Overheard ("Less Talk, More Rock"), Part 4/4

[thejumpcut]

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

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Pete stuffed everything into the nearest open bunk and nodded, even though Patrick couldn't see him. He shifted from foot to foot, waiting, wondering if there was a cue he should be taking.

"Pete," and yeah, Pete could hear Patrick, clear as day. "Can you hear me from there?"

"Yeah," Pete called, "I - should I stay here?"

"Just for a moment," Patrick said, his strong voice ringing rich through Pete's whole body.

"Kay," Pete said, all his uncertainty rushing up to him at once. "Why?"

"Well," Patrick said, and he was moving around in there, driving Pete batshit crazy with curiosity. Patrick inside, spread out for him? Maybe touching himself? Maybe he was lying in wait with a video camera, recording every word of Pete's soon-to-be-epic humiliation?

"Because I'm curious," Patrick said, smooth and even, in the voice Pete had been trying not to jerk off to for years. "About what happens when you can't push back."

Pete maybe made a noise. It was too manly to be a squeak, he was pretty sure, but it was definitely in the "gasp" category.

"Having fun?" Patrick asked. "Don't get too comfortable."

"I'm not," Pete muttered, pulling at his jeans, trying to stretch them over his dick in such a way that he could stand there in front of Patrick, fully hard in his jeans, and not look ridiculous.

"Don't worry, you'll get your turn soon enough," Patrick said. "But first I want you to listen to me."

"I am always listening to you, Patrick."

"That is not actually true, and you shouldn't lie to me like that, but I'll let it slide," Patrick called. "So I'm thinking about this morning - I was in here and the TV was on so loud in the front lounge I knew nobody would hear. I was just thinking about you and the things you do to me onstage, and then I thought about the things you said when you thought I wasn't listening, and I want to know something, Pete."

There was a pause. Pete cleared his throat. "What?"

"Do you mean it? Not onstage. The rest of it. Do you mean it that you want me, want to touch me?"

Pete could hear the shy, determined Patrick he knew from years ago, hidden underneath that full-grown voice, still just as determined but nothing like shy, especially not right now.

"Yes, Jesus, of course I mean it, I wouldn't be here if I didn't mean it," Pete said, fighting the urge to bang on the door.

"Tell me?" Patrick sounded almost coy, but Pete knew it wasn't a question.

"I've always wanted to," Pete said. He knew that as close as they were - and this was probably closer than they'd ever been - to actually doing this, Patrick would shut him out in a second if he thought Pete wasn't being 100% honest. "I've been good about closing it off as an option. I've spent so much time staring, watching you move, and I'm good at behaving when you're right there. It's hard enough to look at you and always be pulling back, but then I hear my name in that voice, and I can't help myself. I want to touch you. I close my eyes and I see you. And you're always talking to me, and I can never quite catch my breath when you're around.."

"If you're sure," Patrick said.

"Fuck, I'm sure," Pete said back, then took a few breaths and tried to measure out some kind of response. "Jesus, Patrick, I can't - I get hard just thinking about your voice. About you. And fuck, yeah, okay, I get off just thinking about you, your face, your hands, your mouth. Your fucking ridiculous talent, your laugh, the way you look when you're playing, when you're sleeping, all of it. When you start talking it's like a giant shove forward, and then I'm stumbling towards you all stupid and awkward like I am, and I've never even thought about what to say. But - I'm trying to say something. I want to see you saying these things to me while I can see you and tell you it's the same for me. I'd love that voice no matter who it was attached to, but it's you and I love you. I can't not love you, and no matter what happens or how bad we fuck this up we're still stuck with each other, so let's please do this before I die here outside your bedroom door."

There was a long pause. Pete would have held his breath, but he was too busy panting.

"Open the door," Patrick finally said. He was lying back on the bed, beginnings of a hard-on impossible to hide under jeans that tight - fuck, he was wearing show clothes, and fuck, nothing under the hoody, the hickey Pete had given him already starting to fade but still out in plain view for him to see.

"Fuck, Patrick," Pete breathed.

"Later, Pete. Maybe when we have a hotel room?" Patrick smirked, shedding his hoody gracefully as Pete slid over him on the bed.

"Let me," Pete said, low and surprisingly calm, given that his fingers shook as he reached for Patrick's belt.

"One thing at a time," Patrick said, and pulled Pete up for a kiss. A real kiss. They were really going to do this. Pete took a second to look at Patrick's mouth (that mouth) and back up at his eyes, which were clear and crinkled around the corners with Patrick's smile. Pete closed his eyes and leaned in slow, just touching their lips together, so light it almost tickled. He waited a moment, and then kept his mouth closed and leaned in.

Pete moaned before their mouths were even open. Patrick's mouth was perfect, and he was going to die happy right here. Then Patrick's tongue flicked quick over his lips and he had to reevaluate that plan, fast.

Patrick kissed smoothly, gently, almost delicately, just the smallest movements. Pete was surprised - he thought for sure Patrick would be a little bit more enthusiastic. Then Patrick brushed his fingertips across Pete's cheekbone, and Pete was shocked to feel them shaking. Patrick's hands never shook. He took Patrick's hand in his own and broke their kiss, held a steady gaze as he lifted their hands to his mouth.

Pete pulled away, far before he was ready, but Patrick was moaning high and thin and arching his back, and he needed to do something, to feel him. He tugged at Patrick's belt. Patrick lifted his hips and cried out in a broken, open tone as Pete mouthed down his neck to his chest. The belt came off easily, but when Pete tugged at the waistband of Patrick's jeans Patrick reached down to still his hand.

"Wait," he said, and his voice was luscious and harsh and breathy. He pushed Pete's hand away from his jeans, even though Pete could see that he was rock-hard and the jeans were tight enough that they would hurt eventually.

"Wait?" Pete asked. "What wait?" He was starting to think that maybe Patrick got off more on the emotional manipulation rather than the actual sex part. The thought didn't have enough time to hang around and cause trouble, though; Patrick pushed up off the bed and flipped them over, grinning and tugging at Pete's shirt as he straddled his thighs.

"Wait. Like, not yet wait." Patrick looked dead serious, even as he was pulling off Pete's clothing. Pete's groan was definitely part whine. He whipped his shirt towards the foot of the bed.

"Why?" he asked. Fuck, did he do something? Was Patrick going to change his mind? Were they going to have to Talk About Their Relationship? Fuck. He furrowed his eyebrows and frowned. It probably looked to Patrick like he was pouting, which was only partly true; he was also genuinely worried. He didn't think he would fail at this so quickly.

Patrick chuckled, looking pleased with himself in a way that made Pete both really mad and really hot.

"Oh, no," he said, curving one hand up to Pete's head. He stroked through Pete's hair with his fingers, soft and gentle movements, down his temple, and cupped his cheek. "Not like that. Pete. It's okay." Pete closed his eyes in relief and smiled, leaning into Patrick's touch, hearing him laugh a little more, still soft.

"But," Patrick leaned down and whispered, "don't you want to hear what I have to say?"

Pete forgot all about being upset and went straight to being insanely turned on. "Oh, fuck, yes, I really, really do," he panted. His voice was low, quiet, words escaping in rough guttural breaths. He reached out and grabbed Patrick's thighs where they were tensed over him. He hesitated for a moment - was it too much, was he holding too strong? He couldn't help himself, though, and he tried to be gentle about it, but within seconds he was clinging to Patrick's legs and digging his fingertips deep into the solid, trembling muscle.

"You know, sometimes I think about that phone call," Patrick said conversationally. "Me on the phone and you outside, slumped in the aisle, fighting with yourself - do you listen? Do you leave?"

"I never thought about leaving," Pete said in a strained voice, trying to thrust up into Patrick. Patrick just lifted himself slightly, put one hand right in the middle of Pete's chest for balance. Pete whined and tried to fight against it, but Patrick rocked forward, pushing him down harder.

"When I'm alone, thinking about it," Patrick said, "I take my time imagining. That you were hard, listening, wondering if you could just burst in and make it okay." He leaned forward and rewarded Pete's temporary stillness with a hand brushing down over the bartskull, rough fingertips playing idly at his hipbone. Pete held on to Patrick's thighs for dear life, resettling his grip, taking advantage of the opportunity and running his palms flat up Patrick's legs, blunt nails scrabbling for a hold on his jeans.

" I think about how frustrating it must have been to hear me, just a few feet away." Patrick leaned in just a little closer, grinding down into Pete just a little harder with each sentence.

"Taking my clothes off. Touching myself. Talking so dirty, moaning, coming with someone else's name on my lips."

Pete reached up and grabbed Patrick's hips, pulling him down as hard as he dared. Patrick obliged, leaning forward until their hard cocks met, brushed against each other, making them both jump. Patrick laughed.

"Oh my God, how are you still talking?" Pete said, tugging fruitlessly at the button of Patrick's jeans. The outline of Patrick's cock was clear through the thin fabric, pushing the first few teeth of his zipper apart. Pete had seen Patrick hard before - inopportune moments in green rooms and some hasty entrance-exits in the early days of shared motel rooms - even onstage, when everything hit just right and Pete could see that Patrick's smile reflected so much more than the roar of the crowd and the feel of the music. He'd slid to his knees once, hoping for a better look - he figured he could laugh it off later, chalk it up to curiosity or pass it off with a leer and a cheesy come-on, but once he got close enough to see the firm, hard line of Patrick's dick pressing into the back of the body of the Gibson, Pete's mouth ran dry and the gaze he flicked up at Patrick wasn't mocking so much as it was shocked. Patrick had never said a word about it afterwards, and Pete figured he'd escaped being in trouble because Patrick was embarrassed about it.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Pete," Patrick said. "I wasn't done. Unless you want me to let up for a minute, let you calm down a little?" He started to push himself up, and they both knew it was an empty threat, but Pete shot his hands up to the back of Patrick's neck, gasping "No, no," and hanging on like he was drowning.

Patrick let himself be pulled down and kissed him, hot and quick; they were both breathing heavy. Holy fuck, Patrick was talking dirty to him and Pete was in the same room.

"Pete," Patrick murmured, kissing Pete's jaw, his throat, biting lightly at his Adam's apple and down, biting much harder at his collarbone. Pete groaned in a high, ragged tone that he would've been embarrassed about if he were with anyone else. He was so caught up in trying to recreate the perfect moment of friction that they'd had a moment earlier that he missed some of what Patrick was mumbling between the wet trail of kisses traveling across his collarbone and chest.

Patrick looked up to Pete, and Pete knew he'd missed something, but he didn't know what. His confusion must have been evident on his face, and the next moment he was yelling and arching up off the bed as Patrick bit down on his nipple.

"Ow, fuck, ow, what," Pete said, frustration building.

"Relax," Patrick said. He rubbed soothing circles around Pete's nipple, but Pete wasn't letting himself be talked down.

"No, please, Patrick, just-" That was as far as Pete got before Patrick surged back up to meet him in a kiss, cut off abruptly and replaced with Patrick's hand heavy over Pete's throat. Pete choked a little before slowing down his breathing to match the amount of air Patrick was allowing him.

Patrick sat back up, leaning on Pete's throat with one hand and casuallly flipping the button open on his jeans with the other, tugging the zipper down until just the head of Pete's cock was visible.

"I've wondered what this would be like, you know," Patrick said in a low, breathy voice that burned itself immediately into Pete's memory. "You're even less patient than I thought." Pete tried to apologize, but Patrick's fingers curled into his throat just a tiny bit, and he could only grunt, a painful, pathetic moue.

"Don't be sorry. You're much hotter than I thought, too," Patrick said. "God, you're turning a gorgeous color."

Pete tried to beam and ended up snarling, but Patrick laughed in appreciation, so Pete figured he got the message.

"One night, when neither of us have to talk the next day, I want to do this to you for a long time, without holding back, just to keep you still while I talk to you."

Pete whimpered.

"And to be fair," Patrick rasped, sounding fucking illegal, "I won't make you hold back either, when I do this." He took his hand off Pete's throat and slid down his torso in one smooth movement. Patrick pinned him down hard with a hand on each hip, then looked up through his lashes as he opened his mouth wide over Pete's cock without quite touching it, exhaling hot over the head. Pete looked down and almost came without Patrick touching him at all.

"Oh my fucking God," Pete moaned. "This is the best day of my life."

Patrick licked his way up from the base of Pete's cock with soft, gentle kitten licks that made Pete writhe under Patrick's hold. He could feel that the strong fingers digging into his hips were going to leave bruises, and the thought made him grin like crazy.

"Up," Patrick said, tugging at Pete's jeans. "Take these off, they're probably filthy anyway."

"Wh-my jeans are filthy? Your mouth is filthy," Pete said. "Where do you come up with this stuff?"

Patrick huffed out an indulgent, amused sigh. "Pete, do you really want to talk about my inspiration?" His voice was low and hot and rough, breaking everywhere and dissolving into a harsh whisper every few syllables. He tugged at the ankle of Pete's jeans, peeling them the rest of the way off and dumping them on the floor, followed by his socks. "Or would you rather I put my mouth to better use?"

Pete took a minute to assemble the words in his head before speaking, which was a very rare occurrence when he wasn't on the record. He settled on "Yeah, please, suck me, god Patrick," which wasn't as smooth as he was hoping for but wasn't anything he thought would piss Patrick off, either. He was dizzy from the sudden over-supply of oxygen and the heavy breathing was making him light-headed, and the sweet, flushed, sweaty face of his singer, his friend, of Patrick looking up at him was not helping his goals of not coming on the spot and not passing out. He scrunched his eyes shut tight and laid tensed hands light on Patrick's shoulders.

"Do you jack off to me, Pete? To me, to my voice? Thinking about what it would be like if you could say something back?" Patrick was still looking up at him, leaning down hard on his hips and speaking with his mouth so close to Pete's cock that his lips brushed against the shaft, too gentle to be any relief at all.

"Yes," Pete said, "Jesus, you know that, I told you that." He fought against Patrick's hold, but Patrick just laid his forearm across Pete's hips and propped himself up, leaning even further away from him.

"Pete." Patrick's low, crooning voice was back in play, and Pete's dick jerked at Patrick using that voice to say his name. "I'm trying to guide you, here. I want you to tell me about it." He raised an eyebrow. "And I can't really talk right now."

Pete just barely had time to suck in a deep breath before Patrick was dipping back down to his cock, licking up the shaft and across the head.

Patrick stopped again. Pete thought he might cry. "What?"

"I'm waiting," he said, and the little fucker actually drummed his fingers along Pete's left hip a few times. "Tell me a story, Pete."

"Okay, fuck, okay, just." Pete tried to thrust up again, not really trying to break free, just trying to find some movement, some rhythm, some friction. Anything.

"I don't know when I even started," he said, gritting his teeth and closing his eyes as Patrick licked lower, down over his balls, tracing up the seam with the pointed tip of his tongue. "For years, and I tried not to, but fuck, I couldn't stop myself sometimes." He took a few seconds to gasp in some breath.

"Go on," Patrick prompted, lips pausing at the base of his dick.

"A long time back. Before Cork Tree even. You had these bedroom eyes and that mouth and you were so small and so brilliant and so gorgeous and fuck, I wanted you." He didn't wait for Patrick to stop again. He kept talking, words flying frantically out of his mouth, and he hoped they made some kind of sense to Patrick, because he could barely hear himself. He would probably be fine. He was really good at talking without thinking. It's how they got so far in the first place; that and Patrick, with his fucking ridiculous brains and voice and oh yeah, his mouth. Pete made the mistake of looking down, and his brain came dangerously close to deserting him completely.

"I would get hard during shows, during sound checks, and I'd find a bathroom or somewhere and come so fast nobody ever thought that's what was happening. If I could still hear you, sometimes I didn't even have to touch myself," Pete said, rapid-fire, as Patrick lapped at the head of Pete's cock.

"Fuck, and it never went away, it didn't, and I couldn't, but I always wanted to. Always," Pete babbled. Patrick closed his lips slowly around the head and sucked hard. "Fuck, I get so wound up. Sometimes when there's nobody around and you're warming up - if I know you have your headphones on, I'll fucking start stroking right through my jeans - so I can see you and hear you and I try not to let myself, but sometimes I can't stop even though I'm just sitting right there where anybody could see."

Patrick indicated his approval by moaning around Pete's cock.

"And I watched you get older and get fucking hotter every day, every day I wanted you more, and I watched you with girls and then I watched you with guys too, and I was so jealous-" Pete broke off into a proper yell as Patrick moaned again. "I wanted it to be okay, I wanted you to look at me like that and touch me, and I felt like the worst friend ever and now, and now, oh my God, Patrick, so fucking good."

Patrick pulled away immediately. Pete swore loud and long. "What the fuck, what are you fucking playing with me here, I'm trying to do this right but stop fucking with me, please, just-" Pete stopped mid-sentence again as Patrick grabbed his dick and leaned back up to Pete's mouth. Pete balked as Patrick kissed him; he didn't like it when girls did that to him after blowing him. But he hadn't come yet, as his dick was painfully reminding him, and Patrick just tasted faintly of Pete and faintly of himself and faintly of cinnamon, so it wasn't so bad. He didn't really have a choice, either; Patrick didn't kiss him so much as stick his tongue in Pete's mouth to shut him up.

"I'm not playing," Patrick said roughly. "I hope you're not either." Pete shook his head fervently and Patrick smiled, smug but happy underneath. He leaned in close to talk to Pete, breath and sound hitting Pete's ears all at once and making him thrust up into the tight circle of Patrick's fingers.

"I stopped because I want to fuck you," Patrick said. Pete's whole body twisted and writhed, and he bit his lip to muffle a moan. "I want you to come when I'm inside you. Can I fuck you, Pete?"

"Oh my God, please," Pete panted, hard beyond belief, his dick throbbing and wet in Patrick's hand. "I want you so bad, you have no idea."

"I have some idea," Patrick said lightly, glancing down.

"You should be naked," Pete noted.

Patrick broke into a wide smile. Pete identified it as his "Patrick is about to do something devious" grin, and congratulated himself when Patrick scrambled briefly over to one of the tiny drawers beside the bed, tossing lube and condoms and even a couple of tissues onto the bedspread before rolling away, standing up to shed his pants and boxer briefs. Pete's head fell back onto the pillow at the sight of Patrick crawling back onto the bed and shuffling forward on his knees. His eyes were half-closed and his mouth looked swollen and wet; his cock was hard, dark red against the pale, and already leaking.

Patrick swung one leg over Pete's hips, leaning back above him and palming his cock. His mouth dropped open, but when he looked back down to Pete, he bit his lip like he'd forgotten that he had an audience.

"Fucking tease," Pete told him, trying to scowl.

"You love it," Patrick shot back, taking his hand off his cock long enough to warm up a palmful of lube and slick two fingers. Pete spread his legs and bent his knees without even thinking about it, the dull ache of his muscles keeping him anchored to the moment. Patrick stopped what he was doing and said "Fucking Christ, Pete," in a torn, fucked-open voice. That wasn't just from the head he'd given Pete; that was Patrick, that was what Pete did to him, and the thought made his cock twitch strongly.

"One finger," Pete said, voice almost gone and mouth dry with lust. "One first."

"Your wish," Patrick replied automatically. Pete nodded, because yes, this was his fucking wish, and now it was Patrick's command, and then he let the metaphor go because he was otherwise engaged at the moment.

Patrick drew a slick finger down from the head of Pete's cock and over his balls, pressing gently as he moved lower and lower. He sucked in a quick breath, pursing his lips, and Pete squirmed under his touch. He wanted more, faster; he wanted to hurt from it, but he knew better when he had to play the next day. He concentrated on breathing, on relaxing, on letting Patrick push gently into him, so slowly. He moved softly against Pete, curling and extending his finger in slight, controlled movements, but Pete could feel the roughness of his skin and the strength of his hands.

"God, you're pretty," Patrick said. His voice was controlled and smooth again, but the tone didn't really matter; Pete was helpless against anything Patrick said, especially when it was dirty, and this was no exception, obviously.

"I can't wait to fuck you. I want to feel you around me, want to fuck into you and watch you, hear you. I want to know what happens to you. I never see your reaction, Pete, even when I'm doing something I know damn well will set you off."

Pete stared in shock as Patrick continued, lowering himself gradually to the mattress until he was propped up between Pete's legs. He watched Pete intently as he moved, occasionally thrusting harder and mouthing idly at Pete's cock at the same time. Pete squirmed, trying to push the head of his cock up just right and into Patrick's mouth, but Patrick just dragged his lips all the way back down, breathing out hot, wet air and keeping his mouth too far enough away to give Pete any proper friction or pressure.

"I do it on purpose sometimes. I know you like it and I want to show you what I can do to you, what I can make you do." Patrick laughed quietly. "I think I'll never stop wanting to show off for you," he said.

"Good," Pete said, when he could get his breath back and tear his mind away from the image of Patrick teasing him on purpose.

"Another one." Patrick slid his finger out, slicked up again, and shoved two fingers into him, rough and fast. It was more shocking than painful, but Pete snapped his head back and shouted. Patrick took the head of Pete's cock into his mouth and sucked; his mouth was hot and perfect, and shit, Patrick was good at this.

The thing that tipped Pete over from being putty in Patrick's hands to being a mess of liquid Pete all over the bed and floor was that Patrick was good, but he wasn't moving like he was wildly experienced. There were tiny hesitations and adjustments in the way Patrick moved his mouth around Pete's cock, timed the motion of his mouth to his hand, the curl and spread of his fingers in Pete's ass. His moves weren't practiced and choreographed and overly slick like Pete's standard set of B-level bedroom routines.

Pete's head ground back into the mattress, pillows long since knocked off the bed. Holy fuck, Patrick was still learning. Patrick was still learning, and Pete was going to see him get better at it. The roughness of it made it suddenly, achingly honest, and they weren't just fucking around anymore. Patrick was offering himself, imperfect and vulnerable and all, and the thought that maybe Pete could help mold him was all he needed to start gasping, dizzy and overcome. Patrick started sucking harder; he dragged his tongue up the underside with every stroke, pressing hard, and started moving his fingers apart, still pressed deep inside. Pete felt like he was going to come apart, like he was shaking to pieces.

"Oh, fuck, fuck," Pete moaned, twisting himself onto Patrick's hand as Patrick scissored his fingers. Patrick moaned back around Pete's dick before pulling messily off it, tilting his head up so Pete could see a smear of his own pre-come shining at the corner of Patrick's mouth.

"When you kiss me onstage," Patrick said, "sometimes I'll get off to it, days later. Weeks, even. Whenever I can. Just feeling you like that, pressed against me when I sing, all those people watching us-" and he pushed hard into Pete again, curling his fingers just right. Pete's eyes rolled back in his head.

"Now," he choked out, "holy fuck, now, come on," and propped himself up on his elbows to lean up for a kiss. Patrick obliged, swiping his tongue across Pete's mouth and biting his bottom lip. He leaned back and closed his eyes for a minute, then grabbed for the condom and more lube, wiping off his fingers on the Kleenex.

"Okay?" he asked breathlessly, lining himself up and pushing the head of his cock gently against Pete's asshole. He sounded so normal and so familiar that Pete almost whimpered with the want, the overpowering desire to feel Patrick against him, inside him, everything. Finally, he managed to nod and whisper "Go, fucking go."

They both watched Patrick push into Pete as slowly and gently as he could manage. Patrick paused after maybe an inch, but Pete shook his head stubbornly. "Keep going," he said through clenched teeth.

"Shut the fuck up," Patrick panted. "Maybe I'm just trying not to hurt you, you ingrate."

Pete groaned and dropped his head back, because fuck, of course Patrick would use a word like ingrate during sex. Nobody had ever said that to him in bed before, but probably they should have. Of course, none of them were as amazing as Patrick, so none of them had managed it yet.

"Maybe I want it to hurt," Pete said, more out of stubbornness than anything else, and clamped his mouth shut when he realized that actually, Patrick was one haphazard thrust from causing Pete a huge amount of pain he didn't really want.

"Not that much," Patrick said. His face was slowly turning a deep pink, the flush spreading to his chest. "You're so fucking tight. Holy fuck, Pete, you feel so good." He nudged his cock forward, a little deeper into Pete's ass, and his breath caught on a gasp as the muscle gave way and the head slid inside.

"Fuck me," Pete gritted out. "Come on." Once Patrick was inside, it was easier for him to start moving. He pulled back a tiny bit and thrust in gently, over and over until Pete was keening wordlessly and scratching at Patrick's waist. When Patrick bottomed out, pushing against Pete, he stilled for a moment and looked down.

"God, so good," Pete said, unable to control the tight, high tone of his voice. "I'm ready, come on, move."

Patrick smiled. "Ask me nicely." His voice was so low, so filthy, that Pete was absolutely sure he'd never hear Patrick speak again without getting hard. Pete writhed against him but couldn't get the angle, the pressure he needed.

"Go ahead, Pete. You want it, you ask me for it, and you know, your wish and all." Patrick smiled, looking impossibly almost-shy, but with enough resolve that Pete knew he wasn't getting anywhere until he gave in and did what Patrick told him to. It wasn't the worst thing he could do, to follow Patrick's orders.

"Okay," Pete said, trying to remember how to speak. "Please." He snaked one hand down to his cock, but didn't have time to get a firm grip before Patrick was rocking forward hard, grabbing Pete's wrists and pinning them beneath his own hands, strong and heavy.

"Please what," Patrick breathed. "Come on, do it right."

"Please, Patrick. Please fuck me," Pete said, his voice loud and harsh, coming in bursts and grunting in a totally unsexy way. He didn't think it mattered at this point. "Hard."

"Hard, you say." Patrick leaned down and bit Pete's bottom lip, not gently. Pete cried out, high-pitched and short and more girly than he had expected from himself - but then, he was lying there with Patrick's cock inside him, so.

"Please, now, please," Pete said when Patrick let his lip go, trying not to move, trying to stay put long enough to ask for it, since that's what Patrick seemed to want.

"You're pretty when you beg," Patrick said, grinning. "I bet that gets you in trouble a lot."

Pete made a mental note to scowl at Patrick later for that last comment, but instead he just held his breath and Patrick's gaze, willing him to move.

"Patrick," Pete said, broken and gasping, and Patrick smiled. He leaned up, pushed Pete's thighs up and apart, and began fucking him in earnest. It was hard and good and hot and would have made Pete beg for it no matter who it was, but fuck, he looked up and Patrick was right there, holding him still, fucking into him, making gorgeous bitten-back sounds, tiny grunts and cries in perfect rhythm. Pete arched his hips up, leaning into it; when Patrick's cock slid over his prostate, Pete almost swallowed his tongue.

Patrick peered down at him. His pale face was bright red, and he was dripping sweat onto Pete's stomach as Pete was pouring sweat onto the sheets. His mouth looked dark and shiny and well-fucked, and Pete stared at it until Patrick thrust again at just the right angle. He let out a strangled moan.

"There," Pete gasped, "Right there, don’t stop-" He pushed his head back into the mattress and grabbed his cock with one hand.

"Fuck, Pete, so good," Patrick said, the words gritted out between thrusts. "So hot." He dug his fingers into Pete's thighs. "Yeah, fuck, come on, do it. Come for me, wanna see you. Wanna feel you come."

"Jesus fuck," Pete grated out. His whole world had narrowed down to Patrick's voice, to Patrick's dick inside him, to his own hand and his dick and the noises they were both making.

Patrick's cock bumped his prostate every few thrusts; he bit his lip and groaned, slowing down a little and watching Pete carefully, and then Pete was gasping with every stroke, mouth open wide.

"You like it," Patrick said, and it wasn't really a question. "Tell me."

Pete whined; he couldn't really put together words. Patrick slammed into him hard and Pete moaned, unable to stop the low, needy noise.

"Oh, god, okay, fuck," Pete said, talking quickly, breathlessly. "I fucking like it, I love it, I love watching you and hearing you and fuck, I want to come for you, I want you to come inside me-"

Pete broke off with a short cry when Patrick took one hand off his thigh and covered Pete's hand with his own; he squeezed hard and Pete's own grip on his dick tightened, but he didn't slow down. Patrick guided Pete's strokes, rough and fast, and Pete came almost immediately.

Patrick kept fucking Pete as he came in hot rushes over both their hands, holding on to Pete's hand over his cock and moving in a perfect, relentless rhythm. His eyes were wide as he stared down at Pete, and as Pete's orgasm finally started to subside, Patrick started shaking above him.

"Fuck," Patrick said. He swiped his fingers through the come pooling on Pete's stomach, slowing down for a moment to bring his hand up to his mouth. He licked his fingers messily, letting Pete's come shine slick on his lips, and hummed around them. "Fuck, you feel so good, taste so good. Pete."

"Patrick," Pete said, as the thrusts became faster and more erratic. "Yes, baby, yes, come on."

Patrick's head dropped back as he shoved hard into Pete one last time. He moaned as he came, a long, clear cry that made something snap in Pete. He reached up and stroked Patrick's chest, his stomach, his waist; he could feel Patrick coming inside of him. He pushed his fingers up to Patrick's bottom lip, still smeared with come. Patrick sucked them into his mouth, making satisfied moaning noises around them, wet and sloppy and obscene.

"Fucking incredible," Pete muttered, taking his fingers away as Patrick slumped forward, his cries fading. He held still for a few moments, catching his breath as Pete tried to do the same.

"Fucking incredible," Patrick eventually agreed. He pulled out, rolling away from Pete to get rid of the condom. When he dropped back onto the bed, panting, Pete propped himself on one elbow to look at him. His hair stuck out in all directions, where it wasn't plastered to his face, and he was turning back his usual pale self, but his eyes were still dark and heavy-lidded, and his mouth looked so red and wet that it would probably be outlawed immediately if anyone else could see it. He looked wrecked, and Pete swallowed hard, half proud of himself and half in love.

"Pete," Patrick said, turning those eyes on him, smiling with that sweet mouth. "Come here."

Pete did, and Patrick leaned up for a short kiss, so restrained it was almost tender. They spent a few moments grinning at each other.

"Now, go get a washcloth so we can clean up," Patrick said. "Please."

"Oh, now who's ruining the moment?" Pete said, but Patrick had a good point. "Lazy bastard," he muttered, and went to go poke around in the bathroom until he found a washcloth, cleaning himself up a little while he was there, because wow, he'd kind of forgotten, but gay sex was really messy. He brought another washcloth back for Patrick, who was still spread out on the bed, breathing deeply.

"Fuck, I wish I smoked," he said, voice half-breath and sweet, quiet as he kept his breathing slow.

"If you want to suck on something," Pete said, waggling his eyebrows. "Where did you learn to suck cock like that anyway?"

"Your mom taught me," Patrick said, groaning a little as he sat up. "Gimme that." He grabbed the washcloth from Pete and cleaned off carefully.

"I have to know," Pete said. "How did you get Jon Walker to hold our friends hostage?"

"What can I tell you? I'm a sneaky motherfucker." Patrick smirked and tossed the washcloth back at Pete, who jumped out of its way and then retrieved it delicately from the floor in the doorway. "Plus you know he lost that bet about Spencer."

Pete slowed to a halt in the doorway, goggling at Patrick. He knew he was making a stupid face, but he could not bring himself to care.

"What bet?"

"The bet that I could get him off in twenty minutes, Pete. You didn't hear the end, though, did you? You missed me telling him that he owed me, and how you can't settle a bet with just cash?"

"Oh," said Pete. "A bet." He dropped the washcloth in the bathroom and just barely managed not to gasp out loud.

"Jesus, Patrick, that was a bet?"

"Well, whatever, Ryan's done worse," Patrick said, totally unruffled.

"No, but - you can just turn it on, on command?" Pete's voice dried up to a squeak.

"Oh, I was on," Patrick said, raising an eyebrow. "Apparently so on you had to evacuate early?"

"It's a miracle I made it off the bus," Pete said weakly. "Andy's bed was looking damn good for a minute there. How did Spencer get so lucky, anyway? Can I lose that bet?" Pete grinned so wide it hurt, pausing at the foot of the bed and letting Patrick look him up and down.

"It involved trashing me on TV," Patrick said. "Spencer was lucky, but I don't suggest you try it. It won't work out at all well." The corner of his mouth slid up into a small, wry smile.

"You should come here, instead," said Patrick, still nailing him with that stare, stretching out a hand like he could magically reach Pete and pull him back down.

Pete nodded and crawled back into the bed, dragging the sheet back up from where it had been kicked into a twisted knot and covering them both.

Patrick batted at the sheet, shaking his head. "Too hot," he said.

"Come on," Pete said, "I don't want you falling asleep without a blanket. Your muscles will lock up when you start to get cold." He covered a grumbling Patrick and curled up against his side, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

"Next time we do this, can it be in an actual building?" Patrick asked.

"We can do this in the lobby of the Sears fucking Tower if you want," Pete mumbled, his face half-squished into Patrick's chest. "But next time I really, really want to fuck you."

"Oh my God, yes," Patrick said, laughing. "Me too."

Pete smiled. "Later."

"You know what would be fun?" Patrick said. Pete could hear the grin in his voice. "If you called me before I recorded vocals in the studio."

"How about you blow me before you record?" Pete said. "It makes you sound all fucked-out and hot."

"How about we call Ashlee while I blow you?"

Pete's brain tripped over itself and he made a small, strangled noise.

"No, really," Patrick said evenly, rubbing his thumb along Pete's neck. "She sent me an email with her requests."

"Her requests? I didn't get an email," Pete said. "What email?"

"She'd really like to be on the phone when I go down on you."

"Um," Pete said.

"If it's not too weird, she said. For you." Patrick's voice sounded suspiciously bright. Gleeful, even. Pete started to suspect he was in kind of over his head, though not in a bad way.

"I don't know, Patrick," he said. "You're the one with all the mojo on the phone."

"Yeah, but you're the words guy," Patrick said, smiling cruelly and working a hand through Pete's hair. "You'll think of something to say."

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(Seriously, you guys: made-of-win fanmix by 26days. What are you waiting for?)