrick had enough sense, he’d be worried that this would end up cryptically posted in one of Pete’s nine million Internet thingies, but Patrick is not one hundred percent there, just yet. He’s let his neck tilt back so he can stare absently at the ceiling, getting his breathing even. That stain wasn’t there the last time. What the hell were they throwing at the ceiling that could stain it, anyway? Patrick shakes his head and looks over at Pete, who has his hand curled around his dick and his eyes slitted, knees spread obscenely.
“Here, no, let me - “ Patrick reaches over and Pete slaps his hand away, fast as snake striking its prey.
“Whatever, just. Come here.” And then Pete tugs until Patrick’s sprawled on the floor next to him, legs lined up and overlapping. He twists their fingers together and starts to stroke himself again with his free hand, just as slow as before. “Just talk to me, yeah? Your voice.”
And Patrick knows that Pete really means he wants Patrick to sing to him, he just doesn’t want to ask. Like it’s too clichéd, too predictable, and even if Pete can proclaim his undying love for Patrick’s singing to every media outlet, here, between them, he’s shy about it. Not that he has to say it, not that there’s anything that needs to be said between them ever. So Patrick starts at a hum and before he finished the first verse Pete’s coming, soft shudders up against Patrick’s side. Patrick doesn’t stop singing, and after the last verse Pete sighs and kisses him on the shoulder.
Patrick grins against Pete’s hair. Pete hums and burrows closer to Patrick’s side. They should probably get a blanket or something, but Patrick has no plans for moving in the immediate future. “Just for you,” Patrick murmurs, but Pete’s already asleep and breathing steady.
Nothing’s actually very easy in the lounge, and even when Patrick tries to move them up to a couch Pete is stubborn and refuses to move. So they end up staying on the floor, Patrick half slumped against the bottom of the couch and Pete balanced above him, palms on the edge of the seats behind him to keep him steady. Slow, just too fucking slow for Patrick to really let go, Pete’s working himself up and down, deliberate twists of his torso and straight down through his hips.
Patrick’s very vocal. He’s quiet when people he’s not sure he can trust are around, but he makes it a point to only sleep with people he trusts, and thus he doesn’t have a problem moaning and babbling and just going on and on in bed, nonsense mostly, with the occasional full sentence thrown in for variety. Pete, on the other hand, is surprisingly quieter than Patrick. He’s all focused energy when he’s fucking - and that’s how Patrick always thinks of it, as Pete fucking him, despite the fact that he’s technically fucking Pete. But Pete just takes charge, of everything, with demanding little looks over his shoulder when Patrick’s got him on hands and knees on stiff hotel sheets, or the insistent pressure of Pete’s heels in the small of his back, or now, Pete on top and working himself lower, inch by inch, mouth slightly open but eyes sharp.
Pete starts moving faster, his thighs clenching around Patrick’s sides, and Patrick practically squeaks and shouts “oh fuck, fuck.” Pete always thinks it’s funny, Patrick’s vocalizations, and without stopping his motions he whispers, jerky and off beat, "shh, shh or Joe'll come back here."
Not that that’s really a concern for Pete, who used to get blowjobs from random guys in the back of the van on short drives between gigs, with no pretense of being quiet about it. That’s the real story of why the driver got distracted and crashed the van, and why Pete is so fucking thankful to be alive after it, and still have a dick intact. Not that they ever talk about it, and especially not the fact that Pete had the exact same lines every time - “just like that, baby, feels so good” -- and that the first time Patrick had blown Pete he’d been expecting to hear exactly that, and was pleasantly surprised not to. Instead Pete went almost incoherent, and Patrick had been inordinately proud of himself and smiled like a fool through all their interviews the next day. There were a lot of things Pete and Patrick Just Did Not Talk About.
But Pete shushing him, on a fucking huge tour bus with semi-soundproof doors, is a little absurd. And so Patrick just gets louder, practically screaming, “fuck, fuck Pete, more” until there’s a really loud banging on the door and Joe’s sleepy-angry voice booming, “some of us would like to fucking sleep and not be reminded that our girlfriends are miles away, thanks!” Pete cracks up, and Patrick can feel it all around him, the tiny little shudders of Pete’s laughter, and it’s a million times hotter than everything else combined. So Patrick comes with this look of panicked embarrassment on his face and Pete can’t stop laughing for the life of him, and eventually falls off Patrick and curls up on the last available floor space, hugging himself.
“Oh, oh jesus, your face.” Pete hiccups a few times and rolls back and forth on the carpet.
If Patrick had enough sense, he’d be worried that this would end up cryptically posted in one of Pete’s nine million Internet thingies, but Patrick is not one hundred percent there, just yet. He’s let his neck tilt back so he can stare absently at the ceiling, getting his breathing even. That stain wasn’t there the last time. What the hell were they throwing at the ceiling that could stain it, anyway? Patrick shakes his head and looks over at Pete, who has his hand curled around his dick and his eyes slitted, knees spread obscenely.
“Here, no, let me - “ Patrick reaches over and Pete slaps his hand away, fast as snake striking its prey.
“Whatever, just. Come here.” And then Pete tugs until Patrick’s sprawled on the floor next to him, legs lined up and overlapping. He twists their fingers together and starts to stroke himself again with his free hand, just as slow as before. “Just talk to me, yeah? Your voice.”
And Patrick knows that Pete really means he wants Patrick to sing to him, he just doesn’t want to ask. Like it’s too clichéd, too predictable, and even if Pete can proclaim his undying love for Patrick’s singing to every media outlet, here, between them, he’s shy about it. Not that he has to say it, not that there’s anything that needs to be said between them ever. So Patrick starts at a hum and before he finished the first verse Pete’s coming, soft shudders up against Patrick’s side. Patrick doesn’t stop singing, and after the last verse Pete sighs and kisses him on the shoulder.
Patrick grins against Pete’s hair. Pete hums and burrows closer to Patrick’s side. They should probably get a blanket or something, but Patrick has no plans for moving in the immediate future. “Just for you,” Patrick murmurs, but Pete’s already asleep and breathing steady.