BS: Pete: Adult: On The Road Again
Title: On The Road Again
Author: gibson_fic
Fandom: Bandslash, Fall Out Boy
Characters: Pete
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 590
Warning: ( skip) Kink: Vehicular
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: "There's something about the rhythm, the motion of the bus underneath him, the slight sway of the bunk, of the bus, as they speed down the highway."
Author's Notes: This is a kink bingo story. This story won the Arbitrary Mod Prize for Greatest Sex Scene Involving a Bus at Kink Bingo.
He can get hard, can stroke and squeeze his cock until he comes, gasping, all over his hand. He can do it without the thrum and rumble of the wheels beneath him, without the pitch blackness of his bunk, the flimsy shield of his curtain brushing against his elbow with every stroke; he can arch up into his fist, slide slickly through his closed fingers, can stifle his moans, can regulate his breathing when they're not on the road, but it's not the same.
There's something about the rhythm, the motion of the bus underneath him, the slight sway of the bunk, of the bus, as they speed down the highway; there's something about knowing they're all there with him, that Patrick is below him, Andy across from him, that anyone walking by could accidentally knock into his curtain, could expose him; there's something about all of it, together, that makes every orgasm on the bus worth ten off of it.
It's part of his "Welcome To Tour" ritual. That first night on the bus, after they've all started unpacking their shit and decorating their bunks, after they've examined all the nooks and crannies (and rigged up elaborate sound and light systems for maximum comfort and minimum effort) that, after everyone has quieted down and it's just the sound of the road, the slight vibration of the wheels, of the asphalt beneath him, when he can concentrate just on the rhythm of whatever Interstate they're on tonight, I-70 maybe, after all of that that, he lies there and slowly strokes one hand across his stomach. It always starts as an idle thought, a "Hey, I can't sleep" thought, but he knows that he's going to do it; he always does it.
Eventually he can feel the road around him, in him; he is the road, is the bus, is the meeting of the two, and he's there in that moment, in that space where they meet and the whump, whump, whump of the tires is his heartbeat, drives through him, makes him hard. He slides one rough hand down, grasps himself and starts to stroke. He's not the drummer, but he knows rhythm and, even if he didn't, the beat of the road is the beat of his heart, is driving him, driving the motion of his arm, driving him to orgasm.
He strokes himself to the steady feel of the bus, strokes until the steady beat drives him crazy, until he wants to speed up, until he wants to stroke faster, faster, faster until he comes. But he doesn't. That's not what this is. This is between him and the bus and the road; he keeps he beat of their progress down another dark, empty stretch of highway until it forces him over the edge, until his breath catches in his throat, until he has to pull up his other arm to stifle a sound, until he comes warm and wet against his own stomach.
He lays there for a moment, reveling in the feel of it all, in the hushed quiet of the bus, in the low hum of the air conditioning and the muffled not-quite-sound from the someone's headphones, feels the way that even in the silence he's not alone, and then he stretches one arm over, snags his box of baby wipes, and cleans himself off.
The first night of tour he always falls asleep boneless and satisfied, the bus slowly rocking him to sleep as they head into the next day, next state, next show.
Author: gibson_fic
Fandom: Bandslash, Fall Out Boy
Characters: Pete
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 590
Warning: ( skip) Kink: Vehicular
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: "There's something about the rhythm, the motion of the bus underneath him, the slight sway of the bunk, of the bus, as they speed down the highway."
Author's Notes: This is a kink bingo story. This story won the Arbitrary Mod Prize for Greatest Sex Scene Involving a Bus at Kink Bingo.
He can get hard, can stroke and squeeze his cock until he comes, gasping, all over his hand. He can do it without the thrum and rumble of the wheels beneath him, without the pitch blackness of his bunk, the flimsy shield of his curtain brushing against his elbow with every stroke; he can arch up into his fist, slide slickly through his closed fingers, can stifle his moans, can regulate his breathing when they're not on the road, but it's not the same.
There's something about the rhythm, the motion of the bus underneath him, the slight sway of the bunk, of the bus, as they speed down the highway; there's something about knowing they're all there with him, that Patrick is below him, Andy across from him, that anyone walking by could accidentally knock into his curtain, could expose him; there's something about all of it, together, that makes every orgasm on the bus worth ten off of it.
It's part of his "Welcome To Tour" ritual. That first night on the bus, after they've all started unpacking their shit and decorating their bunks, after they've examined all the nooks and crannies (and rigged up elaborate sound and light systems for maximum comfort and minimum effort) that, after everyone has quieted down and it's just the sound of the road, the slight vibration of the wheels, of the asphalt beneath him, when he can concentrate just on the rhythm of whatever Interstate they're on tonight, I-70 maybe, after all of that that, he lies there and slowly strokes one hand across his stomach. It always starts as an idle thought, a "Hey, I can't sleep" thought, but he knows that he's going to do it; he always does it.
Eventually he can feel the road around him, in him; he is the road, is the bus, is the meeting of the two, and he's there in that moment, in that space where they meet and the whump, whump, whump of the tires is his heartbeat, drives through him, makes him hard. He slides one rough hand down, grasps himself and starts to stroke. He's not the drummer, but he knows rhythm and, even if he didn't, the beat of the road is the beat of his heart, is driving him, driving the motion of his arm, driving him to orgasm.
He strokes himself to the steady feel of the bus, strokes until the steady beat drives him crazy, until he wants to speed up, until he wants to stroke faster, faster, faster until he comes. But he doesn't. That's not what this is. This is between him and the bus and the road; he keeps he beat of their progress down another dark, empty stretch of highway until it forces him over the edge, until his breath catches in his throat, until he has to pull up his other arm to stifle a sound, until he comes warm and wet against his own stomach.
He lays there for a moment, reveling in the feel of it all, in the hushed quiet of the bus, in the low hum of the air conditioning and the muffled not-quite-sound from the someone's headphones, feels the way that even in the silence he's not alone, and then he stretches one arm over, snags his box of baby wipes, and cleans himself off.
The first night of tour he always falls asleep boneless and satisfied, the bus slowly rocking him to sleep as they head into the next day, next state, next show.