No place like home.
Title: No place like home.
Rating: Some lovely place between R and NC-17.
Word-count: 1005
Summary: Pete cures his homesickness with the best kind of familiarity.
Author's Notes: Written whilst listening to The Hold Steady's "Chillout Tent" on repeat... they have nothing to do with one another, but it's a pretty sexy song. Just saying. Also-- beta'd by the speedy-but-thorough adele_thehobbit.
This could be stating the obvious, but of all the people I've fucked, Patrick is still my very favourite person to take to bed. It isn't because he's particularly skilled at anything, but rather because he's so much fun to watch. He changes colours, and he makes the best faces. He's the eighth wonder of the world, really something to behold. I could probably fool around with only him for the rest of my life and never get tired of the results.
The last time I made him come was on the couch of my house in Los Angeles, and entirely because he wanted to cheer me up. When Patrick approaches you on his knees, tugging at your belt with a deeply serious look in his eyes, you can't say no to him. He's more fucking determined (determined to fuck) than anyone I've met. But Patrick doesn't seem to realize the joy I get from his pleasure.
Anyone who knows me knew my summer was full of longing for Chicago and familiarity, but Patrick was the only one who'd done anything about it. The summer was over, but we were still on the coast and I was getting antsy. He'd come over to make me forget about my latest bout of homesickness, my ever-increasing exhaustion with the demanding LA lifestyle. He wanted to show me the silver lining of being a California homeowner.
Instead of letting him get his hands down my pants, I attacked him mid-grope and pulled him up onto the couch. I've always been stronger than him, and he was easy to pin down. I wanted to see the faces, the colours, the gratitude in his eyes. Nothing says "I need you around, Pete" like the look in someone's eyes after I've given them an unsolicited orgasm.
I always undress Patrick quicker than the others. I can't waste any time with him. Not if I want to see that creamy expanse of skin, as pure as every white cliché. It's only the base colour. I had work to do. He was surprised, but he let me pull off his clothes all the same. I stayed dressed.
His intrigued face.
The hair on his chest is patchy, pleasantly sparse. Redder than the strawberry blonde on his head, the tufts of orange begin the layers of colour on his eventually-complex body of art. It tickled my nose when I kissed below his navel. I grinned. It was already cheering me. I sat up again and straddled his legs, staring down at him. I know it weirds him out when I watch, but that's entirely the point.
His slightly nervous face.
It's hard to say where the blush started or where it ended, but it crept in like a criminal and painted his skin a wonderfully haphazard pink. It blended nicely with the freckles that already dusted his shoulders and selectively covered his chest and thighs. The shade only intensified as I reminded the blood to flow. I wrapped a hand around his cock (my colour against his) and squeezed, running my thumb over the wet slit. He arched his back slightly, pushed up, pleased. His neck, however, looked entirely too delicious to ignore and I leaned in, nibbling and sucking at it eagerly. With any luck, he would be left with purple welts in no time. He bruises easily. His light eyes widened, rolled back. His red mouth slackened, and then the ends turned up faintly.
His far-away, relishing face.
When I heard a slight whimper, I knew he was almost there. Patrick doesn't like to talk, he likes to concentrate. The passionate, intense expression it gives him makes me respect that. His cock twitched in my rapidly-jerking hand, but it was his face that I was focused on. Patrick also likes to hold his breath. I know he'd love for me to choke him, hold him down. He'd only asked me once and I said no. He trusts me, but I get so wrapped up in the splendour of the changing colours, I might allow myself to get distracted. I don't trust myself.
He screwed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched, and his face started to tinge from red to an almost-worrisome blue before I felt him shudder and quake beneath me, and release. The main event. Even with his eyes still firmly closed, I knew that it was his dizzy face. The world was spinning for him, and he was clinging to it.
As I dreamily admired the sticky mess he'd made of himself, I wiped my hand off on the leg of my sweatpants. It was hard not to think back to the first time that I'd discovered the wonders of his faces and colours. The first time I charted the telltale signs of Patrick's pleasure. It was a little harder to see in the back of our old white tour van, but while the other boys had gone to eat, it had been Patrick's turn to be homesick. He was young, away from his family and his (cheating bitch of a) girlfriend. He was there with me, seeking solace. Who was I to resist? I couldn't believe what I'd been missing out on.
His beholden face.
We found ourselves in the same position, time and time again. Always ready to lend a hand, always obliging, always of the same design. LA was hardly different.
Only inches away, I leaned over him, waiting. His eyes opened slowly and the redness of his face began to pale. He was glowing from the sweat that ran along his hairline. He began to breathe normally, and my bite marks already stood out against the white skin of his neck. He looked up at me and grinned, dazed, still rosy-cheeked. Any melancholy on my part had long since melted.
His appreciative face. His loving face. With Patrick, I could follow a map, point out landmarks, and find my way home in him. I preferred him to the changing colours of a mid-western autumn any day.
###
See original comments here.
Rating: Some lovely place between R and NC-17.
Word-count: 1005
Summary: Pete cures his homesickness with the best kind of familiarity.
Author's Notes: Written whilst listening to The Hold Steady's "Chillout Tent" on repeat... they have nothing to do with one another, but it's a pretty sexy song. Just saying. Also-- beta'd by the speedy-but-thorough adele_thehobbit.
This could be stating the obvious, but of all the people I've fucked, Patrick is still my very favourite person to take to bed. It isn't because he's particularly skilled at anything, but rather because he's so much fun to watch. He changes colours, and he makes the best faces. He's the eighth wonder of the world, really something to behold. I could probably fool around with only him for the rest of my life and never get tired of the results.
The last time I made him come was on the couch of my house in Los Angeles, and entirely because he wanted to cheer me up. When Patrick approaches you on his knees, tugging at your belt with a deeply serious look in his eyes, you can't say no to him. He's more fucking determined (determined to fuck) than anyone I've met. But Patrick doesn't seem to realize the joy I get from his pleasure.
Anyone who knows me knew my summer was full of longing for Chicago and familiarity, but Patrick was the only one who'd done anything about it. The summer was over, but we were still on the coast and I was getting antsy. He'd come over to make me forget about my latest bout of homesickness, my ever-increasing exhaustion with the demanding LA lifestyle. He wanted to show me the silver lining of being a California homeowner.
Instead of letting him get his hands down my pants, I attacked him mid-grope and pulled him up onto the couch. I've always been stronger than him, and he was easy to pin down. I wanted to see the faces, the colours, the gratitude in his eyes. Nothing says "I need you around, Pete" like the look in someone's eyes after I've given them an unsolicited orgasm.
I always undress Patrick quicker than the others. I can't waste any time with him. Not if I want to see that creamy expanse of skin, as pure as every white cliché. It's only the base colour. I had work to do. He was surprised, but he let me pull off his clothes all the same. I stayed dressed.
His intrigued face.
The hair on his chest is patchy, pleasantly sparse. Redder than the strawberry blonde on his head, the tufts of orange begin the layers of colour on his eventually-complex body of art. It tickled my nose when I kissed below his navel. I grinned. It was already cheering me. I sat up again and straddled his legs, staring down at him. I know it weirds him out when I watch, but that's entirely the point.
His slightly nervous face.
It's hard to say where the blush started or where it ended, but it crept in like a criminal and painted his skin a wonderfully haphazard pink. It blended nicely with the freckles that already dusted his shoulders and selectively covered his chest and thighs. The shade only intensified as I reminded the blood to flow. I wrapped a hand around his cock (my colour against his) and squeezed, running my thumb over the wet slit. He arched his back slightly, pushed up, pleased. His neck, however, looked entirely too delicious to ignore and I leaned in, nibbling and sucking at it eagerly. With any luck, he would be left with purple welts in no time. He bruises easily. His light eyes widened, rolled back. His red mouth slackened, and then the ends turned up faintly.
His far-away, relishing face.
When I heard a slight whimper, I knew he was almost there. Patrick doesn't like to talk, he likes to concentrate. The passionate, intense expression it gives him makes me respect that. His cock twitched in my rapidly-jerking hand, but it was his face that I was focused on. Patrick also likes to hold his breath. I know he'd love for me to choke him, hold him down. He'd only asked me once and I said no. He trusts me, but I get so wrapped up in the splendour of the changing colours, I might allow myself to get distracted. I don't trust myself.
He screwed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched, and his face started to tinge from red to an almost-worrisome blue before I felt him shudder and quake beneath me, and release. The main event. Even with his eyes still firmly closed, I knew that it was his dizzy face. The world was spinning for him, and he was clinging to it.
As I dreamily admired the sticky mess he'd made of himself, I wiped my hand off on the leg of my sweatpants. It was hard not to think back to the first time that I'd discovered the wonders of his faces and colours. The first time I charted the telltale signs of Patrick's pleasure. It was a little harder to see in the back of our old white tour van, but while the other boys had gone to eat, it had been Patrick's turn to be homesick. He was young, away from his family and his (cheating bitch of a) girlfriend. He was there with me, seeking solace. Who was I to resist? I couldn't believe what I'd been missing out on.
His beholden face.
We found ourselves in the same position, time and time again. Always ready to lend a hand, always obliging, always of the same design. LA was hardly different.
Only inches away, I leaned over him, waiting. His eyes opened slowly and the redness of his face began to pale. He was glowing from the sweat that ran along his hairline. He began to breathe normally, and my bite marks already stood out against the white skin of his neck. He looked up at me and grinned, dazed, still rosy-cheeked. Any melancholy on my part had long since melted.
His appreciative face. His loving face. With Patrick, I could follow a map, point out landmarks, and find my way home in him. I preferred him to the changing colours of a mid-western autumn any day.
###
See original comments here.