Bend your branches down along the ground and cover me
Bulk post for Black-Eyed Sinner's Pact, Pete's POV
I put my chin on Brendon’s shoulder. His skin was still warm and his breathing was just the slightest bit erratic. I loved that. Loved that I shared something with him that I hadn’t ever shared with anyone else before. Maybe the sex itself wasn’t romantic, maybe the moment wasn’t palpable. But it meant something. It was romantic because of what it could be, palpably beautiful because of its potential. I could soak this in forever, the yearning for more, and the contentedness of finality. It made me sigh into the warm skin I felt, really appreciate the feel of his chest rising and falling. I needed to hear his heart beating, think it’s pounding because of me.
****
Brendon takes up a lot of space in a room. He's a tiny little thing, made of bone and skin, but he makes himself known. Overcompensation, some might say, but anyone who really knows Brendon doesn't believe that for a second. It's just him, nothing more, all voice and all the presence that comes with it. Even in silence, you don't forget that Brendon's in a room. He has this way of filling up the tiny spaces in a place-around you, above you, in you-so that you have to breathe him in; so that you can't breathe him out.
He speaks into my ear and I want him in me then, there.
The words'll sound like they're meant to hurt sometimes. Brendon's humor is dry and crackling, waiting for a spark to catch it. He'll laugh at you as soon as with you, and never feels bad about it. He's claimed a right to hurt. But like I said, it's only sound. They're glancing blows of warm air on your neck, enough so that you get it, you do. Enough to say "you'll only hurt me if I want you to."
****
The bare bones of the matter are this: I think Patrick Sheppard is a sexy fuck.
When I look at Patrick I see the world in other shades, in colors that are all his own instead of inked in by needles. I see red-gold hair the color of the sky as the sun is going down, bright even though he hides it underneath hats all the time; eyes that change with everything from the light in the room to the mood of the hour-sapphires in early morning, cobalt when he’s turned on and looking down at me from under lowered lashes; pink lips that darken to red as they swell with kisses and bites; pale skin that picks up everything I leave behind in brilliant Technicolor. To me, Patrick is a vivid, extraordinary thing come to life in bright colors on a stark canvas. He pops. He’s alive. He’s beautiful.
Patrick doesn’t seem to see any of that.
All Patrick sees when he looks in the mirror are imperfections. He sees pale skin that always shows when he’s embarrassed, that bruises too easily and showcases faded silver stretch marks. He sees lips that are constantly too red and obvious from his habit of worrying the bottom one between his teeth when he’s nervous, or thinking too hard. He sees flat, indeterminately colored hair that he calls Irish heritage with a roll of his eyes. He sees eyes that give everything away. He sees a body with an extra roll around the stomach, baby fat lingering on his face and clinging to the undersides of his arms.
He doesn’t see the sex that I see there. Maybe it’s that Gerard’s insecure idiosyncrasies bolstered his own, but Patrick doesn’t seem to understand that I’m not settling for having sex with him instead of some skinnier, hotter guy. He doesn’t see the excess of skin as more the way I do. More of him to touch, more to kiss, to lick, suck, bite. More Patrick.
Maybe it’s because he can’t see his bedroom eyes. If he saw the way they burn,-dark, bright, blown-he’d get it. He’d understand why I can look at him, now, meaning it when I tell him he’s gorgeous.
Patrick ceases all movement, fingers stilling inside me. My dick slides out of his mouth with a slick, wet, obscene sound, standing neglected at attention by his chin.
“Trick, don’t…why are you stopping?” It comes out half whine, half whimper, and maybe it’s cheating a little, already halfway to begging. We both like it when he makes me beg.
Patrick glares, but the effect is ruined by the bedroom eyes. Angry-hot bedroom eyes. “Why are you talking?”
I reach my hand down to his mouth, feeling the spit-slick curve of his lower lip. The back of my hand brushes against my dick and feels really, insanely good. “You don’t want me to talk?” I ask, faux-innocent and laced with innuendo, with promise. I won’t talk if he tells me not to. I’ll do anything he says. The trick is getting him to the point where he forgets himself enough to tell me what he wants; the point where he forgets that he doesn’t like his body and just lets himself go.
“Not really,” he says without much consideration. His lips-red, wet, fuck, his mouth- move against my thumb. Take my thumb into his mouth and tongue the pad. “I never want you to talk” he says around my thumb, like he couldn’t be bothered to let go long enough to speak. And there, there it is, I’ve got him where I want him, where I like him best. Where he momentarily believes he’s as good as I always know he is.
He follows when I bring my hand to my cock, never letting go of my thumb even as he takes the head into his mouth, sucking them both with absolutely perfect pressure. He tongues the slit, tongues under the head, presses my own thumb to the underside. I don’t just groan. I fucking keen and buck involuntarily, say his name.
Patrick pulls off again, which makes me whine again until he digs the fingers that aren’t buried in my ass into my thigh and gives me the angry-hot, smoldering glare. Bedroom eyes.
“You’re not talking,” he commands. My mind nearly whites out at that point, because yes, fucking yes, this is going to be good. “Don’t say a word until I tell you to.”
I nod frantically, bite my lip to keep from saying his name again just because I like the way it sounds in the confined space of the room. Saying it because he crooks his fingers, suddenly, hard, and I could come so easily like this. It’s good, so good, always so good.
It’s Patrick.
Patrick Sheppard is a sexy fuck, and one day, I’m going to make Patrick Sheppard see it too.
I put my chin on Brendon’s shoulder. His skin was still warm and his breathing was just the slightest bit erratic. I loved that. Loved that I shared something with him that I hadn’t ever shared with anyone else before. Maybe the sex itself wasn’t romantic, maybe the moment wasn’t palpable. But it meant something. It was romantic because of what it could be, palpably beautiful because of its potential. I could soak this in forever, the yearning for more, and the contentedness of finality. It made me sigh into the warm skin I felt, really appreciate the feel of his chest rising and falling. I needed to hear his heart beating, think it’s pounding because of me.
****
Brendon takes up a lot of space in a room. He's a tiny little thing, made of bone and skin, but he makes himself known. Overcompensation, some might say, but anyone who really knows Brendon doesn't believe that for a second. It's just him, nothing more, all voice and all the presence that comes with it. Even in silence, you don't forget that Brendon's in a room. He has this way of filling up the tiny spaces in a place-around you, above you, in you-so that you have to breathe him in; so that you can't breathe him out.
He speaks into my ear and I want him in me then, there.
The words'll sound like they're meant to hurt sometimes. Brendon's humor is dry and crackling, waiting for a spark to catch it. He'll laugh at you as soon as with you, and never feels bad about it. He's claimed a right to hurt. But like I said, it's only sound. They're glancing blows of warm air on your neck, enough so that you get it, you do. Enough to say "you'll only hurt me if I want you to."
****
The bare bones of the matter are this: I think Patrick Sheppard is a sexy fuck.
When I look at Patrick I see the world in other shades, in colors that are all his own instead of inked in by needles. I see red-gold hair the color of the sky as the sun is going down, bright even though he hides it underneath hats all the time; eyes that change with everything from the light in the room to the mood of the hour-sapphires in early morning, cobalt when he’s turned on and looking down at me from under lowered lashes; pink lips that darken to red as they swell with kisses and bites; pale skin that picks up everything I leave behind in brilliant Technicolor. To me, Patrick is a vivid, extraordinary thing come to life in bright colors on a stark canvas. He pops. He’s alive. He’s beautiful.
Patrick doesn’t seem to see any of that.
All Patrick sees when he looks in the mirror are imperfections. He sees pale skin that always shows when he’s embarrassed, that bruises too easily and showcases faded silver stretch marks. He sees lips that are constantly too red and obvious from his habit of worrying the bottom one between his teeth when he’s nervous, or thinking too hard. He sees flat, indeterminately colored hair that he calls Irish heritage with a roll of his eyes. He sees eyes that give everything away. He sees a body with an extra roll around the stomach, baby fat lingering on his face and clinging to the undersides of his arms.
He doesn’t see the sex that I see there. Maybe it’s that Gerard’s insecure idiosyncrasies bolstered his own, but Patrick doesn’t seem to understand that I’m not settling for having sex with him instead of some skinnier, hotter guy. He doesn’t see the excess of skin as more the way I do. More of him to touch, more to kiss, to lick, suck, bite. More Patrick.
Maybe it’s because he can’t see his bedroom eyes. If he saw the way they burn,-dark, bright, blown-he’d get it. He’d understand why I can look at him, now, meaning it when I tell him he’s gorgeous.
Patrick ceases all movement, fingers stilling inside me. My dick slides out of his mouth with a slick, wet, obscene sound, standing neglected at attention by his chin.
“Trick, don’t…why are you stopping?” It comes out half whine, half whimper, and maybe it’s cheating a little, already halfway to begging. We both like it when he makes me beg.
Patrick glares, but the effect is ruined by the bedroom eyes. Angry-hot bedroom eyes. “Why are you talking?”
I reach my hand down to his mouth, feeling the spit-slick curve of his lower lip. The back of my hand brushes against my dick and feels really, insanely good. “You don’t want me to talk?” I ask, faux-innocent and laced with innuendo, with promise. I won’t talk if he tells me not to. I’ll do anything he says. The trick is getting him to the point where he forgets himself enough to tell me what he wants; the point where he forgets that he doesn’t like his body and just lets himself go.
“Not really,” he says without much consideration. His lips-red, wet, fuck, his mouth- move against my thumb. Take my thumb into his mouth and tongue the pad. “I never want you to talk” he says around my thumb, like he couldn’t be bothered to let go long enough to speak. And there, there it is, I’ve got him where I want him, where I like him best. Where he momentarily believes he’s as good as I always know he is.
He follows when I bring my hand to my cock, never letting go of my thumb even as he takes the head into his mouth, sucking them both with absolutely perfect pressure. He tongues the slit, tongues under the head, presses my own thumb to the underside. I don’t just groan. I fucking keen and buck involuntarily, say his name.
Patrick pulls off again, which makes me whine again until he digs the fingers that aren’t buried in my ass into my thigh and gives me the angry-hot, smoldering glare. Bedroom eyes.
“You’re not talking,” he commands. My mind nearly whites out at that point, because yes, fucking yes, this is going to be good. “Don’t say a word until I tell you to.”
I nod frantically, bite my lip to keep from saying his name again just because I like the way it sounds in the confined space of the room. Saying it because he crooks his fingers, suddenly, hard, and I could come so easily like this. It’s good, so good, always so good.
It’s Patrick.
Patrick Sheppard is a sexy fuck, and one day, I’m going to make Patrick Sheppard see it too.