BS: P/P: Adult: Dress Up In You
Title: Dress Up In You
Author: gibson_fic
Fandom: Bandslash, Fall Out Boy
Characters/Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: Adult
Word Count: ~2300
Warning: ( skip) Kink: Clothes (Wearing of Each Others), Kink: Sleepy/Unconscious. Because of the nature of the second kink, you could, conceivably read dubious consent into it.
Disclaimer: This is a fictional story about characters based, in part, on the images and histories of real people. If that bothers you and/or you are one of those people, you probably don't want to read this. No harm is intended; no profit is being made.
Summary: "If this was what surprise return trips home meant, maybe he’d find a way to make more of them."
Author's Notes: This is part of a challenge/writing exercise/exercise in insanity that reni_days and myself are participating in. All the stories in this set (a minimum of 53 per victim) will be posted at kink_challenge.
This is a kink bingo story.
It wasn’t like Patrick didn’t know that it was possible, likely even. It’s just that he hadn’t really thought about it. He was a pretty simple guy and, frankly, a lot of time he was too busy thinking about music or lyrics or, well music and lyrics were a lot of what he thought about actually, but the point was he didn’t sit down and wonder very often about what Pete did when he wasn’t around.
For that matter, when he thought about Pete, which was actually pretty much always, but he mostly didn’t count it unless it was something he was actively thinking about, but when he did think about Pete it was about other stuff-about how lucky he was that Pete somehow thought he was all like golden and shit, or that he needed to remember to pick up some more peanut butter because Pete really liked his PB&J, or, like, the songs they were working on, or how much he loved him, or the movie they watched last night, or whatever. The point was that sometimes he went back to Chicago and Pete stayed in LA, or he went to New York and Pete was in Chicago, or whatever, and they were apart. And when that happened Patrick missed him, of course he did, but he didn’t, like, sit around wondering too much about how Pete coped with missing him. Well, not unless Pete had sounded particularly sleepless or manic when he called, then he worried, but it still wasn’t like this.
In all the times they’d been apart since they’d been together, he hadn’t ever thought it would be like this. And, sure, whatever, he knew that Pete loved him, he was pretty sure people in Fargo knew that Pete loved him; Pete was only subtle when he wanted to be and thought he had to be. Pete had never really wanted to be subtle about them and Patrick had never made him. There was something about knowing that Pete would probably go door-to-door across the universe in a space ship he’d had specifically designed for the purpose just to make sure that everyone knew he loved Patrick that made Patrick a little more confident. And, yeah, Patrick was self-aware enough to know that he didn’t really think that Pete wanted anyone else because, if he had, Patrick was sure he could have gotten them, but it was nice knowing that people knew that they were together, that they wanted to be together, that they belonged together. It made him a little more comfortable about things, made him hope that ten fewer people a day would throw themselves at his...er...partner. Whatever. His Pete. Same-sex designators for relationships totally sucked.
So, yeah he knew Pete loved him, and Pete had always been pretty good at stealing Patrick’s clothes and it wasn’t like he didn’t know that Pete wore his old Invisible Children shirt to bed whenever he felt like wearing anything at all, but it still hadn’t prepared him for this.
Suddenly he was really, truly glad that Gabe had gotten food poisoning again and taken the whole band down with him. The timing sucked and they were going to have reserve more studio time, later, when they got back from tour, but it mean he didn’t need to be in New York. It was no secret that he was a homebody, and, sure he’d been a bit homesick and he’d missed Pete and the dogs, so he’d just gone back to the hotel and tossed his shit into his bag and caught the first flight home.
In the rush he’d texted Pete that the Cobras were down, but not that they were out for now, and he hadn’t told him about the flight or anything else. And for that he was infinitely grateful. If this was what surprise return trips home meant, maybe he’d find a way to make more of them.
Because Pete (and it had to be Pete because, although the dude gave their gate code to practically everyone on the label, no one else had those tattoos) was passed out on the couch in the living room, the DVD home screen for Say Anythin looping on the TV. But it was the tattoos that identified him because Pete was lying there like a slightly smaller version of Patrick himself.
He had Patrick’s 5o4Plan hat on his head; he was wearing Patrick’s favorite Bowie shirt, and he even had a pair of Patrick’s faded blue boxers hanging low on his hips. And Patrick, he hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t expected to come home and find Pete surrounded in him, in his stuff. It wasn’t like Pete didn’t borrow (or steal) his stuff all the time, but he didn’t think he’d ever seen Pete in a full-on Patrick-suit before.
He’d been away too long, but even that didn’t account for the sudden, painful hardness of his cock or the clenching wave of possessiveness and pride that swept over him. Pete didn’t sleep, he just didn’t and it was something they’d both gotten used to and it was part of the reason that the rule was, unless the building was on fire or the fans were about to lynch them for a late show, NO ONE EVER WOKE Pete up. Period. It was Patrick’s rule and it never got broken.
But he was so hard, and Pete was there, in Patrick’s wrinkled and unwashed clothes, wearing Patrick’s sweaty, smelly old hat and sleeping on their couch, and Patrick wanted him. Fuck. He wanted him so bad, and he wanted to fuck him still dressed like this, wanted to be in Pete while Pete was surrounded by him, by his smell. Patrick had dropped his bags when he saw Pete sleeping and now, without even really thinking about it, he pulled off his jacket and dropped it on the floor, pulling his belt free even before he leaned over to slide one hand down Pete’s chest in his, his, faded cotton t-shirt even as he kissed him.
Pete shifted, a light sleeper, and muttered something that sounded vaguely like Patrick’s name, if Pa’ick was an acceptable substitute. Patrick just smiled, and knelt next to their couch, kissing Pete again even as he slid his hand into Pete’s boxers and gripped his sleep-soft cock. He had a feeling Pete wouldn’t mind being woken up for this. Also, he was going to pin Pete to their bed later and sleep on top of him until Pete slept too, he’d done it before and it was easily as effective as any of the other methods they’d tried to get Pete to sleep over the years. Patrick was willing to suffer in silence, holding Pete still underneath him.
He kissed Pete again, one hand still on Pete’s cock, and he couldn’t help but smile when Pete shifted under him, pushing into his hand, despite the fact that he was still clearly not fully awake. Patrick pulled back far enough to rock back on his own heels, still stroking Pete’s cock with a firm, steady grip as he watched Pete’s face. It was on the downbeat of the third stroke that Pete finally fully opened his eyes and blinked at Patrick.
“Patrick? ‘s you?” Pete’s voice was hoarse, dry, sleepy. Patrick’s dick twitched.
“Who else would touch you looking like this?” Patrick tried not to show how much he liked how Pete looked, but Pete had a Ph.D. in what he called ‘Trickology.
Pete grinned sleepily, running a hand from his stomach to his collarbone, rucking up the old cotton shirt on the way, “You know you like it. Why else would you be giving me a good morning handjob?”
Pete’s smile sharpened as he started teasing across one nipple, rubbing the worn fabric between his finger and the sensitive skin there.
Patrick groaned. Pete looked fucking decadent: still half-asleep, eyes heavy and dark, his breath slightly sour and the skin of his pelvis exposed by their movements.
“I do like it. I like it a lot. I like coming home and finding you wrapped up in my stuff. You’re lucky I didn’t just pull the boxers off and wake you up sliding into you. I thought about it. Fuck, Pete.” Patrick kept the movements of his hand steady, finally adept making his hands do one thing while his mouth did another...something being a rockstar was good for.
Pete sucked in a harsh breath, his eyes going wide and his pupils expanding out, his dick twitching fully hard in Patrick’s grip.
“Fuck, you do know what I like.” Pete’s words came in a rush--the exhale of a breath held just a moment too long. “Fuck” he said again.
“You’d like that?” Patrick was curious, they really didn’t play these sorts of games, even now the sight of one another was generally more than enough to do the trick.
“Fuck, yes.” Pete started moving his hand again, sliding it across his nipples in a beat counter to Patrick’s own.
Patrick was actually going to come in his own pants. He could see that now. Pete was never shy about displaying what he liked, about putting on a show for Patrick and that, combined with his soft malleability and the rich thread of desire that ran through his words, and the clothes, god, fuck the clothes. The way he fucking screamed “Property of Patrick Martin Vaughn Stump, If Found Return Immediately”, was too much. It was all too much, and Patrick had been gone too long; he wasn’t sure he was going to be able to hold out long enough to get a hand on himself much less fuck Pete.
Shit, it was too much information, too much stimulation, and he was rocking himself in time with Pete’s hand, in counterpoint to his own movement on Pete’s now leaking cock. His own dick was scraping slightly against the denim of his jeans, the head peeking out from the protective cotton of his boxers, and he wasn’t sixteen anymore, he wasn’t, he really, really wasn’t, but he couldn’t help himself. Pete grinned at him, flashing him the smile that had made him let the asshole into his house when he was fifteen, and pinched his own nipple far harder than Patrick ever would have, but Pete had always liked a little edge of pain, and Patrick came, knocking his head back, his hand stuttering on Pete’s dick.
Pete reached out with his left hand, his right still tormenting his nipple, and wrapped it around Patrick’s, squeezing hard and jerking once, twice, three times, and then his back came up off the couch, his eyes dropping closed again, and he came over both of their hands and all over the clothes he was wearing.
When he pulled his hand away, Patrick looked down at the damage and grimaced; Pete’s come was all over everything but the 5o4Plan hat, which was good, Patrick liked that fucking hat. Patrick’s hand was fucking disgusting, as were his own pants and boxers.
Pete opened his eyes again as Patrick carefully wiped his hand on the side of the Bowie’s face, tossing a quick, silent sorry out to the man even as he did it.
“That was fantastic,” Pete said, his words slightly slurred, having clearly never fully woken up.
“Yeah,” said Patrick who, in his sticky and uncomfortable jeans, was in no position to argue.
Pete smiled at him, wide and open, and then shoved and kicked at the boxers he was wearing until they fell off his foot and onto the floor. Then he crossed his arms and pulled the shirt off, cramming the hat back on his head even before he finished swiping the shirt across his stomach and groin and tossing it, crumpled and dirty, onto the floor. He was lying there; sleepy, loose, and naked, wearing nothing but Patrick’s hat. For a moment Patrick wished he was still sixteen because, if he had been, he could totally have taken Pete up on that invitation, despite his sticky jeans, but it was too soon for him now. Instead he leaned forward again and kissed Pete, sliding his tongue into Pete’s willing mouth and tasting the sleepsour there.
Pete tugged at him, clutching at his shirt and pulling him closer, trying to pull him up, onto him and Patrick pulled back.
“Pete, I’m gross I need to change. Don’t you want put something on?” His hands waved indicating Pete’s nakedness.
“I’ve got a Patrick right here--planning on using you for a blanket. Keeping this hat though.” Pete raised a hand and clamped it on the hat, forcing it further onto his head, as though Patrick was going to argue.
“I’ve still got to change,” Patrick’s waving hands indicated his damp jeans.
Pete said, “Hurry, I was having this awesome dream about this really hot dude coming home and fucking me senseless since he’d been gone for so long, I want to finish it.”
Patrick laughed and hurriedly skimmed out of his pants. He opened his suitcase, thankful it was close, and pulled out a probably, mostly clean pair of boxers. He pulled them on and snagged a blanket off the chair on his way back to the couch. A nap sounded pretty damn wonderful right now and later he’d get Pete to tell him more about his dream, that sounded pretty interesting too.
For now he climbed on top of Pete, settling against him, tucking his own hat out of the way--and that was funny, he’d never had to argue hat logistics before while cuddling. He was still thinking about hat spooning as he fell asleep, Pete warm and solid in his arms.
Author: gibson_fic
Fandom: Bandslash, Fall Out Boy
Characters/Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: Adult
Word Count: ~2300
Warning: ( skip) Kink: Clothes (Wearing of Each Others), Kink: Sleepy/Unconscious. Because of the nature of the second kink, you could, conceivably read dubious consent into it.
Disclaimer: This is a fictional story about characters based, in part, on the images and histories of real people. If that bothers you and/or you are one of those people, you probably don't want to read this. No harm is intended; no profit is being made.
Summary: "If this was what surprise return trips home meant, maybe he’d find a way to make more of them."
Author's Notes: This is part of a challenge/writing exercise/exercise in insanity that reni_days and myself are participating in. All the stories in this set (a minimum of 53 per victim) will be posted at kink_challenge.
This is a kink bingo story.
It wasn’t like Patrick didn’t know that it was possible, likely even. It’s just that he hadn’t really thought about it. He was a pretty simple guy and, frankly, a lot of time he was too busy thinking about music or lyrics or, well music and lyrics were a lot of what he thought about actually, but the point was he didn’t sit down and wonder very often about what Pete did when he wasn’t around.
For that matter, when he thought about Pete, which was actually pretty much always, but he mostly didn’t count it unless it was something he was actively thinking about, but when he did think about Pete it was about other stuff-about how lucky he was that Pete somehow thought he was all like golden and shit, or that he needed to remember to pick up some more peanut butter because Pete really liked his PB&J, or, like, the songs they were working on, or how much he loved him, or the movie they watched last night, or whatever. The point was that sometimes he went back to Chicago and Pete stayed in LA, or he went to New York and Pete was in Chicago, or whatever, and they were apart. And when that happened Patrick missed him, of course he did, but he didn’t, like, sit around wondering too much about how Pete coped with missing him. Well, not unless Pete had sounded particularly sleepless or manic when he called, then he worried, but it still wasn’t like this.
In all the times they’d been apart since they’d been together, he hadn’t ever thought it would be like this. And, sure, whatever, he knew that Pete loved him, he was pretty sure people in Fargo knew that Pete loved him; Pete was only subtle when he wanted to be and thought he had to be. Pete had never really wanted to be subtle about them and Patrick had never made him. There was something about knowing that Pete would probably go door-to-door across the universe in a space ship he’d had specifically designed for the purpose just to make sure that everyone knew he loved Patrick that made Patrick a little more confident. And, yeah, Patrick was self-aware enough to know that he didn’t really think that Pete wanted anyone else because, if he had, Patrick was sure he could have gotten them, but it was nice knowing that people knew that they were together, that they wanted to be together, that they belonged together. It made him a little more comfortable about things, made him hope that ten fewer people a day would throw themselves at his...er...partner. Whatever. His Pete. Same-sex designators for relationships totally sucked.
So, yeah he knew Pete loved him, and Pete had always been pretty good at stealing Patrick’s clothes and it wasn’t like he didn’t know that Pete wore his old Invisible Children shirt to bed whenever he felt like wearing anything at all, but it still hadn’t prepared him for this.
Suddenly he was really, truly glad that Gabe had gotten food poisoning again and taken the whole band down with him. The timing sucked and they were going to have reserve more studio time, later, when they got back from tour, but it mean he didn’t need to be in New York. It was no secret that he was a homebody, and, sure he’d been a bit homesick and he’d missed Pete and the dogs, so he’d just gone back to the hotel and tossed his shit into his bag and caught the first flight home.
In the rush he’d texted Pete that the Cobras were down, but not that they were out for now, and he hadn’t told him about the flight or anything else. And for that he was infinitely grateful. If this was what surprise return trips home meant, maybe he’d find a way to make more of them.
Because Pete (and it had to be Pete because, although the dude gave their gate code to practically everyone on the label, no one else had those tattoos) was passed out on the couch in the living room, the DVD home screen for Say Anythin looping on the TV. But it was the tattoos that identified him because Pete was lying there like a slightly smaller version of Patrick himself.
He had Patrick’s 5o4Plan hat on his head; he was wearing Patrick’s favorite Bowie shirt, and he even had a pair of Patrick’s faded blue boxers hanging low on his hips. And Patrick, he hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t expected to come home and find Pete surrounded in him, in his stuff. It wasn’t like Pete didn’t borrow (or steal) his stuff all the time, but he didn’t think he’d ever seen Pete in a full-on Patrick-suit before.
He’d been away too long, but even that didn’t account for the sudden, painful hardness of his cock or the clenching wave of possessiveness and pride that swept over him. Pete didn’t sleep, he just didn’t and it was something they’d both gotten used to and it was part of the reason that the rule was, unless the building was on fire or the fans were about to lynch them for a late show, NO ONE EVER WOKE Pete up. Period. It was Patrick’s rule and it never got broken.
But he was so hard, and Pete was there, in Patrick’s wrinkled and unwashed clothes, wearing Patrick’s sweaty, smelly old hat and sleeping on their couch, and Patrick wanted him. Fuck. He wanted him so bad, and he wanted to fuck him still dressed like this, wanted to be in Pete while Pete was surrounded by him, by his smell. Patrick had dropped his bags when he saw Pete sleeping and now, without even really thinking about it, he pulled off his jacket and dropped it on the floor, pulling his belt free even before he leaned over to slide one hand down Pete’s chest in his, his, faded cotton t-shirt even as he kissed him.
Pete shifted, a light sleeper, and muttered something that sounded vaguely like Patrick’s name, if Pa’ick was an acceptable substitute. Patrick just smiled, and knelt next to their couch, kissing Pete again even as he slid his hand into Pete’s boxers and gripped his sleep-soft cock. He had a feeling Pete wouldn’t mind being woken up for this. Also, he was going to pin Pete to their bed later and sleep on top of him until Pete slept too, he’d done it before and it was easily as effective as any of the other methods they’d tried to get Pete to sleep over the years. Patrick was willing to suffer in silence, holding Pete still underneath him.
He kissed Pete again, one hand still on Pete’s cock, and he couldn’t help but smile when Pete shifted under him, pushing into his hand, despite the fact that he was still clearly not fully awake. Patrick pulled back far enough to rock back on his own heels, still stroking Pete’s cock with a firm, steady grip as he watched Pete’s face. It was on the downbeat of the third stroke that Pete finally fully opened his eyes and blinked at Patrick.
“Patrick? ‘s you?” Pete’s voice was hoarse, dry, sleepy. Patrick’s dick twitched.
“Who else would touch you looking like this?” Patrick tried not to show how much he liked how Pete looked, but Pete had a Ph.D. in what he called ‘Trickology.
Pete grinned sleepily, running a hand from his stomach to his collarbone, rucking up the old cotton shirt on the way, “You know you like it. Why else would you be giving me a good morning handjob?”
Pete’s smile sharpened as he started teasing across one nipple, rubbing the worn fabric between his finger and the sensitive skin there.
Patrick groaned. Pete looked fucking decadent: still half-asleep, eyes heavy and dark, his breath slightly sour and the skin of his pelvis exposed by their movements.
“I do like it. I like it a lot. I like coming home and finding you wrapped up in my stuff. You’re lucky I didn’t just pull the boxers off and wake you up sliding into you. I thought about it. Fuck, Pete.” Patrick kept the movements of his hand steady, finally adept making his hands do one thing while his mouth did another...something being a rockstar was good for.
Pete sucked in a harsh breath, his eyes going wide and his pupils expanding out, his dick twitching fully hard in Patrick’s grip.
“Fuck, you do know what I like.” Pete’s words came in a rush--the exhale of a breath held just a moment too long. “Fuck” he said again.
“You’d like that?” Patrick was curious, they really didn’t play these sorts of games, even now the sight of one another was generally more than enough to do the trick.
“Fuck, yes.” Pete started moving his hand again, sliding it across his nipples in a beat counter to Patrick’s own.
Patrick was actually going to come in his own pants. He could see that now. Pete was never shy about displaying what he liked, about putting on a show for Patrick and that, combined with his soft malleability and the rich thread of desire that ran through his words, and the clothes, god, fuck the clothes. The way he fucking screamed “Property of Patrick Martin Vaughn Stump, If Found Return Immediately”, was too much. It was all too much, and Patrick had been gone too long; he wasn’t sure he was going to be able to hold out long enough to get a hand on himself much less fuck Pete.
Shit, it was too much information, too much stimulation, and he was rocking himself in time with Pete’s hand, in counterpoint to his own movement on Pete’s now leaking cock. His own dick was scraping slightly against the denim of his jeans, the head peeking out from the protective cotton of his boxers, and he wasn’t sixteen anymore, he wasn’t, he really, really wasn’t, but he couldn’t help himself. Pete grinned at him, flashing him the smile that had made him let the asshole into his house when he was fifteen, and pinched his own nipple far harder than Patrick ever would have, but Pete had always liked a little edge of pain, and Patrick came, knocking his head back, his hand stuttering on Pete’s dick.
Pete reached out with his left hand, his right still tormenting his nipple, and wrapped it around Patrick’s, squeezing hard and jerking once, twice, three times, and then his back came up off the couch, his eyes dropping closed again, and he came over both of their hands and all over the clothes he was wearing.
When he pulled his hand away, Patrick looked down at the damage and grimaced; Pete’s come was all over everything but the 5o4Plan hat, which was good, Patrick liked that fucking hat. Patrick’s hand was fucking disgusting, as were his own pants and boxers.
Pete opened his eyes again as Patrick carefully wiped his hand on the side of the Bowie’s face, tossing a quick, silent sorry out to the man even as he did it.
“That was fantastic,” Pete said, his words slightly slurred, having clearly never fully woken up.
“Yeah,” said Patrick who, in his sticky and uncomfortable jeans, was in no position to argue.
Pete smiled at him, wide and open, and then shoved and kicked at the boxers he was wearing until they fell off his foot and onto the floor. Then he crossed his arms and pulled the shirt off, cramming the hat back on his head even before he finished swiping the shirt across his stomach and groin and tossing it, crumpled and dirty, onto the floor. He was lying there; sleepy, loose, and naked, wearing nothing but Patrick’s hat. For a moment Patrick wished he was still sixteen because, if he had been, he could totally have taken Pete up on that invitation, despite his sticky jeans, but it was too soon for him now. Instead he leaned forward again and kissed Pete, sliding his tongue into Pete’s willing mouth and tasting the sleepsour there.
Pete tugged at him, clutching at his shirt and pulling him closer, trying to pull him up, onto him and Patrick pulled back.
“Pete, I’m gross I need to change. Don’t you want put something on?” His hands waved indicating Pete’s nakedness.
“I’ve got a Patrick right here--planning on using you for a blanket. Keeping this hat though.” Pete raised a hand and clamped it on the hat, forcing it further onto his head, as though Patrick was going to argue.
“I’ve still got to change,” Patrick’s waving hands indicated his damp jeans.
Pete said, “Hurry, I was having this awesome dream about this really hot dude coming home and fucking me senseless since he’d been gone for so long, I want to finish it.”
Patrick laughed and hurriedly skimmed out of his pants. He opened his suitcase, thankful it was close, and pulled out a probably, mostly clean pair of boxers. He pulled them on and snagged a blanket off the chair on his way back to the couch. A nap sounded pretty damn wonderful right now and later he’d get Pete to tell him more about his dream, that sounded pretty interesting too.
For now he climbed on top of Pete, settling against him, tucking his own hat out of the way--and that was funny, he’d never had to argue hat logistics before while cuddling. He was still thinking about hat spooning as he fell asleep, Pete warm and solid in his arms.