King of the Boudoir, Pete/Patrick
Title: King of the Boudoir
Author: giddygeek
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: Uuuuum, fuck-or-die.
Notes: Fuck-or-die totally counts as a rating. And also a summary. And look, here it is as notes. Yay my favorite subgenre!
3800 words, slightly cracked. Thanks to anew_leaf and dsudis for giving it a look-see, although Dira is probably expecting the title that made me laugh so hard I couldn't use it. ;-)
Pete punches in the security code, wrenches open the door and tumbles up the bus stairs in under two seconds, despite Serious Impairment.
"Patrick," he says, relieved when he careens around the corner and there it is, salvation in a plaid shirt and pink hat. Then it clicks that for once, for the first time in for-fucking-ever, everyone is on Patrick and Andy's bus instead of his--and there goes Plan A.
Plan B hadn't existed until right that second, but Pete figures he's nothing if not creative. He reaches down, hauls Patrick to his feet, ignores the aggravated yelp and says, "We've gotta--okay, you, my bus, now."
When he turns around, Dirty is blocking his escape path, grinning. "Do we need to call Charlie about this asshole, Patrick?"
"No," Charlie says, not looking up from his cards. "And fuck you, bitches, I just got Uno."
Patrick quits attempting to pull his wrist free of Pete's hand and lets Pete hold it while he tries to duck around Dirty. But Patrick isn't moving and he isn't helping them escape, he's turning around to glare at Charlie. "You do not," he says. "Liar. You had three cards in your hand! Joe, you check those--"
Joe looks at Charlie, betrayed. "You put down two cards," he says. "Patrick's right. And you're an asshole!"
"All's fair in love and Uno!" Charlie argues, leaning over the table to get in Joe's face. "That's your fucking rule!"
"What are you gonna do, Pete?" Dirty says as he tries to get Pete in a headlock. "Huh?"
"Drown you in a puddle of your own piss," Pete says, twisting one of Dirty's nipples in an attempt to escape. "Don't think I won't do it! Come on, back off--okay, that's it. I need Patrick off this bus, I need it now, and I will pay you two hundred fucking dollars to just move."
Instantly, they're swarmed. Everyone but Joe and Charlie ditches the Uno table to crowd around Pete, Patrick and Dirty, beaming. Pete grits his teeth, stares at his asshole friends, and says, "Fine, fuckers, each. Now move before I kill you all so much."
Like magic, the aisle clears. Pete tugs at Patrick's wrist and charges ahead. Thankfully Patrick follows without any more fuss, saying, "I want three hundred," thoughtfully as they head down the stairs. He hums in the back of his throat, considering. "Or maybe six," he decides, and then they're finally free and headed for Pete's bus.
"You're a millionaire," Pete says, frantically punching in the code for his door.
"I have expenses," Patrick says. "Like doctor bills when my asshole best friend breaks my wrist. Which hey, you mind?"
"Yes," Pete says, and he pulls Patrick up the stairs and onto his bus--his blissfully empty, cool, quiet, empty bus. He heads all the way to the back, slams and locks the door. He drops Patrick's wrist and takes a step towards the bed, pulling his hoodie and t-shirt off over his head. "Get naked," he says, pawing his way free of the hoodie where it's tangled around his neck. "Like, now."
"Um, no?" Patrick says, and Pete finally tosses his hoodie off and turns to see Patrick staring at him, narrow-eyed.
"Oh my God, I so do not have time for this," Pete says, reaching for his belt buckle. "Seriously, get naked. I'll explain later."
"That didn't work when I was sixteen, and it won't work now," Patrick says, crossing his arms over his chest. "Hey, back off, Wentz--put your pants back on--hey!"
Pete buries his face against Patrick's shoulder and shudders with relief. "Okay, maybe I don't need you naked yet," he says. "Just--" and he groans when Patrick touches him, one warm hand tentatively spread over his back, like he does when Pete's feeling bad or whatever.
"Perfect," Pete says, closing his eyes, breathing in the familiar smell of Patrick from so close, and then he puts his hand inside his underwear and jerks himself hard.
"Are you--Pete!" Patrick pushes at him, then smacks when Pete refuses to be budged, one hand on his dick, the other arm wrapped around Patrick's back and holding tight. Patrick wiggles and punches and bitches, and Pete stops mouthing at the cotton stretched tight over his shoulder, frustrated, and says, "Jesus, Patrick, if you're going to be like that about it!"
"I am!" Patrick says. "I am always like that about being molested!"
Pete takes a deep breath. "Dude, okay, long story wicked fucking short. It's do this," and he humps against Patrick's hip, his dick in his hand, knuckles scraping against the fabric of his boxer-briefs and Patrick's jeans; he groans, low in his chest. "It's do this or die, Patrick."
"Wow, and do you actually expect me to fall for that?" Patrick shoves harder, fails to put more than an inch between them. Pete has desperate cling down to an art form. He curls tighter around Patrick, who makes a frustrated noise and says, "No one ever died of blue balls, Pete."
"Yeah, uh," Pete says, and he shudders, then leans his forehead against Patrick's neck, nuzzling, and lets his arm go loose around Patrick's waist. "Not so much a problem, anymore."
"What do you mean, not any--oh, gross," Patrick says. "You did not just rub one out on my leg!"
"Totally not," Pete says, a little dreamy. "I didn't touch you with it once. I guess you just needed to be here for it to work, or something." He kisses the side of Patrick's neck. "Thank fuck, right, because I'd totally have died before you got your shirt off."
"I could have you arrested," Patrick says. "I could have Charlie bounce your head off a wall. I could--"
"You could be quiet and let me savor the fucking afterglow," Pete says, but there isn't any, there's no afterglow to savor. He's hardening already, arousal thrumming through him like he hadn't just come. "Oh you've got to be kidding me," he says, squeezing his dick. "Again?"
"Not again!" Patrick says, and now he's struggling in earnest. "Get the fuck off me, Pete, what the hell!"
"Listen," Pete says, leaning back, gripping Patrick's shoulders and shaking him a little until Patrick looks him in the eye. "There was this Pa Clampett dude lurking outside, okay, his daughter loves me, and she just got a computer for her birthday and she looked me up on the internet. And she found some stuff, like the Q&A or whatever, and she went bawling to her dad that I love you, and Pa Clampett didn't exactly appreciate that, so he came to find me."
"That's crazy," Patrick says, shaking his head, his eyes wide behind his glasses. "Where the hell do you even get this shit?"
Pete rolls his eyes. "I'm telling you the fucking truth, you should know better than to think I'd lie to get this. Pa Clampett got past security because he knows fucking hillbilly voodoo or some shit, and he pushed me against the bus with his mind and said that fine, if I wanted you, I should have you, I should have you or fucking die, okay? And I don't want to die, so you've got to help me out a little here, all right?"
He stops, takes a deep breath, loosens his grip on Patrick's shoulders before he leaves bruises. He feels frantic, a little crazy--a little crazier than normal--and he doesn't mind pissing Patrick off but the last thing he wants to do is hurt Patrick. He says, "Please?"
Patrick stares at him, wide-eyed, and Pete feels himself get impossibly hard looking back at him, at his mouth and pale eyes, the angry flush across his cheeks. His whole body aches and as miserably certain as Pete is that he doesn't want to die, he's more certain that he wants to have Patrick, has always wanted to have Patrick; Pa Clampett's daughter had that right, at least.
Patrick blinks, breaking their stare. "Pete. Is that your jizz hand on my shoulder?"
Pete hesitates, looking at his hands gripping tight against the well-washed plaid shirt that Patrick's wearing over his t-shirt. "No?"
"Fucking die," Patrick says, and finally wrenches free, shoving Pete so that he falls back across his bed with an oof and a thud. He struggles up on his elbows and says, "Patrick, wait--" but Patrick has already shrugged out of the lumberjack shirt and is stomping off the bus, settling his hat more firmly on his head and slamming doors as he goes.
Pete's completely hard again and it's way too fast for comfort, arousal a low burn in the pit of his stomach, almost painful and getting worse. "Fuck," he says, and leans over the edge of the bed, fishing for Patrick's shirt; if it has to be this way, fine, he'll jerk off and like, stay alive long enough to get Charlie on Pa Clampett's trail and--
And maybe he should've been stealing Patrick's shirts to jerk off with for years because the fabric is soft, stretched out from being washed and worn too much, and it smells like Patrick and now also like Pete, and that's good. It's actually really good. Pete collapses back onto the mattress, hips pushing up against his hand, groaning because what the hell, it's really good, and it's not going to work. He's hot and hard and it's never going to go away. He can feel his body resisting the urge to come even when it needs to, and he's going to die like this, all the blood in his body pooled in his dick, Patrick's stupid shirt padding the fist he has wrapped around himself. And it'll be all over the internet for a hundred years, a thousand years of Pete's ultimate humiliation--
"Dude," Patrick says, stomping back into the bedroom. "Okay, so Pa Clampett is like, still lurking behind the buses--is that my shirt?"
"Yes," Pete groans, and he comes like crazy, soaking the goddamned shirt.
When he opens his eyes again, he sees Patrick on his phone, describing Pa Clampett to someone, probably Charlie. He's watching Pete though, and Pete knows that look, he knows it, that is Patrick's 'I'm so not turned on by this porn you're watching' face, the one he wears just before he tries to adjust himself in his pants without anyone noticing. He's one bitten lip away from the face he makes when he's pushing the heel of his hand against his own half-hard dick because he doesn't think anyone's watching, but fuck that. Pete's been watching, he's been paying attention for years. He knows that look.
He tosses Patrick's shirt off the bed, lifts his hips to push his boxer-briefs the rest of the way off, and touches himself lazily with his eyes focused on Patrick's. He takes in the deepening flush and the--yeah, there it is, the bitten lip--and he says, "Come here, Patrick."
And then, when Patrick hangs up the phone after saying, "Call me when you find him," he goes.
It's a relief when Patrick tosses the phone aside and kneels hesitantly on the bed at Pete's side, making a surprised noise when Pete reaches for him and urges him to straddle Pete's hips. He settles very lightly across Pete's lap and that's a relief on like, seven different levels. Pete closes his hands on Patrick's hips and holds him, rocks up against him, and the feel of Patrick's jeans against his skin is almost enough to get Pete off for the third time in fifteen minutes.
"So Charlie's got security going after Pa Clampett," Patrick says, calm like he's not inches away from being right where Pete wants him. His face is red though, and spread out the way he is over Pete's lap, Pete can tell he's getting hard.
"Awesome," Pete says. "Until then, you think you want to help me out here?" and he shifts his hips, pulls Patrick closer; he's being considerate, in case Patrick has forgotten what he needs a hand with.
"I, uh, could go find you someone," Patrick says. "Someone else, maybe, if you thought." He puts his hands over Pete's on his hips like he's going to pull them off. Pete tightens his grip and Patrick makes a sharp sound; when Pete meets his gaze again, interested, Patrick is biting hard on his bottom lip, and there's sweat gleaming over his upper lip, in the hollow of his throat.
Pete grins, smug. "You like that."
"Apparently," Patrick says. He looks down so Pete can't see his eyes. "But, uh. I can, I don't know. Maybe another shirt, instead of--"
"This," Pete says, arching up, pulling Patrick down and even though Patrick's jeans chafing his skin doesn't feel awesome, it feels awesome, and Pete does it again, just because. "Like this, only naked," he says.
Patrick's flushing an even deeper pink, clearing his throat. "But--"
"If you don't want me, that's one thing," Pete says, willing Patrick to look at him. "Like, if you really don't want to, fine, just tell me and then, I don't know. Bring me six of your shirts and my iPod or something. Otherwise, naked. Like, now."
Patrick shifts, restless, and Pete's heart sinks. He knows that sometimes your body is saying one thing and your brain is saying another--that's the recipe for half the disasters in his life. And Patrick can't be one of those disasters, it can't happen that way or Pete will fall apart. He takes one last look at this, at Patrick across his lap, and he loosens his grip on Patrick's hips.
It's just about the most difficult thing he's ever done. It hurts, but he does it anyway, and prepares himself for Patrick walking away.
But Patrick's hands over his don't move.
"You love me," he says, not looking up.
Pete's heart starts slamming in his chest, a slow, heavy beat. "Kind of, yeah," he says cautiously. "You know that."
"You love me enough that teenage girls on the internet can see it, and they're jealous," Patrick says.
"Not that it takes much with them, but yeah," Pete says. He's tightening and loosening his grip, kneading, in an attempt to be good and wait Patrick out, wait for his decision, no assumptions.
"Pa Clampett laughed when he saw me just now," Patrick says. "He was like, 'so that's how it goes, huh?' and then he was like, 'That's what he deserves,' and I was like--oh, hell no. And I came right back in here."
"You came right here," Pete says, hopeful, and Patrick nods, licks his bottom lip, and finally looks up.
"Right here," he says, and then he smiles, just a small, nervous twitch of his mouth, and says, "So. How do you want me?"
Which is the final straw for Pete--he comes again, hard, for the third time in way not enough minutes.
"Well," Patrick says, when Pete's done panting weakly and has opened his eyes again. "That was kind of disappointing, after all the internal drama I just went through."
"Oh, don't worry," Pete says, and flips them over, kneeling back between Patrick's thighs and working on his belt with unsteady fingers. "I know just what I want from you."
He mostly hasn't let his fantasies include Patrick the past couple years, since he finally figured out that Patrick had no idea their relationship was in any way unusual. Even as Patrick was like, discovering the joys of sex with dudes, he hadn't seemed to realize what he and Pete had been doing since they'd met was a fucking courtship. And if he was going to be that oblivious, Pete figured it had to be kind of on purpose.
That thought had hurt, no lie, but whatever. It was Patrick, and for once Pete was grateful just to take what he could get.
But before that, he'd had six hundred Patrick-related moments of lust a week. And this is so much better than those flashes of fantasy and want. Patrick, flushed and sweaty, mouth swollen and pink, his dick hard in Pete's hand and then sliding hot in his mouth--yeah. Better than anything ever.
Pete's always been a little bit more about getting head than giving it and considering he's been dying to see Patrick's lips around him for years, if he'd let himself think about the first thing he'd do when he got Patrick naked, begging for a blowjob would probably have been high on the list. But fuck, it turns out he'd go down on Patrick all day just for the noises he makes, for the way the solid muscles of his thighs twitch under Pete's hands. All day or at least until it gets to be too much, which isn't long enough with Pete's voodoo-induced hair trigger.
He comes again when Patrick forgets himself and thrusts up, his fingers twisting in Pete's hair, his moan a low tangle of words that are mostly indecipherable. Pete manages to catch his name and he's done for, humping the sheets on his messy bed, groaning around Patrick's cock.
"Pete," Patrick gasps, half laughing, half appalled. "You asshole. Am I even going to get to touch you before you're coming all over yourself?"
"Yeah, probably not," Pete says, resting his forehead on Patrick's hip and panting. "Give me--just gimme a second here, though, because I'm gonna need to go again."
"Seriously, promise me you were really cursed and you're not like this all the time," Patrick says, trailing his fingers through Pete's hair, the edges of his short nails scratching just lightly enough to get Pete shuddering and pushing his head up for more. And Pete's glad he's not like this all the time because he just, he wants to touch Patrick and not have it be this crazy need, sharper and stronger than he's ever felt before, distracting.
He wants to touch Patrick for hours, every inch of his pale skin and every place that makes him moan or that tickles, and have that be the whole point.
He kisses Patrick's hip, then trails his mouth up over his stomach, sucks on his neck to feel his pulse racing there. "I'm not always like this," he says, promises, and he kisses Patrick's cheek, his mouth. "I'm mostly better than this, I swear."
"Not that this isn't flattering," Patrick says, and he curls a curious hand around Pete's dick, which is already hardening again. Pete moans and bucks his hips, helpless against the need to move, and Patrick makes a low, pleased sound and strokes him hard, fast, perfect.
He moans into Patrick's mouth and then pulls back to say, "Patrick, can I fuck you? Can I--" and Patrick says, "Yes, yeah, come on," immediately, like he was waiting, which almost sets Pete off again. "But you have to promise we'll do it again sometime when you're not going to go off in like, four seconds."
"Yeah, uh, about that?" Pete says, grinning, shrugging his shoulders. Patrick laughs at him breathlessly, and it's pretty much the sweetest sound Pete's ever heard.
He relaxes Patrick with careful, slick fingers and watches his face, feeling fucking greedy and hungry for every reaction. It's ridiculous that other people have gotten to see this before him; it's flat-out crazy that someone else got to do this before him.
But now it's different, he thinks fiercely, it's his and Patrick's time, and that changes everything. No one besides Pete has ever seen this, the way Patrick's lashes flutter and his mouth opens on a gasp when Pete goes deeper, just deep enough. "You ready?" he asks, and Patrick reaches for him, eyes slitting open--
They both jump when Patrick's cell rings, loud but muffled. It's Charlie; Pete had programmed the Eye of the Tiger ring tone himself.
Pete hesitates, then kisses Patrick's slack mouth and says, "Stay just like that." He scrambles for Patrick's phone, finds it under his hat. He flips it open and says, "Yeah Charlie, what," while looking at Patrick spread out across his sheets like a dream, a little nervous and a lot flushed, hard, and Pete actually misses half of whatever-the-fuck Charlie's saying when Patrick touches himself, eyes wide open and steady on Pete's.
He tunes back in time to hear Charlie say, "So, motherfucker like, insists you're fine now or whatever. We took the voodoo doll back and everything, so if you want to come on out of there, you fucking pussy, it should be okay--"
"Yeah, uh-huh," Pete says, then grins at Patrick. "Give us like, twenty minutes. Twenty minutes alone, got it? We'll be out when we're ready. No, when we're ready--no, fuck you, Charlie, I'll fire everybody on this tour if anyone even breathes on this bus before twenty minutes are up, you hear me?" And he flips the phone closed while Charlie's still cursing him, Dirty and Joe cat-calling in the background, Patrick grinning on the bed.
He tosses the phone aside and climbs back on top of Patrick, kissing him, nipping at his lower lip. He's almost unable to believe how good it feels to finally just touch him. And he worries for a moment because it feels just as good, just as intense, as it did before Charlie's call; what if the dude was lying and he's still cursed? He rubs himself against Patrick's thigh almost tentatively, and doesn't feel like he's going to come again if he so much as moves another inch, so maybe. Yeah. Maybe they're good. Maybe this is just the way it is, for them.
"I'm thinking we need twenty-five minutes," he says, wriggling down to settle between Patrick's thighs as Patrick's hands slide down his back; he arches into them, groaning when Patrick kneads lightly at the small of his back.
"I don't know," Patrick says, raising his eyebrows and smiling wryly when Pete meets his gaze. "Wouldn't want you to feel like you have to beat your record or anything."
"I'll show you my record," Pete promises and he shifts up, guiding himself inside, watching Patrick's eyes slide closed as his mouth opens for a fucking gorgeous moan.
With that kind of provocation, Pete doesn't get anywhere near his record. He just barely gets past the point where he's reassured about the curse having worn off before he's curling into Patrick's shoulder, carefully biting down on the slick skin at the base of his neck. Patrick's already come, hot and wet between them, and when he says, "Now, Pete, please," that does it; Pete comes so hard that for a second he feels like he's going to black out.
So no record but that's okay, he thinks smugly when he's recovered enough to move. He carefully pulls out and cleans them both off, arranges himself against Patrick's side with a yawn; Patrick's already out like a light, as well-fucked as Pete, if not as often. No record this time but they can always try again later--
Maybe much later, but as often as they want.
Author: giddygeek
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: Uuuuum, fuck-or-die.
Notes: Fuck-or-die totally counts as a rating. And also a summary. And look, here it is as notes. Yay my favorite subgenre!
3800 words, slightly cracked. Thanks to anew_leaf and dsudis for giving it a look-see, although Dira is probably expecting the title that made me laugh so hard I couldn't use it. ;-)
Pete punches in the security code, wrenches open the door and tumbles up the bus stairs in under two seconds, despite Serious Impairment.
"Patrick," he says, relieved when he careens around the corner and there it is, salvation in a plaid shirt and pink hat. Then it clicks that for once, for the first time in for-fucking-ever, everyone is on Patrick and Andy's bus instead of his--and there goes Plan A.
Plan B hadn't existed until right that second, but Pete figures he's nothing if not creative. He reaches down, hauls Patrick to his feet, ignores the aggravated yelp and says, "We've gotta--okay, you, my bus, now."
When he turns around, Dirty is blocking his escape path, grinning. "Do we need to call Charlie about this asshole, Patrick?"
"No," Charlie says, not looking up from his cards. "And fuck you, bitches, I just got Uno."
Patrick quits attempting to pull his wrist free of Pete's hand and lets Pete hold it while he tries to duck around Dirty. But Patrick isn't moving and he isn't helping them escape, he's turning around to glare at Charlie. "You do not," he says. "Liar. You had three cards in your hand! Joe, you check those--"
Joe looks at Charlie, betrayed. "You put down two cards," he says. "Patrick's right. And you're an asshole!"
"All's fair in love and Uno!" Charlie argues, leaning over the table to get in Joe's face. "That's your fucking rule!"
"What are you gonna do, Pete?" Dirty says as he tries to get Pete in a headlock. "Huh?"
"Drown you in a puddle of your own piss," Pete says, twisting one of Dirty's nipples in an attempt to escape. "Don't think I won't do it! Come on, back off--okay, that's it. I need Patrick off this bus, I need it now, and I will pay you two hundred fucking dollars to just move."
Instantly, they're swarmed. Everyone but Joe and Charlie ditches the Uno table to crowd around Pete, Patrick and Dirty, beaming. Pete grits his teeth, stares at his asshole friends, and says, "Fine, fuckers, each. Now move before I kill you all so much."
Like magic, the aisle clears. Pete tugs at Patrick's wrist and charges ahead. Thankfully Patrick follows without any more fuss, saying, "I want three hundred," thoughtfully as they head down the stairs. He hums in the back of his throat, considering. "Or maybe six," he decides, and then they're finally free and headed for Pete's bus.
"You're a millionaire," Pete says, frantically punching in the code for his door.
"I have expenses," Patrick says. "Like doctor bills when my asshole best friend breaks my wrist. Which hey, you mind?"
"Yes," Pete says, and he pulls Patrick up the stairs and onto his bus--his blissfully empty, cool, quiet, empty bus. He heads all the way to the back, slams and locks the door. He drops Patrick's wrist and takes a step towards the bed, pulling his hoodie and t-shirt off over his head. "Get naked," he says, pawing his way free of the hoodie where it's tangled around his neck. "Like, now."
"Um, no?" Patrick says, and Pete finally tosses his hoodie off and turns to see Patrick staring at him, narrow-eyed.
"Oh my God, I so do not have time for this," Pete says, reaching for his belt buckle. "Seriously, get naked. I'll explain later."
"That didn't work when I was sixteen, and it won't work now," Patrick says, crossing his arms over his chest. "Hey, back off, Wentz--put your pants back on--hey!"
Pete buries his face against Patrick's shoulder and shudders with relief. "Okay, maybe I don't need you naked yet," he says. "Just--" and he groans when Patrick touches him, one warm hand tentatively spread over his back, like he does when Pete's feeling bad or whatever.
"Perfect," Pete says, closing his eyes, breathing in the familiar smell of Patrick from so close, and then he puts his hand inside his underwear and jerks himself hard.
"Are you--Pete!" Patrick pushes at him, then smacks when Pete refuses to be budged, one hand on his dick, the other arm wrapped around Patrick's back and holding tight. Patrick wiggles and punches and bitches, and Pete stops mouthing at the cotton stretched tight over his shoulder, frustrated, and says, "Jesus, Patrick, if you're going to be like that about it!"
"I am!" Patrick says. "I am always like that about being molested!"
Pete takes a deep breath. "Dude, okay, long story wicked fucking short. It's do this," and he humps against Patrick's hip, his dick in his hand, knuckles scraping against the fabric of his boxer-briefs and Patrick's jeans; he groans, low in his chest. "It's do this or die, Patrick."
"Wow, and do you actually expect me to fall for that?" Patrick shoves harder, fails to put more than an inch between them. Pete has desperate cling down to an art form. He curls tighter around Patrick, who makes a frustrated noise and says, "No one ever died of blue balls, Pete."
"Yeah, uh," Pete says, and he shudders, then leans his forehead against Patrick's neck, nuzzling, and lets his arm go loose around Patrick's waist. "Not so much a problem, anymore."
"What do you mean, not any--oh, gross," Patrick says. "You did not just rub one out on my leg!"
"Totally not," Pete says, a little dreamy. "I didn't touch you with it once. I guess you just needed to be here for it to work, or something." He kisses the side of Patrick's neck. "Thank fuck, right, because I'd totally have died before you got your shirt off."
"I could have you arrested," Patrick says. "I could have Charlie bounce your head off a wall. I could--"
"You could be quiet and let me savor the fucking afterglow," Pete says, but there isn't any, there's no afterglow to savor. He's hardening already, arousal thrumming through him like he hadn't just come. "Oh you've got to be kidding me," he says, squeezing his dick. "Again?"
"Not again!" Patrick says, and now he's struggling in earnest. "Get the fuck off me, Pete, what the hell!"
"Listen," Pete says, leaning back, gripping Patrick's shoulders and shaking him a little until Patrick looks him in the eye. "There was this Pa Clampett dude lurking outside, okay, his daughter loves me, and she just got a computer for her birthday and she looked me up on the internet. And she found some stuff, like the Q&A or whatever, and she went bawling to her dad that I love you, and Pa Clampett didn't exactly appreciate that, so he came to find me."
"That's crazy," Patrick says, shaking his head, his eyes wide behind his glasses. "Where the hell do you even get this shit?"
Pete rolls his eyes. "I'm telling you the fucking truth, you should know better than to think I'd lie to get this. Pa Clampett got past security because he knows fucking hillbilly voodoo or some shit, and he pushed me against the bus with his mind and said that fine, if I wanted you, I should have you, I should have you or fucking die, okay? And I don't want to die, so you've got to help me out a little here, all right?"
He stops, takes a deep breath, loosens his grip on Patrick's shoulders before he leaves bruises. He feels frantic, a little crazy--a little crazier than normal--and he doesn't mind pissing Patrick off but the last thing he wants to do is hurt Patrick. He says, "Please?"
Patrick stares at him, wide-eyed, and Pete feels himself get impossibly hard looking back at him, at his mouth and pale eyes, the angry flush across his cheeks. His whole body aches and as miserably certain as Pete is that he doesn't want to die, he's more certain that he wants to have Patrick, has always wanted to have Patrick; Pa Clampett's daughter had that right, at least.
Patrick blinks, breaking their stare. "Pete. Is that your jizz hand on my shoulder?"
Pete hesitates, looking at his hands gripping tight against the well-washed plaid shirt that Patrick's wearing over his t-shirt. "No?"
"Fucking die," Patrick says, and finally wrenches free, shoving Pete so that he falls back across his bed with an oof and a thud. He struggles up on his elbows and says, "Patrick, wait--" but Patrick has already shrugged out of the lumberjack shirt and is stomping off the bus, settling his hat more firmly on his head and slamming doors as he goes.
Pete's completely hard again and it's way too fast for comfort, arousal a low burn in the pit of his stomach, almost painful and getting worse. "Fuck," he says, and leans over the edge of the bed, fishing for Patrick's shirt; if it has to be this way, fine, he'll jerk off and like, stay alive long enough to get Charlie on Pa Clampett's trail and--
And maybe he should've been stealing Patrick's shirts to jerk off with for years because the fabric is soft, stretched out from being washed and worn too much, and it smells like Patrick and now also like Pete, and that's good. It's actually really good. Pete collapses back onto the mattress, hips pushing up against his hand, groaning because what the hell, it's really good, and it's not going to work. He's hot and hard and it's never going to go away. He can feel his body resisting the urge to come even when it needs to, and he's going to die like this, all the blood in his body pooled in his dick, Patrick's stupid shirt padding the fist he has wrapped around himself. And it'll be all over the internet for a hundred years, a thousand years of Pete's ultimate humiliation--
"Dude," Patrick says, stomping back into the bedroom. "Okay, so Pa Clampett is like, still lurking behind the buses--is that my shirt?"
"Yes," Pete groans, and he comes like crazy, soaking the goddamned shirt.
When he opens his eyes again, he sees Patrick on his phone, describing Pa Clampett to someone, probably Charlie. He's watching Pete though, and Pete knows that look, he knows it, that is Patrick's 'I'm so not turned on by this porn you're watching' face, the one he wears just before he tries to adjust himself in his pants without anyone noticing. He's one bitten lip away from the face he makes when he's pushing the heel of his hand against his own half-hard dick because he doesn't think anyone's watching, but fuck that. Pete's been watching, he's been paying attention for years. He knows that look.
He tosses Patrick's shirt off the bed, lifts his hips to push his boxer-briefs the rest of the way off, and touches himself lazily with his eyes focused on Patrick's. He takes in the deepening flush and the--yeah, there it is, the bitten lip--and he says, "Come here, Patrick."
And then, when Patrick hangs up the phone after saying, "Call me when you find him," he goes.
It's a relief when Patrick tosses the phone aside and kneels hesitantly on the bed at Pete's side, making a surprised noise when Pete reaches for him and urges him to straddle Pete's hips. He settles very lightly across Pete's lap and that's a relief on like, seven different levels. Pete closes his hands on Patrick's hips and holds him, rocks up against him, and the feel of Patrick's jeans against his skin is almost enough to get Pete off for the third time in fifteen minutes.
"So Charlie's got security going after Pa Clampett," Patrick says, calm like he's not inches away from being right where Pete wants him. His face is red though, and spread out the way he is over Pete's lap, Pete can tell he's getting hard.
"Awesome," Pete says. "Until then, you think you want to help me out here?" and he shifts his hips, pulls Patrick closer; he's being considerate, in case Patrick has forgotten what he needs a hand with.
"I, uh, could go find you someone," Patrick says. "Someone else, maybe, if you thought." He puts his hands over Pete's on his hips like he's going to pull them off. Pete tightens his grip and Patrick makes a sharp sound; when Pete meets his gaze again, interested, Patrick is biting hard on his bottom lip, and there's sweat gleaming over his upper lip, in the hollow of his throat.
Pete grins, smug. "You like that."
"Apparently," Patrick says. He looks down so Pete can't see his eyes. "But, uh. I can, I don't know. Maybe another shirt, instead of--"
"This," Pete says, arching up, pulling Patrick down and even though Patrick's jeans chafing his skin doesn't feel awesome, it feels awesome, and Pete does it again, just because. "Like this, only naked," he says.
Patrick's flushing an even deeper pink, clearing his throat. "But--"
"If you don't want me, that's one thing," Pete says, willing Patrick to look at him. "Like, if you really don't want to, fine, just tell me and then, I don't know. Bring me six of your shirts and my iPod or something. Otherwise, naked. Like, now."
Patrick shifts, restless, and Pete's heart sinks. He knows that sometimes your body is saying one thing and your brain is saying another--that's the recipe for half the disasters in his life. And Patrick can't be one of those disasters, it can't happen that way or Pete will fall apart. He takes one last look at this, at Patrick across his lap, and he loosens his grip on Patrick's hips.
It's just about the most difficult thing he's ever done. It hurts, but he does it anyway, and prepares himself for Patrick walking away.
But Patrick's hands over his don't move.
"You love me," he says, not looking up.
Pete's heart starts slamming in his chest, a slow, heavy beat. "Kind of, yeah," he says cautiously. "You know that."
"You love me enough that teenage girls on the internet can see it, and they're jealous," Patrick says.
"Not that it takes much with them, but yeah," Pete says. He's tightening and loosening his grip, kneading, in an attempt to be good and wait Patrick out, wait for his decision, no assumptions.
"Pa Clampett laughed when he saw me just now," Patrick says. "He was like, 'so that's how it goes, huh?' and then he was like, 'That's what he deserves,' and I was like--oh, hell no. And I came right back in here."
"You came right here," Pete says, hopeful, and Patrick nods, licks his bottom lip, and finally looks up.
"Right here," he says, and then he smiles, just a small, nervous twitch of his mouth, and says, "So. How do you want me?"
Which is the final straw for Pete--he comes again, hard, for the third time in way not enough minutes.
"Well," Patrick says, when Pete's done panting weakly and has opened his eyes again. "That was kind of disappointing, after all the internal drama I just went through."
"Oh, don't worry," Pete says, and flips them over, kneeling back between Patrick's thighs and working on his belt with unsteady fingers. "I know just what I want from you."
He mostly hasn't let his fantasies include Patrick the past couple years, since he finally figured out that Patrick had no idea their relationship was in any way unusual. Even as Patrick was like, discovering the joys of sex with dudes, he hadn't seemed to realize what he and Pete had been doing since they'd met was a fucking courtship. And if he was going to be that oblivious, Pete figured it had to be kind of on purpose.
That thought had hurt, no lie, but whatever. It was Patrick, and for once Pete was grateful just to take what he could get.
But before that, he'd had six hundred Patrick-related moments of lust a week. And this is so much better than those flashes of fantasy and want. Patrick, flushed and sweaty, mouth swollen and pink, his dick hard in Pete's hand and then sliding hot in his mouth--yeah. Better than anything ever.
Pete's always been a little bit more about getting head than giving it and considering he's been dying to see Patrick's lips around him for years, if he'd let himself think about the first thing he'd do when he got Patrick naked, begging for a blowjob would probably have been high on the list. But fuck, it turns out he'd go down on Patrick all day just for the noises he makes, for the way the solid muscles of his thighs twitch under Pete's hands. All day or at least until it gets to be too much, which isn't long enough with Pete's voodoo-induced hair trigger.
He comes again when Patrick forgets himself and thrusts up, his fingers twisting in Pete's hair, his moan a low tangle of words that are mostly indecipherable. Pete manages to catch his name and he's done for, humping the sheets on his messy bed, groaning around Patrick's cock.
"Pete," Patrick gasps, half laughing, half appalled. "You asshole. Am I even going to get to touch you before you're coming all over yourself?"
"Yeah, probably not," Pete says, resting his forehead on Patrick's hip and panting. "Give me--just gimme a second here, though, because I'm gonna need to go again."
"Seriously, promise me you were really cursed and you're not like this all the time," Patrick says, trailing his fingers through Pete's hair, the edges of his short nails scratching just lightly enough to get Pete shuddering and pushing his head up for more. And Pete's glad he's not like this all the time because he just, he wants to touch Patrick and not have it be this crazy need, sharper and stronger than he's ever felt before, distracting.
He wants to touch Patrick for hours, every inch of his pale skin and every place that makes him moan or that tickles, and have that be the whole point.
He kisses Patrick's hip, then trails his mouth up over his stomach, sucks on his neck to feel his pulse racing there. "I'm not always like this," he says, promises, and he kisses Patrick's cheek, his mouth. "I'm mostly better than this, I swear."
"Not that this isn't flattering," Patrick says, and he curls a curious hand around Pete's dick, which is already hardening again. Pete moans and bucks his hips, helpless against the need to move, and Patrick makes a low, pleased sound and strokes him hard, fast, perfect.
He moans into Patrick's mouth and then pulls back to say, "Patrick, can I fuck you? Can I--" and Patrick says, "Yes, yeah, come on," immediately, like he was waiting, which almost sets Pete off again. "But you have to promise we'll do it again sometime when you're not going to go off in like, four seconds."
"Yeah, uh, about that?" Pete says, grinning, shrugging his shoulders. Patrick laughs at him breathlessly, and it's pretty much the sweetest sound Pete's ever heard.
He relaxes Patrick with careful, slick fingers and watches his face, feeling fucking greedy and hungry for every reaction. It's ridiculous that other people have gotten to see this before him; it's flat-out crazy that someone else got to do this before him.
But now it's different, he thinks fiercely, it's his and Patrick's time, and that changes everything. No one besides Pete has ever seen this, the way Patrick's lashes flutter and his mouth opens on a gasp when Pete goes deeper, just deep enough. "You ready?" he asks, and Patrick reaches for him, eyes slitting open--
They both jump when Patrick's cell rings, loud but muffled. It's Charlie; Pete had programmed the Eye of the Tiger ring tone himself.
Pete hesitates, then kisses Patrick's slack mouth and says, "Stay just like that." He scrambles for Patrick's phone, finds it under his hat. He flips it open and says, "Yeah Charlie, what," while looking at Patrick spread out across his sheets like a dream, a little nervous and a lot flushed, hard, and Pete actually misses half of whatever-the-fuck Charlie's saying when Patrick touches himself, eyes wide open and steady on Pete's.
He tunes back in time to hear Charlie say, "So, motherfucker like, insists you're fine now or whatever. We took the voodoo doll back and everything, so if you want to come on out of there, you fucking pussy, it should be okay--"
"Yeah, uh-huh," Pete says, then grins at Patrick. "Give us like, twenty minutes. Twenty minutes alone, got it? We'll be out when we're ready. No, when we're ready--no, fuck you, Charlie, I'll fire everybody on this tour if anyone even breathes on this bus before twenty minutes are up, you hear me?" And he flips the phone closed while Charlie's still cursing him, Dirty and Joe cat-calling in the background, Patrick grinning on the bed.
He tosses the phone aside and climbs back on top of Patrick, kissing him, nipping at his lower lip. He's almost unable to believe how good it feels to finally just touch him. And he worries for a moment because it feels just as good, just as intense, as it did before Charlie's call; what if the dude was lying and he's still cursed? He rubs himself against Patrick's thigh almost tentatively, and doesn't feel like he's going to come again if he so much as moves another inch, so maybe. Yeah. Maybe they're good. Maybe this is just the way it is, for them.
"I'm thinking we need twenty-five minutes," he says, wriggling down to settle between Patrick's thighs as Patrick's hands slide down his back; he arches into them, groaning when Patrick kneads lightly at the small of his back.
"I don't know," Patrick says, raising his eyebrows and smiling wryly when Pete meets his gaze. "Wouldn't want you to feel like you have to beat your record or anything."
"I'll show you my record," Pete promises and he shifts up, guiding himself inside, watching Patrick's eyes slide closed as his mouth opens for a fucking gorgeous moan.
With that kind of provocation, Pete doesn't get anywhere near his record. He just barely gets past the point where he's reassured about the curse having worn off before he's curling into Patrick's shoulder, carefully biting down on the slick skin at the base of his neck. Patrick's already come, hot and wet between them, and when he says, "Now, Pete, please," that does it; Pete comes so hard that for a second he feels like he's going to black out.
So no record but that's okay, he thinks smugly when he's recovered enough to move. He carefully pulls out and cleans them both off, arranges himself against Patrick's side with a yawn; Patrick's already out like a light, as well-fucked as Pete, if not as often. No record this time but they can always try again later--
Maybe much later, but as often as they want.