Fic: Sounds Like
Title: Sounds Like
Gabe/Patrick; NC-17 (Yay me!); ~10,500 words *facepalm*
Author:
thejumpcut
Warning: Porn with lots and lots of swearing. No, I mean it. And some fluff at the end. *facepalm*
Beta:
in_decisions, of course! Any remaining suck is all mine.
Disclaimer: This is a work of pornfiction. If you got here by googling yourself/someone you know, don't read this, it'll weird you out. (If it doesn't, awesome, leave your personal requests in the comments and I'll write them up for you.)
This is my first non-PG anything, ever, so I'm kind of nervous - but hey look, porn! Cross-posted, so sorry if this pops up more than once.
Summary: Gabe/Patrick studio hijinks. I have a serious voice!kink, and it's disappointing how often heavy breathing totally precludes dirty talking. So I took my two favorite singers and put them in a soundproof room. What?
"Honest to God," Gabe says, "You're some kind of crazy genius. The Mad Doctor Patrick Stump."
Patrick looks uncomfortable and kind of shifty. He stabs mercilessly at the huge digital console, trying to isolate which one of the four keyboard tracks is causing that high-frequency ring when the bass is cranked.
"You even look like a mad scientist," Gabe says, eyes bright and face eager. "Like, like--" --he raises his hands to the sky-- "--it's aliiive! You know?"
"I do what I can," Patrick mutters. Gabe had been all languid and slouchy for most of the day, but now that it's down to just the two of them and the finishing touches are really coming together on Pleasure Ryland, he's all kinds of animated. Gleeful, even. Patrick likes glee - he's a happy guy, or he tries to be - but Gabe is big and has a ridiculous reach, more like a wingspan, and he sometimes gets overexcited, like a little kid. Of course, he's pleased at the compliments, but it's not like Gabe has ever been stingy with the love. Patrick feels a little guilty at that, and smiles shyly at Gabe. He doesn't mean to be so grumpy. He just figures someone's got to be in charge of this gang of lunatics (okay, in charge of Gabe, his brain amends), and Vicky can't do all the work, all the time.
"Serious, dude," Gabe says and rolls his chair forward until he's close enough to throw his arms around Patrick's decidedly stockier frame, chairs crashing together with a terrific plastic smash. Patrick's hat is squished precariously to the side, and he attempts to reach up and right it, but his elbows are pinned to his torso.
"Gabe," he warns, trying not to snap and failing. "Thank you, I mean, but."
"Oh - oh, shit, dog, sorry," Gabe says, rolling back a little and fixing Patrick's hat for him. It ends up a little askew and Patrick tugs it back to its rightful resting place, while Gabe helps by sort of petting Patrick's hair and neck.
"Hey," Patrick says, "I'm not actually a dog."
"Oh. I." Patrick can see hurt in Gabe's eyes for a second, and fuck, it feels like he's kicked a puppy. How anyone could hurt Gabe on purpose is so beyond him, yet here he is doing it himself, and he's such an asshole.
Gabe wrestles with the hurt, but it only takes a moment, and then he's all cheer and gregarious affection again; he's just a little more careful, a little more reserved.
"Hey, no," he says, regret thick in his voice, "dogs make shitty mad scientists, right?" He knocks his knuckles against Patrick's arm, like Patrick is too fragile for a proper punch. That's bullshit and Gabe knows it; he's never had any reservations about just plowing right into Patrick, right through him. Patrick can replay a whole montage of Gabe knocking him over, pushing him down onto the sofa, picking him up, tackling him through doorways and over couches and out of frame. He's pretty sure he remembers every single time he's ever made physical contact with Gabe, and it happens a lot.
"Gabe," Patrick says, like if he were in a Lifetime TV chick flick he'd be all reaching one hand forlornly out to his, uh, his, uh, to Gabe. "Yo. Saporta. Over here."
Gabe picks his head up, looking just like a puppy, and Patrick stifles the urge to snort. "C'mere," he says, motioning Gabe closer to the board, actually reaching out one hand and grabbing Gabe's wrist. He braces himself against the board so Gabe just has to pull himself forward. Rolling chairs are one of Patrick's favorite perks of working in a proper studio.
Gabe's wrist is skinny - Patrick's fingers reach almost all the way around it, and he's not even really trying. He yanks himself happily towards Patrick, using his toes as brakes to skid to a halt just short of crashing into him again. Patrick feels like a dick, again, for making Gabe feel bad about his natural exuberance, which he clearly can't help, and which is so endearing it makes Gabe too fucking charming for his own good.
Patrick's very slow to let go of Gabe's wrist, and Gabe's slow to take his hand away. Patrick smiles at Gabe, and it's not his usual polite, nice-guy smile. It's his inviting, sly smile, the one he keeps on reserve for when he wants to jolt people just a little bit, and fuck, does it ever work. Gabe sucks in air like he's shoplifting it, frantic and quiet. His eyes are wide and Patrick kind of aches a little bit at how open his face is. For all his ridiculous posturing, Gabe is truly terrible at putting up a front.
Gabe keeps looking expectantly at Patrick, leaning forward breathing fast, and Patrick tries not to blush. Instead, he winks and starts the playback.
Gabe's voice, still effects-laden and heavy and isolated from all but one atmospheric keyboard track, rings through the control room. The sound is rich and full even though it's high, and outside of everything else, Patrick is really, really proud of himself right here, because dammit, this sounds fucking hot and he knows it. He's done something he's really proud of, and this last bit has been all him, no engineer, no nothing, just him and Gabe in the studio being perfectionists and holding out for something superior.
Patrick lets the first round of chorus vocals come in unaccompanied, and when Gabe's vocals come back in on the second verse, he un-soloes all the relevant tracks and lets the track hit Gabe all at once. He's only half-prepared for how hard it's going to hit him, too, and he actually rocks back in his chair a little at how smooth and dark the punch is.
He looks over at Gabe, who hasn't moved an inch since Patrick winked at him. His eyes are still bright, but now they're heavier, and his lips are parted a tiny bit. He's still looking straight at Patrick, so Patrick steels himself and swivels around to face him.
"Fuck," Gabe breathes, and Patrick couldn't have steeled himself for that if he'd tried. Jesus, Gabe's voice is raw and low, and Patrick puts up brick walls in his head to prevent his impending massive humiliation.
"Fucking Christ, Stump," he says again. Patrick wills himself not to break out in goosebumps and fails. He curses his lack of willpower and his stupid pale skin. The skin on Gabe's arms is smooth and tan, and the muscles underneath shift and move it around, and okay, Patrick is really tempting fate here, so he looks back up at Gabe's face, which does him absolutely no good at all.
"It's great," Patrick says, and his voice won't cooperate, it's all scratchy and half-blown. He clears his throat and tries again. "It sounds awesome." It didn't work.
"It sounds like sex, Patrick Stump," Gabe says, but Patrick disagrees, because he'd put money and family members and Pete's honor down on the fact that nothing in the universe has ever sounded quite so much like sex as Gabe's last sentence. Then Gabe speaks again and Patrick's scrambling to keep up. "It sounds fucking smooth and beautiful and hot like the best kind of sex."
Patrick smiles. "I'm putting that quote in my press kit."
"Keep making music like sex, and I'll keep talking dirty to you," Gabe says, and Jesus, Patrick was confident in his winking skills, but Gabe drops an eyelid as smooth as he'd drop a beat, and Patrick is going to have to rethink his whole strategy. Also, Gabe's use of the phrase talking dirty seems to have shorted out important circuits in his brain, like the one that can form a coherent response, and the one that knows that fucking around with Gabe Saporta is on everybody's Top Ten list of Dumbest Things To Do, Ever, Period.
But maybe they're all thinking of that overeager puppy Gabe. This creature in the chair next to Patrick's, leaning back and spinning so their heads are close together, this isn't the same Gabe he knows. Patrick's seen glimpses of this Gabe onstage, in crowds, and there were those embarrassing few days they recorded main vocals and Patrick thought he'd never be able to move from behind the console because Gabe was nailing him with that voice/stare combo and he could barely work the controls, he was so hard; but he's never met this Gabe when they were just hanging out in the studio, never from the same side of the glass. Patrick wonders when he will lose his last shred of control over this situation and briefly considers leaving. The rest of his brain turns on the section that thought about bolting, declares to be a mutinous traitor, and tries to kill it by making it look directly into Gabe's eyes. It works.
Gabe, apparently unaware that he is both cause of and witness to the death of large parts of Patrick's brain, looks back at Patrick, and Patrick wonders how long Gabe has wanted to look at him like this. He kind of hopes it's been a long time. He kind of hopes that he's not about to do something colossally ill-advised just because he's the only person here and Gabe's having a last-call moment. Patrick is unsurprised when a moment of serious introspection reveals that he cares, but he wants Gabe so bad it doesn't matter. He curses his own weak will.
The track plays on. Gabe moves, liquid and subtle, with the beat. Patrick goggles a little at his brain's use of the word subtle to describe Gabe, and then he feels bad for taking a cheap shot, and then Patrick's having slapfights with his brain, and meanwhile Gabe is looking and sounding like sex on long, long, legs, and he's like three feet away and they're all alone and this is ridiculous. Patrick takes a deep breath and tries not to let Gabe's voice on the track join forces with Gabe's voice in real life, because he'd surely just expire from the combination of being so embarrassed and so turned on.
Patrick keeps slow, steady eye contact even though he thinks he may catch fire, and he tries his best to smirk as he pulls out what is pretty much the only stop he's got.
"The music's still playing, Gabe."
Gabe looks up.
"Shouldn't you still be talking?"
Patrick's pretty sure he the one in danger of combusting, so he's taken aback when Gabe starts breaking down before he does - taken aback and a little proud, okay, fine. Gabe's eyes get all smoky and his eyebrow raises, and the corners of his mouth twitch in a not-quite-smile. He slides one of his big, skinny hands around to the back of Patrick's neck. His hand is kind of cold, but that's not what makes Patrick hiss and hold himself still, fighting back the urge to flinch or shiver or something. It's Gabe's hand, is what, and it's curling around Patrick's neck, pinky dipping below the collar of his T-shirt, thumb coming up to rub just under his ear, directly in the spot that makes Patrick melt into a big pile of lust. He thinks stupidly for a minute that hey, he's got a whole new level of insight into the minds of the girls (and guys) that scream at Gabe's feet during shows, that propose lewd acts Patrick's never even heard of as the band heads offstage, that send shockingly revealing photos and flat-out obscene letters, never mind the emails. Okay, fine, he gets it, he'll join the fucking Church of the Cobra, or whatever the fuck; he's totally on par with every other fifteen-year-old girl on the planet right now, and he'd fucking drink the Kool-Aid if Gabe told him to, anything, anything, because fuck, Patrick's totally incapacitated and it's taking all his effort to breathe in and out, and not at the same time, and this is just from Gabe's hand.
Patrick turns towards Gabe, just a touch so he doesn't lose the glorious contact. He looks down Gabe's arm and to the rest of his body and almost has a fucking meltdown at the thought of what the rest of Gabe could do to him. Gabe's fingertips flex, just barely pressing into the back of Patrick's neck, the top of his spine.
"Why Patrick," Gabe says, and he's suddenly all eyelashes and hoarse whispers, fuck, fuck, and Patrick bites his lip hard as Gabe continues, "are you asking me to talk dirty to you?"
Patrick feels ridiculous. Ridiculous and also so hot he might actually pass out. He tries very hard not to pass out. He'd really like to get just a little further along before he passes out. Like maybe to first base.
"I'm not asking you, Saporta." Patrick lays out his pre-bedroom eyes, the ones that frighten Pete out of fucking with him too badly, and on a good day, hold the power to banish thoughts of Pete from girls' minds entirely. He's turned it on the camera once or twice, because he fucking likes feeling powerful like that, but the eyes are just an invitation, just a prelude, and Gabe, he gets that right away.
Gabe leans in, inches from Patrick's ear, pulling just a little with his hand still wrapped around the back of Patrick's neck. He brings a wave of heat and warm, wet breath puffs down Patrick's neck and across his cheek. He tries to breathe it in, mouth open, not quite gasping but not exactly pulling off relaxed at this point. Gabe's lips brush across Patrick's ear, across the hair on the side of his head, and don't quite make it to his temple before they're parting and Gabe's whispering in his ear.
"I don't talk dirty on rolling chairs. You might hurt yourself." His voice is fucking-- it's just incredible, and Patrick is seized with a totally impractical and mood-killing urge to find a microphone and just tape everything, because Gabe probably wouldn't think it was that weird and then he'd be able to jerk off to it twice a day for the rest of his life and he's pretty sure Gabe's voice could be used as a weapon if wielded properly and then Patrick thinks about what a geek he is, because fucking Gabe's not fucking talking to himself here.
Long fingers spread themselves under his collar and grab gently at his T-shirt, just below his ear, tugging a little. Gabe rises out of his chair with some kind of alien grace and leans down to Patrick's ear again. Patrick can't really see the difference, but Gabe's breath hits him from a totally different angle, streaming straight down his stretched collar and bouncing off his shoulder, and he can't help it, he arches up towards Gabe's mouth. Gabe huffs a gentle laugh into his ear and then tugs again, telling him, "Come on. Couch."
Patrick manages to stand up and not send his rolling chair flying (and really, Gabe showed some unexpectedly good sense there, because of course the chairs would end up in disaster; Patrick figures Gabe must know from practice, and then he doesn't really want to think about it any more). He resists Gabe's pull, literally, for a few seconds; leaning back and away, he gathers all his concentration and sets the track to repeat. But only once, because any more than that and it's kind of creepy, and narcissism gets involved in a way Patrick doesn't care to analyze.
Gabe laughs again. He laughs a lot, and it's rarely in a mean way. Things just please him, and that's part of what makes Patrick like him so much. Another part is the way Gabe is actually pulling him across the control room by his collar, and another part still is the slope of his hips in his tight jeans, the way he somehow manages to look so hot just by walking, the way his ass pushes out against the denim and shifts with each slow careful step... and now Patrick is staring, and Gabe is just letting him stare, and that maybe turns Patrick on even more. He tries not to shuffle behind Gabe, tries to keep step. They're not going far, so Patrick doesn't have a lot of time to let his neuroses take over before Gabe's smiling back at Patrick, tugging his collar a little further until Patrick sinks down heavily into the soft cushions of the low couch. He looks up at Gabe, overheated and half-hard, and smiles that smile again and lets his legs spread a little. Gabe makes a small noise, nothing more than a whisper, but Patrick hears it and is thankful that he hasn't lost all control over the situation.
Then Gabe folds himself onto the couch next to him, actually kneeling on the couch and sitting back on his heels and leaning way, way forward into Patrick's space, one long arm balancing him on the back of the couch behind Patrick's head and the other at the end of the couch cushions, low between Patrick's spread thighs, not actually touching him. Which is good, Patrick thinks, because when Gabe finally makes good on his promise, he needs all the help he can get to make sure he gets through more than one sentence.
"Fucking listen to that, Patrick, fucking listen to how good it sounds." Patrick doesn't groan. He maybe makes a tiny noise, but it is in no way a groan, not yet. Even though Gabe's pushing Patrick's hair out of the way, carefully tucking it up under the brim of his hat, and running the soft curve of his lower lip down the shell of Patrick's ear. "You want me to tell you what it sounds like?"
Patrick remembers how to nod.
"It sounds like sex in the dark, in the back of a club, pressed up against each other and everybody else and the speaker and the wall of the dance floor. Like fucking in public in a big crush of people grinding and not looking, not quite."
Patrick swallows. Gabe is suddenly very eloquent. Gabe's hands are also suddenly moving; the hand between Patrick's legs settles itself firmly on his thigh and squeezes. Patrick's dick responds with a twitch and Patrick does his best to keep the rest of him still, since Gabe obviously has A Plan. That and he can't think of a movement that doesn't involve falling over. Gabe's hand brushes higher, higher against the inside of his thigh and Patrick chokes out a high, sweet sound.
"Oh, God," Gabe whispers. "Oh my God, do that again."
Patrick raises an eyebrow. "Make me."
Gabe leans in and licks the spot below Patrick's ear. Patrick obliges him and makes the noise again, or something like it.
"I wasn't done," Gabe says. "I don't want you to feel like you didn't get enough audio foreplay." He runs one finger up the front of Patrick's jeans, pushing the zipper into his dick just hard enough for Patrick to stop breathing and tighten his fists at his sides, then moves his hand across Patrick and swings one of his long legs over Patrick's hips, so he's kneeling over Patrick on the couch. He rocks back a bit, leans down so his face comes into view, and pushes his face into Patrick's throat.
"It sounds like a fucking hard-on," Gabe says, lips working against Patrick's neck. He lets his tongue and teeth slide over the skin when he talks; Patrick would lose the train of the words if they weren't so raunchy, kind of unexpected even for Gabe, and if he weren't rasping them out like someone had just fucked his voice out of his throat. Patrick groans mid-sentence but bites it back, because it's rude to interrupt.
"You know when you've got it all pressed up against someone's ass, and they're just grinding back, just a little, enough so you can feel it and not enough to get you off? That's what it makes me think of," Gabe says. He takes one of his hands from the back of the couch and skims it down Patrick's chest and stomach, runs it lightly over his dick, now fully hard and straining. Patrick moans, and Gabe clutches a fistful of Patrick's shirt, on the side near the bottom. "Nothing is fucking hotter than your voice, Patrick. Nothing. Not even my voice," and Patrick quirks one side of his mouth up, knowing without seeing that Gabe is doing the same thing into his neck. Gabe's head moves up slowly. "But God, your tracks are a close fucking second, man, let me tell you."
"Thought that's what you were doing," Patrick says, but he has to really force the words out and he wonders how Gabe can still come up with this trashy dirty talk.
Gabe moves up Patrick's neck in tiny increments, until he feels Patrick start to tense; then he moves a half-inch higher, just below Patrick's ear, and his breath is loud in Patrick's ear and his hand is coming up to follow it, and Patrick is pretty sure he's going to black out, and he's pretty sure it's going to be very soon, and he hopes like hell it can wait until Gabe's done with this masterful display of gutter-flavored pillow talk. This is the best review he's ever gotten, bar none, including the time Pete stripped down and begged Patrick to fuck him on the floor of their practice room.
Fuck it. He reaches out and grabs Gabe's hip, pulls him closer, and sticks his hand in Gabe's back pocket. Gabe is folded up like a frog, and Patrick's sure it'll hurt him tomorrow, but he doesn't give a fuck right now, and neither does Gabe, who is still talking to him, because Gabe is fucking awesome.
"It sounds like sex in the summertime, in the dark, with the windows open. With the fucking door open." Gabe's tongue snakes out and sweeps a wet line behind Patrick's ear. Patrick responds by tightening his hold on Gabe's ass, which is firm and eminently hold-able, and gasping not very quietly. He's thinking that now would be a good time to kiss Gabe, and he's a little stunned by how easily he was able to move the phrase kiss Gabe from the "for extended showers only" section of his brain to the "things I should maybe do next" section.
"Patrick," Gabe pants, cool momentarily broken in favor of getting some kind of oxygen. "What do you sound like, Patrick Stump?"
"You know what I sound like," Patrick barely manages. He pulls his hand out of Gabe's back pocket and pushes up his black T-shirt, sliding his hands along yards of perfect bronzed skin. "You've heard me."
"I've heard you sing, I've heard you talk." Gabe reaches out his tongue and flicks Patrick's earlobe, and seriously, who can even do that? Patrick digs his fingers into Gabe's ribs, relishes the sound of Gabe's hiss that close to his ear. Gabe's too considerate to let the sibilance make the noise unpleasant, so it's all cold air and a heady rush of sound, and then he's talking again and Patrick has no time to recover from anything. "I want to know what you sound like when you're fucking, Patrick," says Gabe, and he bites Patrick's earlobe, hard.
Patrick groans, then, no holding back, and the sound is swallowed by the warm tones of the keys, the high keen of the vocals. Gabe hears it, though, and his whole body whips forward like a convulsion. He cries out, wordless and thin, and pushes his hips forward onto Patrick's lap. Patrick thinks about the welfare of Gabe's knees and moves forwards on the couch so that Gabe can get both knees firmly planted around him. If this brings them even closer together, Patrick thinks, it's like a bonus he gets for making sure that Gabe can walk away from this. But not, Patrick wishes fervently, until they are both very, very done. Possibly sometime next week, because there is a lot of Gabe suddenly writhing in his actual lap, and Patrick likes to be thorough.
"Hi," Gabe grins, his happy-go-lucky clowning-around face returning for one second and scaring the shit out of Patrick, who suffers a terrible conviction that this is just a joke, that Gabe is going to get up and leave him here. He's going to laugh and say something stupid about mad scientists or dogs or who the fuck knows what, and call "punchbuggy" or "jinx" or something cryptic that really means "I made you look dumb and I don't really like you," and he'll probably pop Patrick in the arm, and walk away. He's going to leave Patrick sitting here hard as fuck on this stupid studio couch, and Patrick will just explode from want, and oh hell no, no fucking way. Patrick reaches out blindly with both hands, grabbing Gabe's thigh with his left hand and yanking a handful of T-shirt with his right, vaguely tugging it off but also trying to pull it toward him so that Gabe is absolutely not able to be dumb about this. Patrick didn't wait six months until the writing and production was done for nothing, and huh, apparently he's wanted to fuck Gabe Saporta for six months. He should really be more honest with himself, he thinks; he's having a lot more fun already.
Gabe does laugh a little, but it's kind of ruined when Patrick grabs his thigh. It's not like he wasn't actually in Patrick's lap anyway, and he's not sure how he finally managed that without Patrick scowling and dumping him on the floor, but he's not going fucking anywhere any time soon, and then Patrick's deceptively strong upper arm is pulling Gabe forward and his other, equally deceptively strong upper arm is trying to tear his favorite non-obnoxious T-shirt off. Which is hot, Gabe's not kidding himself, but there's a time and a place, and Gabe's pretty sure the time is not now and the place is not here. Either way, he's sliding forward smack into Patrick's lap whether he likes it or not. He manages to roll his hips as he goes so it's not totally awkward and lame, and then he can feel Patrick's dick, and only realizes when his own hard-on breaks the pleasure/pain barrier in his stupid tight stupid fucking jeans that he's kind of in Patrick Stump's lap and they're both crazy hard and panting and talking like each other's dirtiest wet dreams. And not only are they both fully clothed, but he hasn't even bothered to kiss Patrick's holy fucking Christ luscious cocksucking mouth because he's been too busy running off his own. The other thing he realizes is that if he doesn't move things along soon, his T-shirt is going to be in serious peril, and his dick is going to be in a world of hurt or he's going to come in his stupid tight stupid fucking jeans. Or both. All three. What the fuck ever, Patrick Stump.
"Okay," Gabe says, "okay. I'm not going fucking anywhere, Patrick," and he rolls his hips properly, and Patrick can't do anything but whimper. He doesn't think it's that hot, but the noise Gabe makes in return is more than enough reward. Patrick can feel Gabe actually straining not to just grind down on him and marvels at Gabe's self-control. He should just resign himself to looking lame and desperate and let Gabe laugh at him forever if he wants to, let him laugh in fucking print if he wants to. Patrick doesn't care if Gabe's lying, he's come this far, and doing this, he knows in theory, is bad, but not doing it is going to be worse. Much worse, and it might also cause him to explode.
"Patrick," Gabe says again, like he's forgotten how to say anything else. Patrick reciprocates and roughs Gabe's name out into the heavy air of the suddenly quiet control room, and Gabe moans quick and high. Patrick feels a little better about this whole thing, but his right hand, which still has a handful of T-shirt, reminds him that there's work to be done. He desperately wants to wrench Gabe's shirt off, but he figures it would be rude to start shedding clothing before they've kissed. A part of his brain - one of the few surviving contingents - says that it's Gabe, it's not like normal rules apply, but he thinks that's probably rude, and besides, he tells the whiny voice that wants skin now , Gabe's mouth bears some investigation, right?
Patrick's delicate and considerate internal debate is rendered beautifully pointless when Gabe reaches down and frees Patrick's hand of its clutch of T-shirt, raises their hands to his mouth, and licks the inside of Patrick's wrist. Patrick moans again and exercises a tremendous amount of willpower not to thrust up into Gabe as hard as he can, and he's rewarded immediately as Gabe whips his own shirt off and drops it carelessly onto the floor behind him. He grabs Gabe's shoulder and his other hand scrapes his short fingernails across a nipple. Gabe gasps, voiceless, and Patrick rocks up into him just a little. He leans up, leans forward, because he wants to feel what that gorgeous length of torso feels like pressed against him, and then thinks, huh, I guess now would be a good time for some proper kissing. Actually, he suspects that were he a nicer boy, he'd have gotten round to the kissing much earlier, like maybe after the dinner that he also didn't get around to, but this time when his brain pipes up all "But it's Gabe," he doesn't disagree. He just leans up as far as he can and kisses Gabe's collarbone, biting at the broad planes of muscle in his shoulders and hearing Gabe just lose it.
"Fucking-- God, holy fucking shit, you're so -- so fucking hot, Christ, you-- I just--" Gabe takes a breath and Patrick takes the opportunity to lick straight up to his neck, grinning and leaving a wet glistening stripe along Gabe's fucking perfect skin.
"I want you so bad," Gabe chokes out. "Jesus, you-- so bad. You don't know."
Patrick grabs the back of Gabe's head and straightens up while he pulls down so they can meet each other halfway. "Tell me," he says in a deep rough voice that he only pulls out on very special occasions. Then he sabotages Gabe's attempts to form a sentence by kissing him.
Neither of them bother with any of this tentative press of lips bullshit; Patrick's mouth meets Gabe's, and Gabe opens for him like a reflex. He's still trying to tell Patrick how bad he wants him-- Patrick finds that oddly charming, that Gabe's trying to answer him even though it's obviously just an extra credit question. He's also totally captivated by the way Gabe's apparently able to move his hips independently of the rest of his body, and how Gabe's lining up their hard cocks so that if either of them attempt to move they both have to still themselves and breathe so they don't end up just rutting up against each other and finishing things off in under a minute. Gabe is maybe way smoother than Patrick even imagined, which is kind of a bewildering thought. Patrick stops any and all thought processes by forcing his tongue into Gabe's mouth. Needless to say, distractions cease to be.
Gabe is vocal and appreciative, and his mouth is hot and wet and all the things Patrick thought his mouth would be. He tastes a little like stale coffee and a little like Rocket candies and a little like cigarette smoke, and Patrick doesn't even care what he tastes like, because oh God he feels like--
"You feel like sin, you know that?" he murmurs into Gabe's open mouth. Gabe whimpers (and the teenage-boy part of Patrick's brain celebrates a little at being able to reduce The Supposedly Great Gabe Saporta to a folded whimpering mess within minutes. Or maybe hours, or maybe seconds, but that part doesn't matter because the studio is block-booked for the next week and a half, and Patrick always locks the door when he's in session) and bites Patrick's lower lip.
"You sound like Wentz," Gabe teases, grinning a mile wide.
"You like it," Patrick surmises. Gabe presses his whole body down into Patrick's, and Patrick forgets what they were talking about in the first place and grabs what he can of Gabe's hair. He realizes that this whole time, Gabe hasn't made any fuss about treating Patrick delicately or being overly cautious, and yet he's managed not to dislodge Patrick's hat or even gesture towards Patrick taking off his shirt. Patrick melts a little into the kiss even as he curses himself for being such a girl about things, really, what is wrong with him? He's a little more forceful as he presses his face forwards into Gabe's, kind of tongue-first. It pays off; Gabe does something practiced and crafty and then he's sucking on Patrick's tongue. Patrick reaches down and palms Gabe's cock with the hand that's not pulling on Gabe's hair, and he's making noises that, if he's going to be totally honest, are so obscene he's even turning himself on a little. Gabe is as hard as he is, and he must be so fucking uncomfortable inside those crazy tight jeans. Patrick should really help him with that, but he takes another moment to appreciate the feel of Gabe's hard cock in the hollow of his palm. He runs his fingers roughly along its length and gets a cold thrill when he feels it, feels Gabe, twitching under his hand.
Gabe breaks away and Patrick feels another wave of insecurity approaching when Gabe's legs start unwrapping themselves, and he can't help sort of throwing his hips back into Gabe's before they pull away. Gabe takes a moment to reassure him, not with words but by grabbing Patrick's hips hard with both hands, and oh fuck Patrick doesn't care if Gabe leaves bruises, he hopes Gabe leaves him fucking bruises -- and then Gabe grinds himself down onto Patrick's cock, rough and uncaring, once, twice, and then backs off, panting.
"I-- will never. Answer you. If you keep. Being so fucking hot," Gabe pants, untangling his legs from Patrick and sliding down beside him on the couch instead. "Christ al-fucking-mighty. You. I want you. Since I watched you open your gorgeous cocksucking mouth to yell at me I wanted you, fuck, so bad." Patrick leans into him and rubs his thumb over Gabe's nipple to watch him try to answer even as he jumps and hisses. "I-- you were--"
"Don't bother," Patrick says. "Don't tell me. Fucking show me, God, Gabe, don't stop fucking touching me." He leans further over, grabs at the button of Gabe's jeans, tries to get them undone, and then Gabe is groaning and undoing them himself, and Patrick's plans to finally take some control of the situation totally evaporate as Gabe shoves his own hand into his boxers at the same time he eases himself down to the slippery laminate of the studio floor, a hand on each of Patrick's knees.
Control, Patrick decides, is overrated. Then Gabe grabs one of Patrick's hands, which are kind of flailing around uselessly, and guides it to the back of his head, and Patrick has to revise his decision, again, which is hard to do with Gabe's hands reaching for his belt. He kind of expects Gabe to be an expert at this part and is definitely kind of relieved when Gabe's fingers shake too badly to be of use. Gabe rocks back onto his heels and drags his nails down Patrick's thighs, and Patrick almost chokes on his own tongue when he looks down at maybe the best pre-blowjob face he's ever seen or imagined in his life. His eyes are all dark and just covered in lashes, and even Gabe fucking Saporta looks fucking coy when he's looking up from between Patrick's knees, and his mouth is open and wet and his lips are all dark red and sucked and bitten to filthy perfection, and he's got a red bruise coming up just above his collarbone where Patrick was sucking on him just a minute ago, and God. Patrick wants to freeze time and look at Gabe fucking begging with his eyes to suck Patrick's dick almost as badly as he wants Gabe to fucking blow him already.
On reflection, Patrick opts for the latter, and leans down so he's face-to-face with Gabe, hands on his belt.
"Want some help?" he purrs. Oh yeah, he's purring and he knows it. Patrick doesn't generally do this on purpose, but apparently Gabe and his reactions inspire him to really go the extra mile and reach for new lows of debauchery. It's a great idea and he plans to make the most of it, possibly for as long as he and Gabe know each other.
Gabe goes to kiss Patrick again, hands snaking back to his jeans, alternating between frantically pressing against his cock, and pawing ineffectually at Patrick's hands and belt. Patrick doesn't just draw back, he's not that mean; he licks across Gabe's bottom lip first, but then he moves back just enough for Gabe to know not to chase him, and looks back down at the spectacular display of sex that Gabe has managed to put together using only, like, a quarter of his ridiculously tall body. Gabe can be very distracting, but Patrick can be a fucking mean, power-hungry bastard when he wants to be, and fuck yes, he wants, and he's pretty sure Gabe wants too. If Gabe didn't want, he would've just put Patrick where he wanted him like an action figure way before they got here, and Patrick would have gone with that too, but he wouldn't have this simmering smugness that made everything just that little bit better.
"Yes, yes, fucking-- get your fucking pants off." Gabe is too turned on to be properly frustrated, and too intent to be properly turned on. Patrick doesn't intend to make him wait long.
"What do you want, Gabe?" He looks at Gabe beneath him and can't believe he's stopping to ask, but then Gabe's answering him in this low, sweet murmur, and fuck, he's so glad he asked.
"I want to blow you, you lucky son of a bitch." He tugs at Patrick's belt again. "I'm not going to beg you, if that's what you're after, but God, I want to suck you off." Patrick leans back on the couch for a minute to try to screw his head back on. He grabs one of Gabe's relentless hands in his own and squeezes it.
"You don't have to fucking beg me. I just wanted to hear you say it." He releases Gabe's hand and undoes his belt, hesitating a second before just pulling it off completely, and thumbing open the button of his jeans, fucking finally.
"I've done enough talking," Gabe says. "Let's hear you try to fucking say something coherent, asshole," but he's smiling as Patrick slouches forward and batting away his hands. Patrick tries to get his fly down at least, but he should know better than to interfere when Gabe's got Big Ideas, since the second he gives up and leans back a little Gabe's head is right fucking there between his legs and good God, the man can't undo a belt with both of his hands but he can pull down Patrick's zipper with his teeth?
Patrick wills himself not to grab Gabe's hair. He waits until Gabe's done with his newest parlor trick and then pushes up on his hands so Gabe can pull his jeans and boxers down off his hips, toeing off his sneakers and socks, because what the fuck, Gabe's going to blow him on the client couch in the studio, the least he can do is get his damn jeans out of the way. He just grabs two handfuls of couch cushion and tries not to think about the fact that he has arms at all, and then Gabe is sort of leaning halfway up, kissing his chest and in a brief trail down his stomach. Patrick really concentrates intently on not bucking up into Gabe's face when he feels warm breath ghosting down over his cock, and then really concentrates even more intently on it when Gabe rests a hand lightly on the inside of his thigh, pushing his legs open a little wider, and licks his way up the underside and around the head.
Patrick doesn't even bother trying to say anything coherent. He moans and he yells, and he whimpers, and eventually he manages to bite out a sentence that resembles "I didn't make you beg, you unholy bastard, God please," and Gabe draws back, letting the air hit Patrick's dick, wet and shining with spit. Patrick forgets how to breathe but apparently remembers how to growl Gabe's name, and then Gabe reaches up and fists his cock with one hand and digs his fingers into the muscles of Patrick's thigh with the other, and takes the head into his mouth, sucking hard and fast and fucking perfect. Patrick manages a few passes at Gabe's name and abandons all attempts to keep talking when Gabe starts moaning around his cock. He looks down at Gabe's lips wrapped around him and Gabe's eyes staring steady at his face and Gabe's hand moving fast and rough over his own boxers and then he can't look at anything for a minute because he never wants this to end, and his hips and his hands are screaming to grab Gabe and fuck up into his mouth and come down his throat, which he absolutely will not do, because even in this extreme state he knows he doesn't want to make excuses for Gabe's rasping fucked-out voice tomorrow and have to hide his hard-on all day. He lingers on this thought for a second - the unappealing, embarrassing business side of it - and manages not to come right away. He wants to, he wants to come so fucking bad it hurts, but he wants to watch Gabe do this for just another minute.
He looks down when Gabe pulls off and wipes his spit-streaked mouth on the back of his hand, and that's almost too much for him right there.
"Holy fuck," Gabe says, "Patrick, motherfuck," and he takes his own hand out of his pants with a visible effort.
Patrick doesn't whine, not exactly, but he makes his dissent clear. Gabe grabs his cock so roughly it's almost painful and grabs his T-shirt with his other hand, pulling Patrick down towards him, just where they were before Patrick even undid his jeans, and Patrick is filled with massive and instant regret for every second he spent being a cruel and awful tease and he's about to promise Gabe diamonds and sneakers and platinum fucking records for one more lick, because seriously, he's that close, and Gabe's that good.
"Hey," Gabe says, and Patrick snaps right back to Gabe's gorgeous face. Gabe's thumb comes up over the head of Patrick's cock, swirls around the tip a few times where Patrick's leaking and covered in spit and it's the hottest thing Patrick has ever seen or felt in his life, and he forgets all about Gabe's gorgeous face until Gabe brings his hand up to his mouth and licks his thumb clean with broad swipes of his tongue. Patrick had always thought that the whole sucking-on-fingers thing was supposed to come before the blowjobs, but oh God he was so very wrong, and he thanks Gabe for showing him the error of his ways, or at least he hopes he remembers to thank him later when he can talk again.
Gabe bares his teeth and scrapes them over the ball of his thumb and Patrick moans "Fuck, oh my God, Gabe," loud and low and full. He clutches at the cushions again, but he can't quite look away, and when Gabe finishes biting and sucking on his thumb, he returns it to Patrick's cock, and Patrick fucking jumps inside his skin, which is too tight and feels like it might just tear open everywhere at any moment.
"Hey," Gabe says again, and Patrick thinks about threatening violence if Gabe doesn't put his mouth back to use right the fuck now, but decides that can only end badly. Apparently Gabe sees fit to reward him for his restraint, because he leans up to whisper in Patrick's ear, and his voice sounds like fucking (and Patrick really gets it now, he thought he had it before but now he knows in full, clear surround sound).
"You should come in my mouth," Gabe says, and his voice is this breathy husk of its usual self, and then he bites down on Patrick's neck, on the sweet spot right below his ear, and sucks hard enough to leave his mark on Patrick where everyone will see it, and all Patrick can do is gasp out Gabe's name and gasp in air, over and over. Gabe pushes Patrick away before he's done sucking, so Patrick hits the back of the couch and Gabe's mouth comes off with a wet, sloppy noise that Patrick will get hard thinking about for the rest of his life. Before Patrick's even done thinking that part, Gabe's lips are wrapped around his cock and his fingers are moving fast at the base and stretching to stroke and knead his balls, and Christ, Patrick thought he was thorough. He guesses Gabe's other hand is back down his pants, but he doesn't know and doesn't care, because Gabe's moving fast and hard and messy, and his mouth is tight and wet. He pulls up, sucking hard, and scrapes his teeth, smooth and sharp, over the head. Patrick stutters out another flurry of fuck and Gabe, and Gabe pushes back down around his cock. He takes his hand off his own dick and shoves Patrick's hips down to the couch to hold him there, and fuck, Patrick's going to come-- in Gabe's fucking mouth, Jesus. He groans out some kind of warning, and Gabe takes it as an invitation to press two knuckles up and behind his balls as they tighten and moan around his cock at the same time, and when he comes it's perfect and it fucking rips him apart. Gabe keeps his hand moving and he works his tongue and shoves down just a touch too far so that Patrick can feel him swallowing. Patrick does Gabe the courtesy of not being quiet about it, moaning and growling and gasping as he shoots down Gabe's fucking throat and Gabe does his best to suck him dry. He relents a little but keeps going gently as Patrick's whole body trembles with actual aftershocks for the first time in years, and Patrick hisses in air when he starts to soften, finally, and Gabe pulls off him with another gorgeous, messy popping sound.
There's a moment where Patrick can't think or talk or do anything but stare at Gabe's mouth as he kneels on the floor panting like he's going to pass out, and then he sort of slides back into consciousness and leans over to grab Gabe's free hand, the one that's not absently stroking himself, still through his boxers. Gabe looks up and smiles wickedly. Patrick pauses to appreciate it, and then tugs on Gabe's hand. "Come up here. Christ." His voice is ragged and intense, and he gets that it's hot, but Gabe is the best audience ever. He breathes heavy through his mouth and squeezes down on his dick, and then he's pulling himself up onto the couch next to Patrick and sighing, "Patrick, your voice, Jesus, your--"
This time it's Patrick who moans, because seriously, his voice? Gabe's draped across the couch, naked to the waist and so hard there's a dark wet spot at the front of his boxers, covered in sweat and hickeys, looking and sounding like the phrase "well-fucked" just came to life. And Patrick's voice is the focal point of this exercise?
On impulse, Patrick leans into Gabe's neck and growls, "What about my fucking voice?" Gabe's cock twitches hard and his whole body jitters a little bit and he rolls in and bites Patrick's shoulder as he groans, and okay, Patrick thinks that's a pretty good answer. Patrick lifts Gabe's head from his shoulder and kisses that gifted, swollen, dirty, beautiful mouth, licking the taste of himself from Gabe; it's sharp against the salt of sweat and Patrick wonders how anyone could think that that wasn't just achingly sexy, tasting your own come on someone else's tongue and licking it out of their mouth. Gabe moves his hand back to his boxers, but Patrick grabs it and stills him, tugging down on the waistband and at the top of his jeans.
Gabe nods a little and takes a deep breath, then licks his lips and holds it as he gingerly pushes down his own jeans. Patrick voices his appreciation as Gabe's cock bobs into view, followed by a flash of Gabe's ass, and then he needs a moment to stare at the stunning, full-on view of Gabe naked and flushed and palming his cock. Patrick pushes on Gabe's chest until he's lying on his back; there's enough room for Patrick to slip partway between Gabe and the back of the couch and prop himself up so his face hovers into Gabe's vision. He licks a drop of sweat from the hollow of Gabe's throat. He reaches down and pulls Gabe's hand away from his dick, and Gabe keens in this stunning hollow tone that makes Patrick gasp. He watches as Gabe reacts to the noise like it's an electric current.
"No begging, Patrick, remember?" Gabe breathes. "Don't be selfish. And don't be quiet." Patrick grins and bites at Gabe's throat, keeping his hand pinned to the couch. Gabe doesn't move his other hand; he just breathes and whines and arches his taut body, skin burning against Patrick's, and God, he's so beautiful and so close, Patrick wants to watch him finish himself off so badly, but he can't just sit back and watch, he has to touch. When he starts to talk again, he watches the muscles in Gabe's stomach tense and tighten.
"No begging?" Patrick takes his hand from Gabe's wrist and licks his own palm, noisy and wet and showy. "I was going to beg you a little, Saporta, honestly, but it's up to you." He shrugs. Gabe's hand flies to Patrick's shoulder and Patrick can feel where his fingertips are going to leave little half-bruises.
"You can beg me," he tells Patrick, roughly and very quickly. "Fucking beg me, Patrick, make me come with your voice."
"I want to touch you, Gabe," Patrick says, and his voice won't quite kick in, so it's a hard whisper when it hits Gabe, who's already moaning under him. Patrick is not actually above begging, and anyway, this is the really fun kind. "I want to lick the sweat off your chest and I want to see what happens when I bite your nipples and your hips and the top of your ass, and I want your hard cock in my hand so I can feel it throbbing against my fingers, and I want to hear you saying my fucking name when I make you come so hard you don't know how to say anything else."
Gabe's eyes are closed. Patrick puts a firm hand to Gabe's jaw and guides Gabe's face to his. "Look at me." Gabe opens his eyes and Patrick looks straight into them and keeps talking. "Please let me get you off. I want to make you come so bad, I want to watch you and hear you and I have to touch you, you're so hot it melts my hands and it burns out my brain. Please. Please."
Gabe stabs out a sharp cry. "Oh God, Patrick, get me off, I'm so close."
Patrick slicks his fingers down Gabe's chest and skids them down the trail of hair leading from his navel to his dick. He circles the base of Gabe's cock tight with his thumb and his middle finger and squeezes it, but doesn't move yet, because he's not done talking.
"I bet I could make you come without even touching you, just from talking to you. Do you think I could?"
Gabe nods madly. "Yes, of course you could, but don't - please - I need," and Patrick shushes him a little, leaning in to suck on his lower lip.
"I'm not going to," he says, "not now. But maybe some other time," and Gabe shouts out an "Oh" that makes Patrick's cock twitch again. He's not going to get hard again right now, but obviously Gabe's pushing him to his limits here, so he growls a little and tries to return the favor, holding tight around Gabe, watching him closely for signs that he's starting to hurt more than he's enjoying it, which he seems to be doing immensely.
"Breathe for me." Gabe hyperventilates. "No. Breathe deep for me." Patrick leans down and licks at Gabe's nipple, humming appreciatively as Gabe shudders out a long exhale. "Good." He lets go of Gabe's cock, making soothing noises when he gasps and stutters and starts to plead, and licks his hand once more before he reaches down and wraps it around Gabe's shaft, stroking him hard and slow, using his body weight to pin Gabe's hips down.
"There are so many things I want to do with you," Patrick grates out, and his voice runs thick and hot like blood. "We're not fucking finished with this yet, Saporta, you know that." It's not a question, but Gabe nods anyway and another high shout bursts from his mouth that Patrick takes as agreement.
"God, your mouth, your fucking mouth on my cock, you're so good at sucking cock," Patrick whispers urgently, and moves his hand faster, not letting up. "You're so hot on your fucking knees."
Gabe whines and twists and Patrick leans in to kiss him with absolutely no thought of decency or kindness, dripping sweat into his mouth and breathing heavy. He presses his thumb up just under the head of Gabe's cock and bites Gabe's tongue, and Gabe yells into his mouth. Patrick pulls his mouth away and goes back to talking into his neck and jacking Gabe fast and hard.
"Next time maybe I'll suck you, would you like that? God, Gabe, I bet you'd fucking love to shoot on my face, come all over my mouth. Christ, you're so gorgeous, I could watch you forever." Patrick gasps and lets Gabe's hips go, and he fucks up into Patrick's hand, fast and erratic, and the noises of Patrick's wet hand on Gabe's cock are loud and dirty and perfect.
"Patrick," Gabe chokes out, "Patrick--"
"Gabe," Patrick says, "Come for me, let me watch you come, I want to see you," and he's speeding up one last time and licking at Gabe's neck and jaw and mouth. Gabe tenses up and groans heavy and low and comes in hot rushes over Patrick's hand, over his own stomach, shining with sweat and twitching with the force of it, and he grabs Patrick by the neck and crushes him into a deep kiss. Patrick keeps stroking Gabe, swallowing his short cries and moans and going just a little slower, and his hand is sticky and wet with come. Gabe's whole body twitches strongly when Patrick dips his head down and licks sweat and come and spit from Gabe's cock and his own fingers, and Gabe is shaking when Patrick comes up to kiss him again. He pushes back into Gabe's mouth and Gabe sucks the taste from his tongue. The groan that follows when Patrick breaks the kiss is that pure, sweet, unmistakable Patrick Stump tenor, and Gabe leans his head back, mouth open, and grinds his hips up one last time into Patrick's fist before he falls back into the couch, completely and utterly spent.
They lay there for a long time, Gabe clutching at Patrick's shirt, Patrick streaking come across Gabe's stomach when he throws an arm across him, both of them panting and sweating and kind of disgusting, but the studio is that warm non-temperature you get from fucking in an airtight room full of humming electronic gear, so they can disregard it for a few minutes, sharing the glorious silence and the sound of their breath. Eventually Patrick pushes himself up, and Gabe reaches up after him, but it's half-assed, and Patrick waves his hands away.
"Relax," he says, just--" and then Gabe maybe lets his eyes close for a second, and when Patrick comes back it's with a handful of Kleenex and a bottle of water that he sets on the floor, and he sits down on the edge of the couch to clean Gabe off as gingerly as he can, which doesn't stop Gabe from sucking air in through his teeth and flinching away from the contact. Patrick tosses the Kleenex at the garbage can and picks up the bottle of water, murmuring for Gabe to sit up so he can have some. Gabe does his best, and Patrick leans down and kisses him gently on the forehead before handing over the water and shoving Gabe into the back of the couch so there's room for him to lie back down.
Huh. Patrick seems to be cuddling with Gabe Saporta in a mostly naked afterglow-type situation. He should be surprised, but he doesn't have the mental capacity for reflection at the moment, so he curls into Gabe and presses a sweet kiss to his cheek. Gabe hums happily, although his voice is still kind of rough, and he looks down at Patrick with sleepy eyes.
"Patrick," Gabe mumbles. "You going to be a bitch about it?"
"About what," Patrick says into Gabe's jaw. "The part where that was awesome or the part where we have to get up soon?"
"Oh," says Gabe, and smoothes a hand down Patrick's back. "I was thinking more about the part where you come back to my apartment."
"That sounds like a great idea," says Patrick, even though at that moment he'd happily sell his limbs and/or bandmates for the privilege of not fucking moving for a day or two. "Why would I bitch?"
"Well, because I'm holding you to your word, so I plan to come on your face at least once," Gabe says happily. "And the other thing is, if I'm doing that, you'll probably want to take off your hat, sometime."
"Oh, for," Patrick sighs, and he plucks his hat from his head and lays it on the ground. "Happy?"
"I don't care," says Gabe, and Patrick is really charmed when Gabe doesn't make a big deal about it or try to kiss the top of Patrick's head and tell him he's being silly. "I just don't want you to care."
Oh, God, now Patrick's grinning like a schoolgirl. "I don't care about anything. You sucked my brain out my dick. It's a miracle I can still talk."
"Hallelujah," says Gabe, and pushes Patrick gently until he's sitting up. "Come on, the faster we get to my place, the faster we can fall asleep."
Patrick snorts indelicately and reaches for his pants. "You're a fucking Casanova, man, really."
"Fine," Gabe says, "the faster we fall asleep, the faster we can wake up and have mind-blowing sex, how's that for a pickup line?"
"It's a little late in the game," Patrick says, laughing as he threads his belt back into his pants. "but you're lucky, I'm totally easy." He grabs Gabe's jeans and throws them at him, and then when he doesn't move, Patrick picks up Gabe's socks and tosses them at his head. Gabe bolts up, spluttering and batting at the offending socks, and Patrick laughs again and grabs his hat. He stands up and stretches, then slouches over to the board to back up their session and shut down the gear.
"What are you doing?" Gabe says, sounding kind of bewildered. "Get away from there! No working! We have fucking to do!"
Patrick can't stop laughing, now; he's all blissful and loose and giggly, and God, he feels great. "Shut up. I'm just turning things off. You, clean up, and find out how to air this fucking room out or Vicky will have our asses for Christmas dinner."
"I'll have your ass for Christmas dinner," Gabe mutters as he pulls his T-shirt on.
"Is that a threat or a come-on, dude," Patrick says, "it's pretty weak either way if I can't tell."
"You're pretty weak," Gabe says, scowling very unconvincingly. "Shut up, I'm fucking recharging, man, I'm low on attitude."
"Is that all it takes to tone you down?" Patrick asks, turning away from the board. "God, you should have told me, like, the day after you met me."
"You're a little bitch," Gabe tells him.
"And you're fucking hot as shit," Patrick answers, but he doesn't seem distracted. "Come on, hurry up." He looks up and Gabe's hesitating next to him, like he can't tell what's going on. "Oh, Christ, come here." He's not going to start making Gabe feel bad now.
Gabe smiles weakly as Patrick turns towards him, and then Patrick's rocking up on his toes and kissing him, deep and strong and reassuring. When Patrick looks again, Gabe's smile is a lot stronger, and Patrick smiles back at him, waving him off with both hands.
"Go, get moving, you're fucking glowing at me," he teases. Gabe leans back in for another kiss, breaking away quickly and going "I know, I know," as he ambles over to the row of fan switches. "I don't know what any of these do, man. If I blow this place up I hold you responsible."
"How about I be the responsible one and you blow me," Patrick says, flicking a few switches and slapping Gabe's hands away from his crotch, laughing as air comes rushing in through a million hidden vents. "Fucking-- not now. Come on." They gather up their things and turn out the lights, and Patrick hopes like hell he's remembered to remove anything incriminating. He suspects that when he shows up tomorrow with dirty jeans and one of Gabe's T-shirts and a shit-eating grin, he'll weather enough shit from everyone else, he doesn't need to go leaving them any help.
Gabe/Patrick; NC-17 (Yay me!); ~10,500 words *facepalm*
Author:
thejumpcut
Warning: Porn with lots and lots of swearing. No, I mean it. And some fluff at the end. *facepalm*
Beta:
in_decisions, of course! Any remaining suck is all mine.
Disclaimer: This is a work of pornfiction. If you got here by googling yourself/someone you know, don't read this, it'll weird you out. (If it doesn't, awesome, leave your personal requests in the comments and I'll write them up for you.)
This is my first non-PG anything, ever, so I'm kind of nervous - but hey look, porn! Cross-posted, so sorry if this pops up more than once.
Summary: Gabe/Patrick studio hijinks. I have a serious voice!kink, and it's disappointing how often heavy breathing totally precludes dirty talking. So I took my two favorite singers and put them in a soundproof room. What?
"Honest to God," Gabe says, "You're some kind of crazy genius. The Mad Doctor Patrick Stump."
Patrick looks uncomfortable and kind of shifty. He stabs mercilessly at the huge digital console, trying to isolate which one of the four keyboard tracks is causing that high-frequency ring when the bass is cranked.
"You even look like a mad scientist," Gabe says, eyes bright and face eager. "Like, like--" --he raises his hands to the sky-- "--it's aliiive! You know?"
"I do what I can," Patrick mutters. Gabe had been all languid and slouchy for most of the day, but now that it's down to just the two of them and the finishing touches are really coming together on Pleasure Ryland, he's all kinds of animated. Gleeful, even. Patrick likes glee - he's a happy guy, or he tries to be - but Gabe is big and has a ridiculous reach, more like a wingspan, and he sometimes gets overexcited, like a little kid. Of course, he's pleased at the compliments, but it's not like Gabe has ever been stingy with the love. Patrick feels a little guilty at that, and smiles shyly at Gabe. He doesn't mean to be so grumpy. He just figures someone's got to be in charge of this gang of lunatics (okay, in charge of Gabe, his brain amends), and Vicky can't do all the work, all the time.
"Serious, dude," Gabe says and rolls his chair forward until he's close enough to throw his arms around Patrick's decidedly stockier frame, chairs crashing together with a terrific plastic smash. Patrick's hat is squished precariously to the side, and he attempts to reach up and right it, but his elbows are pinned to his torso.
"Gabe," he warns, trying not to snap and failing. "Thank you, I mean, but."
"Oh - oh, shit, dog, sorry," Gabe says, rolling back a little and fixing Patrick's hat for him. It ends up a little askew and Patrick tugs it back to its rightful resting place, while Gabe helps by sort of petting Patrick's hair and neck.
"Hey," Patrick says, "I'm not actually a dog."
"Oh. I." Patrick can see hurt in Gabe's eyes for a second, and fuck, it feels like he's kicked a puppy. How anyone could hurt Gabe on purpose is so beyond him, yet here he is doing it himself, and he's such an asshole.
Gabe wrestles with the hurt, but it only takes a moment, and then he's all cheer and gregarious affection again; he's just a little more careful, a little more reserved.
"Hey, no," he says, regret thick in his voice, "dogs make shitty mad scientists, right?" He knocks his knuckles against Patrick's arm, like Patrick is too fragile for a proper punch. That's bullshit and Gabe knows it; he's never had any reservations about just plowing right into Patrick, right through him. Patrick can replay a whole montage of Gabe knocking him over, pushing him down onto the sofa, picking him up, tackling him through doorways and over couches and out of frame. He's pretty sure he remembers every single time he's ever made physical contact with Gabe, and it happens a lot.
"Gabe," Patrick says, like if he were in a Lifetime TV chick flick he'd be all reaching one hand forlornly out to his, uh, his, uh, to Gabe. "Yo. Saporta. Over here."
Gabe picks his head up, looking just like a puppy, and Patrick stifles the urge to snort. "C'mere," he says, motioning Gabe closer to the board, actually reaching out one hand and grabbing Gabe's wrist. He braces himself against the board so Gabe just has to pull himself forward. Rolling chairs are one of Patrick's favorite perks of working in a proper studio.
Gabe's wrist is skinny - Patrick's fingers reach almost all the way around it, and he's not even really trying. He yanks himself happily towards Patrick, using his toes as brakes to skid to a halt just short of crashing into him again. Patrick feels like a dick, again, for making Gabe feel bad about his natural exuberance, which he clearly can't help, and which is so endearing it makes Gabe too fucking charming for his own good.
Patrick's very slow to let go of Gabe's wrist, and Gabe's slow to take his hand away. Patrick smiles at Gabe, and it's not his usual polite, nice-guy smile. It's his inviting, sly smile, the one he keeps on reserve for when he wants to jolt people just a little bit, and fuck, does it ever work. Gabe sucks in air like he's shoplifting it, frantic and quiet. His eyes are wide and Patrick kind of aches a little bit at how open his face is. For all his ridiculous posturing, Gabe is truly terrible at putting up a front.
Gabe keeps looking expectantly at Patrick, leaning forward breathing fast, and Patrick tries not to blush. Instead, he winks and starts the playback.
Gabe's voice, still effects-laden and heavy and isolated from all but one atmospheric keyboard track, rings through the control room. The sound is rich and full even though it's high, and outside of everything else, Patrick is really, really proud of himself right here, because dammit, this sounds fucking hot and he knows it. He's done something he's really proud of, and this last bit has been all him, no engineer, no nothing, just him and Gabe in the studio being perfectionists and holding out for something superior.
Patrick lets the first round of chorus vocals come in unaccompanied, and when Gabe's vocals come back in on the second verse, he un-soloes all the relevant tracks and lets the track hit Gabe all at once. He's only half-prepared for how hard it's going to hit him, too, and he actually rocks back in his chair a little at how smooth and dark the punch is.
He looks over at Gabe, who hasn't moved an inch since Patrick winked at him. His eyes are still bright, but now they're heavier, and his lips are parted a tiny bit. He's still looking straight at Patrick, so Patrick steels himself and swivels around to face him.
"Fuck," Gabe breathes, and Patrick couldn't have steeled himself for that if he'd tried. Jesus, Gabe's voice is raw and low, and Patrick puts up brick walls in his head to prevent his impending massive humiliation.
"Fucking Christ, Stump," he says again. Patrick wills himself not to break out in goosebumps and fails. He curses his lack of willpower and his stupid pale skin. The skin on Gabe's arms is smooth and tan, and the muscles underneath shift and move it around, and okay, Patrick is really tempting fate here, so he looks back up at Gabe's face, which does him absolutely no good at all.
"It's great," Patrick says, and his voice won't cooperate, it's all scratchy and half-blown. He clears his throat and tries again. "It sounds awesome." It didn't work.
"It sounds like sex, Patrick Stump," Gabe says, but Patrick disagrees, because he'd put money and family members and Pete's honor down on the fact that nothing in the universe has ever sounded quite so much like sex as Gabe's last sentence. Then Gabe speaks again and Patrick's scrambling to keep up. "It sounds fucking smooth and beautiful and hot like the best kind of sex."
Patrick smiles. "I'm putting that quote in my press kit."
"Keep making music like sex, and I'll keep talking dirty to you," Gabe says, and Jesus, Patrick was confident in his winking skills, but Gabe drops an eyelid as smooth as he'd drop a beat, and Patrick is going to have to rethink his whole strategy. Also, Gabe's use of the phrase talking dirty seems to have shorted out important circuits in his brain, like the one that can form a coherent response, and the one that knows that fucking around with Gabe Saporta is on everybody's Top Ten list of Dumbest Things To Do, Ever, Period.
But maybe they're all thinking of that overeager puppy Gabe. This creature in the chair next to Patrick's, leaning back and spinning so their heads are close together, this isn't the same Gabe he knows. Patrick's seen glimpses of this Gabe onstage, in crowds, and there were those embarrassing few days they recorded main vocals and Patrick thought he'd never be able to move from behind the console because Gabe was nailing him with that voice/stare combo and he could barely work the controls, he was so hard; but he's never met this Gabe when they were just hanging out in the studio, never from the same side of the glass. Patrick wonders when he will lose his last shred of control over this situation and briefly considers leaving. The rest of his brain turns on the section that thought about bolting, declares to be a mutinous traitor, and tries to kill it by making it look directly into Gabe's eyes. It works.
Gabe, apparently unaware that he is both cause of and witness to the death of large parts of Patrick's brain, looks back at Patrick, and Patrick wonders how long Gabe has wanted to look at him like this. He kind of hopes it's been a long time. He kind of hopes that he's not about to do something colossally ill-advised just because he's the only person here and Gabe's having a last-call moment. Patrick is unsurprised when a moment of serious introspection reveals that he cares, but he wants Gabe so bad it doesn't matter. He curses his own weak will.
The track plays on. Gabe moves, liquid and subtle, with the beat. Patrick goggles a little at his brain's use of the word subtle to describe Gabe, and then he feels bad for taking a cheap shot, and then Patrick's having slapfights with his brain, and meanwhile Gabe is looking and sounding like sex on long, long, legs, and he's like three feet away and they're all alone and this is ridiculous. Patrick takes a deep breath and tries not to let Gabe's voice on the track join forces with Gabe's voice in real life, because he'd surely just expire from the combination of being so embarrassed and so turned on.
Patrick keeps slow, steady eye contact even though he thinks he may catch fire, and he tries his best to smirk as he pulls out what is pretty much the only stop he's got.
"The music's still playing, Gabe."
Gabe looks up.
"Shouldn't you still be talking?"
Patrick's pretty sure he the one in danger of combusting, so he's taken aback when Gabe starts breaking down before he does - taken aback and a little proud, okay, fine. Gabe's eyes get all smoky and his eyebrow raises, and the corners of his mouth twitch in a not-quite-smile. He slides one of his big, skinny hands around to the back of Patrick's neck. His hand is kind of cold, but that's not what makes Patrick hiss and hold himself still, fighting back the urge to flinch or shiver or something. It's Gabe's hand, is what, and it's curling around Patrick's neck, pinky dipping below the collar of his T-shirt, thumb coming up to rub just under his ear, directly in the spot that makes Patrick melt into a big pile of lust. He thinks stupidly for a minute that hey, he's got a whole new level of insight into the minds of the girls (and guys) that scream at Gabe's feet during shows, that propose lewd acts Patrick's never even heard of as the band heads offstage, that send shockingly revealing photos and flat-out obscene letters, never mind the emails. Okay, fine, he gets it, he'll join the fucking Church of the Cobra, or whatever the fuck; he's totally on par with every other fifteen-year-old girl on the planet right now, and he'd fucking drink the Kool-Aid if Gabe told him to, anything, anything, because fuck, Patrick's totally incapacitated and it's taking all his effort to breathe in and out, and not at the same time, and this is just from Gabe's hand.
Patrick turns towards Gabe, just a touch so he doesn't lose the glorious contact. He looks down Gabe's arm and to the rest of his body and almost has a fucking meltdown at the thought of what the rest of Gabe could do to him. Gabe's fingertips flex, just barely pressing into the back of Patrick's neck, the top of his spine.
"Why Patrick," Gabe says, and he's suddenly all eyelashes and hoarse whispers, fuck, fuck, and Patrick bites his lip hard as Gabe continues, "are you asking me to talk dirty to you?"
Patrick feels ridiculous. Ridiculous and also so hot he might actually pass out. He tries very hard not to pass out. He'd really like to get just a little further along before he passes out. Like maybe to first base.
"I'm not asking you, Saporta." Patrick lays out his pre-bedroom eyes, the ones that frighten Pete out of fucking with him too badly, and on a good day, hold the power to banish thoughts of Pete from girls' minds entirely. He's turned it on the camera once or twice, because he fucking likes feeling powerful like that, but the eyes are just an invitation, just a prelude, and Gabe, he gets that right away.
Gabe leans in, inches from Patrick's ear, pulling just a little with his hand still wrapped around the back of Patrick's neck. He brings a wave of heat and warm, wet breath puffs down Patrick's neck and across his cheek. He tries to breathe it in, mouth open, not quite gasping but not exactly pulling off relaxed at this point. Gabe's lips brush across Patrick's ear, across the hair on the side of his head, and don't quite make it to his temple before they're parting and Gabe's whispering in his ear.
"I don't talk dirty on rolling chairs. You might hurt yourself." His voice is fucking-- it's just incredible, and Patrick is seized with a totally impractical and mood-killing urge to find a microphone and just tape everything, because Gabe probably wouldn't think it was that weird and then he'd be able to jerk off to it twice a day for the rest of his life and he's pretty sure Gabe's voice could be used as a weapon if wielded properly and then Patrick thinks about what a geek he is, because fucking Gabe's not fucking talking to himself here.
Long fingers spread themselves under his collar and grab gently at his T-shirt, just below his ear, tugging a little. Gabe rises out of his chair with some kind of alien grace and leans down to Patrick's ear again. Patrick can't really see the difference, but Gabe's breath hits him from a totally different angle, streaming straight down his stretched collar and bouncing off his shoulder, and he can't help it, he arches up towards Gabe's mouth. Gabe huffs a gentle laugh into his ear and then tugs again, telling him, "Come on. Couch."
Patrick manages to stand up and not send his rolling chair flying (and really, Gabe showed some unexpectedly good sense there, because of course the chairs would end up in disaster; Patrick figures Gabe must know from practice, and then he doesn't really want to think about it any more). He resists Gabe's pull, literally, for a few seconds; leaning back and away, he gathers all his concentration and sets the track to repeat. But only once, because any more than that and it's kind of creepy, and narcissism gets involved in a way Patrick doesn't care to analyze.
Gabe laughs again. He laughs a lot, and it's rarely in a mean way. Things just please him, and that's part of what makes Patrick like him so much. Another part is the way Gabe is actually pulling him across the control room by his collar, and another part still is the slope of his hips in his tight jeans, the way he somehow manages to look so hot just by walking, the way his ass pushes out against the denim and shifts with each slow careful step... and now Patrick is staring, and Gabe is just letting him stare, and that maybe turns Patrick on even more. He tries not to shuffle behind Gabe, tries to keep step. They're not going far, so Patrick doesn't have a lot of time to let his neuroses take over before Gabe's smiling back at Patrick, tugging his collar a little further until Patrick sinks down heavily into the soft cushions of the low couch. He looks up at Gabe, overheated and half-hard, and smiles that smile again and lets his legs spread a little. Gabe makes a small noise, nothing more than a whisper, but Patrick hears it and is thankful that he hasn't lost all control over the situation.
Then Gabe folds himself onto the couch next to him, actually kneeling on the couch and sitting back on his heels and leaning way, way forward into Patrick's space, one long arm balancing him on the back of the couch behind Patrick's head and the other at the end of the couch cushions, low between Patrick's spread thighs, not actually touching him. Which is good, Patrick thinks, because when Gabe finally makes good on his promise, he needs all the help he can get to make sure he gets through more than one sentence.
"Fucking listen to that, Patrick, fucking listen to how good it sounds." Patrick doesn't groan. He maybe makes a tiny noise, but it is in no way a groan, not yet. Even though Gabe's pushing Patrick's hair out of the way, carefully tucking it up under the brim of his hat, and running the soft curve of his lower lip down the shell of Patrick's ear. "You want me to tell you what it sounds like?"
Patrick remembers how to nod.
"It sounds like sex in the dark, in the back of a club, pressed up against each other and everybody else and the speaker and the wall of the dance floor. Like fucking in public in a big crush of people grinding and not looking, not quite."
Patrick swallows. Gabe is suddenly very eloquent. Gabe's hands are also suddenly moving; the hand between Patrick's legs settles itself firmly on his thigh and squeezes. Patrick's dick responds with a twitch and Patrick does his best to keep the rest of him still, since Gabe obviously has A Plan. That and he can't think of a movement that doesn't involve falling over. Gabe's hand brushes higher, higher against the inside of his thigh and Patrick chokes out a high, sweet sound.
"Oh, God," Gabe whispers. "Oh my God, do that again."
Patrick raises an eyebrow. "Make me."
Gabe leans in and licks the spot below Patrick's ear. Patrick obliges him and makes the noise again, or something like it.
"I wasn't done," Gabe says. "I don't want you to feel like you didn't get enough audio foreplay." He runs one finger up the front of Patrick's jeans, pushing the zipper into his dick just hard enough for Patrick to stop breathing and tighten his fists at his sides, then moves his hand across Patrick and swings one of his long legs over Patrick's hips, so he's kneeling over Patrick on the couch. He rocks back a bit, leans down so his face comes into view, and pushes his face into Patrick's throat.
"It sounds like a fucking hard-on," Gabe says, lips working against Patrick's neck. He lets his tongue and teeth slide over the skin when he talks; Patrick would lose the train of the words if they weren't so raunchy, kind of unexpected even for Gabe, and if he weren't rasping them out like someone had just fucked his voice out of his throat. Patrick groans mid-sentence but bites it back, because it's rude to interrupt.
"You know when you've got it all pressed up against someone's ass, and they're just grinding back, just a little, enough so you can feel it and not enough to get you off? That's what it makes me think of," Gabe says. He takes one of his hands from the back of the couch and skims it down Patrick's chest and stomach, runs it lightly over his dick, now fully hard and straining. Patrick moans, and Gabe clutches a fistful of Patrick's shirt, on the side near the bottom. "Nothing is fucking hotter than your voice, Patrick. Nothing. Not even my voice," and Patrick quirks one side of his mouth up, knowing without seeing that Gabe is doing the same thing into his neck. Gabe's head moves up slowly. "But God, your tracks are a close fucking second, man, let me tell you."
"Thought that's what you were doing," Patrick says, but he has to really force the words out and he wonders how Gabe can still come up with this trashy dirty talk.
Gabe moves up Patrick's neck in tiny increments, until he feels Patrick start to tense; then he moves a half-inch higher, just below Patrick's ear, and his breath is loud in Patrick's ear and his hand is coming up to follow it, and Patrick is pretty sure he's going to black out, and he's pretty sure it's going to be very soon, and he hopes like hell it can wait until Gabe's done with this masterful display of gutter-flavored pillow talk. This is the best review he's ever gotten, bar none, including the time Pete stripped down and begged Patrick to fuck him on the floor of their practice room.
Fuck it. He reaches out and grabs Gabe's hip, pulls him closer, and sticks his hand in Gabe's back pocket. Gabe is folded up like a frog, and Patrick's sure it'll hurt him tomorrow, but he doesn't give a fuck right now, and neither does Gabe, who is still talking to him, because Gabe is fucking awesome.
"It sounds like sex in the summertime, in the dark, with the windows open. With the fucking door open." Gabe's tongue snakes out and sweeps a wet line behind Patrick's ear. Patrick responds by tightening his hold on Gabe's ass, which is firm and eminently hold-able, and gasping not very quietly. He's thinking that now would be a good time to kiss Gabe, and he's a little stunned by how easily he was able to move the phrase kiss Gabe from the "for extended showers only" section of his brain to the "things I should maybe do next" section.
"Patrick," Gabe pants, cool momentarily broken in favor of getting some kind of oxygen. "What do you sound like, Patrick Stump?"
"You know what I sound like," Patrick barely manages. He pulls his hand out of Gabe's back pocket and pushes up his black T-shirt, sliding his hands along yards of perfect bronzed skin. "You've heard me."
"I've heard you sing, I've heard you talk." Gabe reaches out his tongue and flicks Patrick's earlobe, and seriously, who can even do that? Patrick digs his fingers into Gabe's ribs, relishes the sound of Gabe's hiss that close to his ear. Gabe's too considerate to let the sibilance make the noise unpleasant, so it's all cold air and a heady rush of sound, and then he's talking again and Patrick has no time to recover from anything. "I want to know what you sound like when you're fucking, Patrick," says Gabe, and he bites Patrick's earlobe, hard.
Patrick groans, then, no holding back, and the sound is swallowed by the warm tones of the keys, the high keen of the vocals. Gabe hears it, though, and his whole body whips forward like a convulsion. He cries out, wordless and thin, and pushes his hips forward onto Patrick's lap. Patrick thinks about the welfare of Gabe's knees and moves forwards on the couch so that Gabe can get both knees firmly planted around him. If this brings them even closer together, Patrick thinks, it's like a bonus he gets for making sure that Gabe can walk away from this. But not, Patrick wishes fervently, until they are both very, very done. Possibly sometime next week, because there is a lot of Gabe suddenly writhing in his actual lap, and Patrick likes to be thorough.
"Hi," Gabe grins, his happy-go-lucky clowning-around face returning for one second and scaring the shit out of Patrick, who suffers a terrible conviction that this is just a joke, that Gabe is going to get up and leave him here. He's going to laugh and say something stupid about mad scientists or dogs or who the fuck knows what, and call "punchbuggy" or "jinx" or something cryptic that really means "I made you look dumb and I don't really like you," and he'll probably pop Patrick in the arm, and walk away. He's going to leave Patrick sitting here hard as fuck on this stupid studio couch, and Patrick will just explode from want, and oh hell no, no fucking way. Patrick reaches out blindly with both hands, grabbing Gabe's thigh with his left hand and yanking a handful of T-shirt with his right, vaguely tugging it off but also trying to pull it toward him so that Gabe is absolutely not able to be dumb about this. Patrick didn't wait six months until the writing and production was done for nothing, and huh, apparently he's wanted to fuck Gabe Saporta for six months. He should really be more honest with himself, he thinks; he's having a lot more fun already.
Gabe does laugh a little, but it's kind of ruined when Patrick grabs his thigh. It's not like he wasn't actually in Patrick's lap anyway, and he's not sure how he finally managed that without Patrick scowling and dumping him on the floor, but he's not going fucking anywhere any time soon, and then Patrick's deceptively strong upper arm is pulling Gabe forward and his other, equally deceptively strong upper arm is trying to tear his favorite non-obnoxious T-shirt off. Which is hot, Gabe's not kidding himself, but there's a time and a place, and Gabe's pretty sure the time is not now and the place is not here. Either way, he's sliding forward smack into Patrick's lap whether he likes it or not. He manages to roll his hips as he goes so it's not totally awkward and lame, and then he can feel Patrick's dick, and only realizes when his own hard-on breaks the pleasure/pain barrier in his stupid tight stupid fucking jeans that he's kind of in Patrick Stump's lap and they're both crazy hard and panting and talking like each other's dirtiest wet dreams. And not only are they both fully clothed, but he hasn't even bothered to kiss Patrick's holy fucking Christ luscious cocksucking mouth because he's been too busy running off his own. The other thing he realizes is that if he doesn't move things along soon, his T-shirt is going to be in serious peril, and his dick is going to be in a world of hurt or he's going to come in his stupid tight stupid fucking jeans. Or both. All three. What the fuck ever, Patrick Stump.
"Okay," Gabe says, "okay. I'm not going fucking anywhere, Patrick," and he rolls his hips properly, and Patrick can't do anything but whimper. He doesn't think it's that hot, but the noise Gabe makes in return is more than enough reward. Patrick can feel Gabe actually straining not to just grind down on him and marvels at Gabe's self-control. He should just resign himself to looking lame and desperate and let Gabe laugh at him forever if he wants to, let him laugh in fucking print if he wants to. Patrick doesn't care if Gabe's lying, he's come this far, and doing this, he knows in theory, is bad, but not doing it is going to be worse. Much worse, and it might also cause him to explode.
"Patrick," Gabe says again, like he's forgotten how to say anything else. Patrick reciprocates and roughs Gabe's name out into the heavy air of the suddenly quiet control room, and Gabe moans quick and high. Patrick feels a little better about this whole thing, but his right hand, which still has a handful of T-shirt, reminds him that there's work to be done. He desperately wants to wrench Gabe's shirt off, but he figures it would be rude to start shedding clothing before they've kissed. A part of his brain - one of the few surviving contingents - says that it's Gabe, it's not like normal rules apply, but he thinks that's probably rude, and besides, he tells the whiny voice that wants skin now , Gabe's mouth bears some investigation, right?
Patrick's delicate and considerate internal debate is rendered beautifully pointless when Gabe reaches down and frees Patrick's hand of its clutch of T-shirt, raises their hands to his mouth, and licks the inside of Patrick's wrist. Patrick moans again and exercises a tremendous amount of willpower not to thrust up into Gabe as hard as he can, and he's rewarded immediately as Gabe whips his own shirt off and drops it carelessly onto the floor behind him. He grabs Gabe's shoulder and his other hand scrapes his short fingernails across a nipple. Gabe gasps, voiceless, and Patrick rocks up into him just a little. He leans up, leans forward, because he wants to feel what that gorgeous length of torso feels like pressed against him, and then thinks, huh, I guess now would be a good time for some proper kissing. Actually, he suspects that were he a nicer boy, he'd have gotten round to the kissing much earlier, like maybe after the dinner that he also didn't get around to, but this time when his brain pipes up all "But it's Gabe," he doesn't disagree. He just leans up as far as he can and kisses Gabe's collarbone, biting at the broad planes of muscle in his shoulders and hearing Gabe just lose it.
"Fucking-- God, holy fucking shit, you're so -- so fucking hot, Christ, you-- I just--" Gabe takes a breath and Patrick takes the opportunity to lick straight up to his neck, grinning and leaving a wet glistening stripe along Gabe's fucking perfect skin.
"I want you so bad," Gabe chokes out. "Jesus, you-- so bad. You don't know."
Patrick grabs the back of Gabe's head and straightens up while he pulls down so they can meet each other halfway. "Tell me," he says in a deep rough voice that he only pulls out on very special occasions. Then he sabotages Gabe's attempts to form a sentence by kissing him.
Neither of them bother with any of this tentative press of lips bullshit; Patrick's mouth meets Gabe's, and Gabe opens for him like a reflex. He's still trying to tell Patrick how bad he wants him-- Patrick finds that oddly charming, that Gabe's trying to answer him even though it's obviously just an extra credit question. He's also totally captivated by the way Gabe's apparently able to move his hips independently of the rest of his body, and how Gabe's lining up their hard cocks so that if either of them attempt to move they both have to still themselves and breathe so they don't end up just rutting up against each other and finishing things off in under a minute. Gabe is maybe way smoother than Patrick even imagined, which is kind of a bewildering thought. Patrick stops any and all thought processes by forcing his tongue into Gabe's mouth. Needless to say, distractions cease to be.
Gabe is vocal and appreciative, and his mouth is hot and wet and all the things Patrick thought his mouth would be. He tastes a little like stale coffee and a little like Rocket candies and a little like cigarette smoke, and Patrick doesn't even care what he tastes like, because oh God he feels like--
"You feel like sin, you know that?" he murmurs into Gabe's open mouth. Gabe whimpers (and the teenage-boy part of Patrick's brain celebrates a little at being able to reduce The Supposedly Great Gabe Saporta to a folded whimpering mess within minutes. Or maybe hours, or maybe seconds, but that part doesn't matter because the studio is block-booked for the next week and a half, and Patrick always locks the door when he's in session) and bites Patrick's lower lip.
"You sound like Wentz," Gabe teases, grinning a mile wide.
"You like it," Patrick surmises. Gabe presses his whole body down into Patrick's, and Patrick forgets what they were talking about in the first place and grabs what he can of Gabe's hair. He realizes that this whole time, Gabe hasn't made any fuss about treating Patrick delicately or being overly cautious, and yet he's managed not to dislodge Patrick's hat or even gesture towards Patrick taking off his shirt. Patrick melts a little into the kiss even as he curses himself for being such a girl about things, really, what is wrong with him? He's a little more forceful as he presses his face forwards into Gabe's, kind of tongue-first. It pays off; Gabe does something practiced and crafty and then he's sucking on Patrick's tongue. Patrick reaches down and palms Gabe's cock with the hand that's not pulling on Gabe's hair, and he's making noises that, if he's going to be totally honest, are so obscene he's even turning himself on a little. Gabe is as hard as he is, and he must be so fucking uncomfortable inside those crazy tight jeans. Patrick should really help him with that, but he takes another moment to appreciate the feel of Gabe's hard cock in the hollow of his palm. He runs his fingers roughly along its length and gets a cold thrill when he feels it, feels Gabe, twitching under his hand.
Gabe breaks away and Patrick feels another wave of insecurity approaching when Gabe's legs start unwrapping themselves, and he can't help sort of throwing his hips back into Gabe's before they pull away. Gabe takes a moment to reassure him, not with words but by grabbing Patrick's hips hard with both hands, and oh fuck Patrick doesn't care if Gabe leaves bruises, he hopes Gabe leaves him fucking bruises -- and then Gabe grinds himself down onto Patrick's cock, rough and uncaring, once, twice, and then backs off, panting.
"I-- will never. Answer you. If you keep. Being so fucking hot," Gabe pants, untangling his legs from Patrick and sliding down beside him on the couch instead. "Christ al-fucking-mighty. You. I want you. Since I watched you open your gorgeous cocksucking mouth to yell at me I wanted you, fuck, so bad." Patrick leans into him and rubs his thumb over Gabe's nipple to watch him try to answer even as he jumps and hisses. "I-- you were--"
"Don't bother," Patrick says. "Don't tell me. Fucking show me, God, Gabe, don't stop fucking touching me." He leans further over, grabs at the button of Gabe's jeans, tries to get them undone, and then Gabe is groaning and undoing them himself, and Patrick's plans to finally take some control of the situation totally evaporate as Gabe shoves his own hand into his boxers at the same time he eases himself down to the slippery laminate of the studio floor, a hand on each of Patrick's knees.
Control, Patrick decides, is overrated. Then Gabe grabs one of Patrick's hands, which are kind of flailing around uselessly, and guides it to the back of his head, and Patrick has to revise his decision, again, which is hard to do with Gabe's hands reaching for his belt. He kind of expects Gabe to be an expert at this part and is definitely kind of relieved when Gabe's fingers shake too badly to be of use. Gabe rocks back onto his heels and drags his nails down Patrick's thighs, and Patrick almost chokes on his own tongue when he looks down at maybe the best pre-blowjob face he's ever seen or imagined in his life. His eyes are all dark and just covered in lashes, and even Gabe fucking Saporta looks fucking coy when he's looking up from between Patrick's knees, and his mouth is open and wet and his lips are all dark red and sucked and bitten to filthy perfection, and he's got a red bruise coming up just above his collarbone where Patrick was sucking on him just a minute ago, and God. Patrick wants to freeze time and look at Gabe fucking begging with his eyes to suck Patrick's dick almost as badly as he wants Gabe to fucking blow him already.
On reflection, Patrick opts for the latter, and leans down so he's face-to-face with Gabe, hands on his belt.
"Want some help?" he purrs. Oh yeah, he's purring and he knows it. Patrick doesn't generally do this on purpose, but apparently Gabe and his reactions inspire him to really go the extra mile and reach for new lows of debauchery. It's a great idea and he plans to make the most of it, possibly for as long as he and Gabe know each other.
Gabe goes to kiss Patrick again, hands snaking back to his jeans, alternating between frantically pressing against his cock, and pawing ineffectually at Patrick's hands and belt. Patrick doesn't just draw back, he's not that mean; he licks across Gabe's bottom lip first, but then he moves back just enough for Gabe to know not to chase him, and looks back down at the spectacular display of sex that Gabe has managed to put together using only, like, a quarter of his ridiculously tall body. Gabe can be very distracting, but Patrick can be a fucking mean, power-hungry bastard when he wants to be, and fuck yes, he wants, and he's pretty sure Gabe wants too. If Gabe didn't want, he would've just put Patrick where he wanted him like an action figure way before they got here, and Patrick would have gone with that too, but he wouldn't have this simmering smugness that made everything just that little bit better.
"Yes, yes, fucking-- get your fucking pants off." Gabe is too turned on to be properly frustrated, and too intent to be properly turned on. Patrick doesn't intend to make him wait long.
"What do you want, Gabe?" He looks at Gabe beneath him and can't believe he's stopping to ask, but then Gabe's answering him in this low, sweet murmur, and fuck, he's so glad he asked.
"I want to blow you, you lucky son of a bitch." He tugs at Patrick's belt again. "I'm not going to beg you, if that's what you're after, but God, I want to suck you off." Patrick leans back on the couch for a minute to try to screw his head back on. He grabs one of Gabe's relentless hands in his own and squeezes it.
"You don't have to fucking beg me. I just wanted to hear you say it." He releases Gabe's hand and undoes his belt, hesitating a second before just pulling it off completely, and thumbing open the button of his jeans, fucking finally.
"I've done enough talking," Gabe says. "Let's hear you try to fucking say something coherent, asshole," but he's smiling as Patrick slouches forward and batting away his hands. Patrick tries to get his fly down at least, but he should know better than to interfere when Gabe's got Big Ideas, since the second he gives up and leans back a little Gabe's head is right fucking there between his legs and good God, the man can't undo a belt with both of his hands but he can pull down Patrick's zipper with his teeth?
Patrick wills himself not to grab Gabe's hair. He waits until Gabe's done with his newest parlor trick and then pushes up on his hands so Gabe can pull his jeans and boxers down off his hips, toeing off his sneakers and socks, because what the fuck, Gabe's going to blow him on the client couch in the studio, the least he can do is get his damn jeans out of the way. He just grabs two handfuls of couch cushion and tries not to think about the fact that he has arms at all, and then Gabe is sort of leaning halfway up, kissing his chest and in a brief trail down his stomach. Patrick really concentrates intently on not bucking up into Gabe's face when he feels warm breath ghosting down over his cock, and then really concentrates even more intently on it when Gabe rests a hand lightly on the inside of his thigh, pushing his legs open a little wider, and licks his way up the underside and around the head.
Patrick doesn't even bother trying to say anything coherent. He moans and he yells, and he whimpers, and eventually he manages to bite out a sentence that resembles "I didn't make you beg, you unholy bastard, God please," and Gabe draws back, letting the air hit Patrick's dick, wet and shining with spit. Patrick forgets how to breathe but apparently remembers how to growl Gabe's name, and then Gabe reaches up and fists his cock with one hand and digs his fingers into the muscles of Patrick's thigh with the other, and takes the head into his mouth, sucking hard and fast and fucking perfect. Patrick manages a few passes at Gabe's name and abandons all attempts to keep talking when Gabe starts moaning around his cock. He looks down at Gabe's lips wrapped around him and Gabe's eyes staring steady at his face and Gabe's hand moving fast and rough over his own boxers and then he can't look at anything for a minute because he never wants this to end, and his hips and his hands are screaming to grab Gabe and fuck up into his mouth and come down his throat, which he absolutely will not do, because even in this extreme state he knows he doesn't want to make excuses for Gabe's rasping fucked-out voice tomorrow and have to hide his hard-on all day. He lingers on this thought for a second - the unappealing, embarrassing business side of it - and manages not to come right away. He wants to, he wants to come so fucking bad it hurts, but he wants to watch Gabe do this for just another minute.
He looks down when Gabe pulls off and wipes his spit-streaked mouth on the back of his hand, and that's almost too much for him right there.
"Holy fuck," Gabe says, "Patrick, motherfuck," and he takes his own hand out of his pants with a visible effort.
Patrick doesn't whine, not exactly, but he makes his dissent clear. Gabe grabs his cock so roughly it's almost painful and grabs his T-shirt with his other hand, pulling Patrick down towards him, just where they were before Patrick even undid his jeans, and Patrick is filled with massive and instant regret for every second he spent being a cruel and awful tease and he's about to promise Gabe diamonds and sneakers and platinum fucking records for one more lick, because seriously, he's that close, and Gabe's that good.
"Hey," Gabe says, and Patrick snaps right back to Gabe's gorgeous face. Gabe's thumb comes up over the head of Patrick's cock, swirls around the tip a few times where Patrick's leaking and covered in spit and it's the hottest thing Patrick has ever seen or felt in his life, and he forgets all about Gabe's gorgeous face until Gabe brings his hand up to his mouth and licks his thumb clean with broad swipes of his tongue. Patrick had always thought that the whole sucking-on-fingers thing was supposed to come before the blowjobs, but oh God he was so very wrong, and he thanks Gabe for showing him the error of his ways, or at least he hopes he remembers to thank him later when he can talk again.
Gabe bares his teeth and scrapes them over the ball of his thumb and Patrick moans "Fuck, oh my God, Gabe," loud and low and full. He clutches at the cushions again, but he can't quite look away, and when Gabe finishes biting and sucking on his thumb, he returns it to Patrick's cock, and Patrick fucking jumps inside his skin, which is too tight and feels like it might just tear open everywhere at any moment.
"Hey," Gabe says again, and Patrick thinks about threatening violence if Gabe doesn't put his mouth back to use right the fuck now, but decides that can only end badly. Apparently Gabe sees fit to reward him for his restraint, because he leans up to whisper in Patrick's ear, and his voice sounds like fucking (and Patrick really gets it now, he thought he had it before but now he knows in full, clear surround sound).
"You should come in my mouth," Gabe says, and his voice is this breathy husk of its usual self, and then he bites down on Patrick's neck, on the sweet spot right below his ear, and sucks hard enough to leave his mark on Patrick where everyone will see it, and all Patrick can do is gasp out Gabe's name and gasp in air, over and over. Gabe pushes Patrick away before he's done sucking, so Patrick hits the back of the couch and Gabe's mouth comes off with a wet, sloppy noise that Patrick will get hard thinking about for the rest of his life. Before Patrick's even done thinking that part, Gabe's lips are wrapped around his cock and his fingers are moving fast at the base and stretching to stroke and knead his balls, and Christ, Patrick thought he was thorough. He guesses Gabe's other hand is back down his pants, but he doesn't know and doesn't care, because Gabe's moving fast and hard and messy, and his mouth is tight and wet. He pulls up, sucking hard, and scrapes his teeth, smooth and sharp, over the head. Patrick stutters out another flurry of fuck and Gabe, and Gabe pushes back down around his cock. He takes his hand off his own dick and shoves Patrick's hips down to the couch to hold him there, and fuck, Patrick's going to come-- in Gabe's fucking mouth, Jesus. He groans out some kind of warning, and Gabe takes it as an invitation to press two knuckles up and behind his balls as they tighten and moan around his cock at the same time, and when he comes it's perfect and it fucking rips him apart. Gabe keeps his hand moving and he works his tongue and shoves down just a touch too far so that Patrick can feel him swallowing. Patrick does Gabe the courtesy of not being quiet about it, moaning and growling and gasping as he shoots down Gabe's fucking throat and Gabe does his best to suck him dry. He relents a little but keeps going gently as Patrick's whole body trembles with actual aftershocks for the first time in years, and Patrick hisses in air when he starts to soften, finally, and Gabe pulls off him with another gorgeous, messy popping sound.
There's a moment where Patrick can't think or talk or do anything but stare at Gabe's mouth as he kneels on the floor panting like he's going to pass out, and then he sort of slides back into consciousness and leans over to grab Gabe's free hand, the one that's not absently stroking himself, still through his boxers. Gabe looks up and smiles wickedly. Patrick pauses to appreciate it, and then tugs on Gabe's hand. "Come up here. Christ." His voice is ragged and intense, and he gets that it's hot, but Gabe is the best audience ever. He breathes heavy through his mouth and squeezes down on his dick, and then he's pulling himself up onto the couch next to Patrick and sighing, "Patrick, your voice, Jesus, your--"
This time it's Patrick who moans, because seriously, his voice? Gabe's draped across the couch, naked to the waist and so hard there's a dark wet spot at the front of his boxers, covered in sweat and hickeys, looking and sounding like the phrase "well-fucked" just came to life. And Patrick's voice is the focal point of this exercise?
On impulse, Patrick leans into Gabe's neck and growls, "What about my fucking voice?" Gabe's cock twitches hard and his whole body jitters a little bit and he rolls in and bites Patrick's shoulder as he groans, and okay, Patrick thinks that's a pretty good answer. Patrick lifts Gabe's head from his shoulder and kisses that gifted, swollen, dirty, beautiful mouth, licking the taste of himself from Gabe; it's sharp against the salt of sweat and Patrick wonders how anyone could think that that wasn't just achingly sexy, tasting your own come on someone else's tongue and licking it out of their mouth. Gabe moves his hand back to his boxers, but Patrick grabs it and stills him, tugging down on the waistband and at the top of his jeans.
Gabe nods a little and takes a deep breath, then licks his lips and holds it as he gingerly pushes down his own jeans. Patrick voices his appreciation as Gabe's cock bobs into view, followed by a flash of Gabe's ass, and then he needs a moment to stare at the stunning, full-on view of Gabe naked and flushed and palming his cock. Patrick pushes on Gabe's chest until he's lying on his back; there's enough room for Patrick to slip partway between Gabe and the back of the couch and prop himself up so his face hovers into Gabe's vision. He licks a drop of sweat from the hollow of Gabe's throat. He reaches down and pulls Gabe's hand away from his dick, and Gabe keens in this stunning hollow tone that makes Patrick gasp. He watches as Gabe reacts to the noise like it's an electric current.
"No begging, Patrick, remember?" Gabe breathes. "Don't be selfish. And don't be quiet." Patrick grins and bites at Gabe's throat, keeping his hand pinned to the couch. Gabe doesn't move his other hand; he just breathes and whines and arches his taut body, skin burning against Patrick's, and God, he's so beautiful and so close, Patrick wants to watch him finish himself off so badly, but he can't just sit back and watch, he has to touch. When he starts to talk again, he watches the muscles in Gabe's stomach tense and tighten.
"No begging?" Patrick takes his hand from Gabe's wrist and licks his own palm, noisy and wet and showy. "I was going to beg you a little, Saporta, honestly, but it's up to you." He shrugs. Gabe's hand flies to Patrick's shoulder and Patrick can feel where his fingertips are going to leave little half-bruises.
"You can beg me," he tells Patrick, roughly and very quickly. "Fucking beg me, Patrick, make me come with your voice."
"I want to touch you, Gabe," Patrick says, and his voice won't quite kick in, so it's a hard whisper when it hits Gabe, who's already moaning under him. Patrick is not actually above begging, and anyway, this is the really fun kind. "I want to lick the sweat off your chest and I want to see what happens when I bite your nipples and your hips and the top of your ass, and I want your hard cock in my hand so I can feel it throbbing against my fingers, and I want to hear you saying my fucking name when I make you come so hard you don't know how to say anything else."
Gabe's eyes are closed. Patrick puts a firm hand to Gabe's jaw and guides Gabe's face to his. "Look at me." Gabe opens his eyes and Patrick looks straight into them and keeps talking. "Please let me get you off. I want to make you come so bad, I want to watch you and hear you and I have to touch you, you're so hot it melts my hands and it burns out my brain. Please. Please."
Gabe stabs out a sharp cry. "Oh God, Patrick, get me off, I'm so close."
Patrick slicks his fingers down Gabe's chest and skids them down the trail of hair leading from his navel to his dick. He circles the base of Gabe's cock tight with his thumb and his middle finger and squeezes it, but doesn't move yet, because he's not done talking.
"I bet I could make you come without even touching you, just from talking to you. Do you think I could?"
Gabe nods madly. "Yes, of course you could, but don't - please - I need," and Patrick shushes him a little, leaning in to suck on his lower lip.
"I'm not going to," he says, "not now. But maybe some other time," and Gabe shouts out an "Oh" that makes Patrick's cock twitch again. He's not going to get hard again right now, but obviously Gabe's pushing him to his limits here, so he growls a little and tries to return the favor, holding tight around Gabe, watching him closely for signs that he's starting to hurt more than he's enjoying it, which he seems to be doing immensely.
"Breathe for me." Gabe hyperventilates. "No. Breathe deep for me." Patrick leans down and licks at Gabe's nipple, humming appreciatively as Gabe shudders out a long exhale. "Good." He lets go of Gabe's cock, making soothing noises when he gasps and stutters and starts to plead, and licks his hand once more before he reaches down and wraps it around Gabe's shaft, stroking him hard and slow, using his body weight to pin Gabe's hips down.
"There are so many things I want to do with you," Patrick grates out, and his voice runs thick and hot like blood. "We're not fucking finished with this yet, Saporta, you know that." It's not a question, but Gabe nods anyway and another high shout bursts from his mouth that Patrick takes as agreement.
"God, your mouth, your fucking mouth on my cock, you're so good at sucking cock," Patrick whispers urgently, and moves his hand faster, not letting up. "You're so hot on your fucking knees."
Gabe whines and twists and Patrick leans in to kiss him with absolutely no thought of decency or kindness, dripping sweat into his mouth and breathing heavy. He presses his thumb up just under the head of Gabe's cock and bites Gabe's tongue, and Gabe yells into his mouth. Patrick pulls his mouth away and goes back to talking into his neck and jacking Gabe fast and hard.
"Next time maybe I'll suck you, would you like that? God, Gabe, I bet you'd fucking love to shoot on my face, come all over my mouth. Christ, you're so gorgeous, I could watch you forever." Patrick gasps and lets Gabe's hips go, and he fucks up into Patrick's hand, fast and erratic, and the noises of Patrick's wet hand on Gabe's cock are loud and dirty and perfect.
"Patrick," Gabe chokes out, "Patrick--"
"Gabe," Patrick says, "Come for me, let me watch you come, I want to see you," and he's speeding up one last time and licking at Gabe's neck and jaw and mouth. Gabe tenses up and groans heavy and low and comes in hot rushes over Patrick's hand, over his own stomach, shining with sweat and twitching with the force of it, and he grabs Patrick by the neck and crushes him into a deep kiss. Patrick keeps stroking Gabe, swallowing his short cries and moans and going just a little slower, and his hand is sticky and wet with come. Gabe's whole body twitches strongly when Patrick dips his head down and licks sweat and come and spit from Gabe's cock and his own fingers, and Gabe is shaking when Patrick comes up to kiss him again. He pushes back into Gabe's mouth and Gabe sucks the taste from his tongue. The groan that follows when Patrick breaks the kiss is that pure, sweet, unmistakable Patrick Stump tenor, and Gabe leans his head back, mouth open, and grinds his hips up one last time into Patrick's fist before he falls back into the couch, completely and utterly spent.
They lay there for a long time, Gabe clutching at Patrick's shirt, Patrick streaking come across Gabe's stomach when he throws an arm across him, both of them panting and sweating and kind of disgusting, but the studio is that warm non-temperature you get from fucking in an airtight room full of humming electronic gear, so they can disregard it for a few minutes, sharing the glorious silence and the sound of their breath. Eventually Patrick pushes himself up, and Gabe reaches up after him, but it's half-assed, and Patrick waves his hands away.
"Relax," he says, just--" and then Gabe maybe lets his eyes close for a second, and when Patrick comes back it's with a handful of Kleenex and a bottle of water that he sets on the floor, and he sits down on the edge of the couch to clean Gabe off as gingerly as he can, which doesn't stop Gabe from sucking air in through his teeth and flinching away from the contact. Patrick tosses the Kleenex at the garbage can and picks up the bottle of water, murmuring for Gabe to sit up so he can have some. Gabe does his best, and Patrick leans down and kisses him gently on the forehead before handing over the water and shoving Gabe into the back of the couch so there's room for him to lie back down.
Huh. Patrick seems to be cuddling with Gabe Saporta in a mostly naked afterglow-type situation. He should be surprised, but he doesn't have the mental capacity for reflection at the moment, so he curls into Gabe and presses a sweet kiss to his cheek. Gabe hums happily, although his voice is still kind of rough, and he looks down at Patrick with sleepy eyes.
"Patrick," Gabe mumbles. "You going to be a bitch about it?"
"About what," Patrick says into Gabe's jaw. "The part where that was awesome or the part where we have to get up soon?"
"Oh," says Gabe, and smoothes a hand down Patrick's back. "I was thinking more about the part where you come back to my apartment."
"That sounds like a great idea," says Patrick, even though at that moment he'd happily sell his limbs and/or bandmates for the privilege of not fucking moving for a day or two. "Why would I bitch?"
"Well, because I'm holding you to your word, so I plan to come on your face at least once," Gabe says happily. "And the other thing is, if I'm doing that, you'll probably want to take off your hat, sometime."
"Oh, for," Patrick sighs, and he plucks his hat from his head and lays it on the ground. "Happy?"
"I don't care," says Gabe, and Patrick is really charmed when Gabe doesn't make a big deal about it or try to kiss the top of Patrick's head and tell him he's being silly. "I just don't want you to care."
Oh, God, now Patrick's grinning like a schoolgirl. "I don't care about anything. You sucked my brain out my dick. It's a miracle I can still talk."
"Hallelujah," says Gabe, and pushes Patrick gently until he's sitting up. "Come on, the faster we get to my place, the faster we can fall asleep."
Patrick snorts indelicately and reaches for his pants. "You're a fucking Casanova, man, really."
"Fine," Gabe says, "the faster we fall asleep, the faster we can wake up and have mind-blowing sex, how's that for a pickup line?"
"It's a little late in the game," Patrick says, laughing as he threads his belt back into his pants. "but you're lucky, I'm totally easy." He grabs Gabe's jeans and throws them at him, and then when he doesn't move, Patrick picks up Gabe's socks and tosses them at his head. Gabe bolts up, spluttering and batting at the offending socks, and Patrick laughs again and grabs his hat. He stands up and stretches, then slouches over to the board to back up their session and shut down the gear.
"What are you doing?" Gabe says, sounding kind of bewildered. "Get away from there! No working! We have fucking to do!"
Patrick can't stop laughing, now; he's all blissful and loose and giggly, and God, he feels great. "Shut up. I'm just turning things off. You, clean up, and find out how to air this fucking room out or Vicky will have our asses for Christmas dinner."
"I'll have your ass for Christmas dinner," Gabe mutters as he pulls his T-shirt on.
"Is that a threat or a come-on, dude," Patrick says, "it's pretty weak either way if I can't tell."
"You're pretty weak," Gabe says, scowling very unconvincingly. "Shut up, I'm fucking recharging, man, I'm low on attitude."
"Is that all it takes to tone you down?" Patrick asks, turning away from the board. "God, you should have told me, like, the day after you met me."
"You're a little bitch," Gabe tells him.
"And you're fucking hot as shit," Patrick answers, but he doesn't seem distracted. "Come on, hurry up." He looks up and Gabe's hesitating next to him, like he can't tell what's going on. "Oh, Christ, come here." He's not going to start making Gabe feel bad now.
Gabe smiles weakly as Patrick turns towards him, and then Patrick's rocking up on his toes and kissing him, deep and strong and reassuring. When Patrick looks again, Gabe's smile is a lot stronger, and Patrick smiles back at him, waving him off with both hands.
"Go, get moving, you're fucking glowing at me," he teases. Gabe leans back in for another kiss, breaking away quickly and going "I know, I know," as he ambles over to the row of fan switches. "I don't know what any of these do, man. If I blow this place up I hold you responsible."
"How about I be the responsible one and you blow me," Patrick says, flicking a few switches and slapping Gabe's hands away from his crotch, laughing as air comes rushing in through a million hidden vents. "Fucking-- not now. Come on." They gather up their things and turn out the lights, and Patrick hopes like hell he's remembered to remove anything incriminating. He suspects that when he shows up tomorrow with dirty jeans and one of Gabe's T-shirts and a shit-eating grin, he'll weather enough shit from everyone else, he doesn't need to go leaving them any help.