Alright, so, I'm going to give a stab at a meme. I'm aware that my journal isn't exactly frequented by a *lot* of people, but that's okay. Here's the deal
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It’s been one of those days that Patrick has been a step away from strangling Pete practically since he woke up. There are times when he just gets so fucking frustrated, especially when Pete spends the whole day pulling dumbass stunts like hiding all of Patrick’s underwear in the glove compartment of the van, or giving him a cupcake iced with toothpaste, and just grinning that huge, shit-eating grin. Patrick has stayed (mostly) calm and rational all day though, even when Pete sidles up next to him while they are getting dressed and squeezes his stomach, telling him, “You’re my very favourite Lunchbox.”
He doesn’t actually snap until they’re onstage that night. Patrick thinks he’s more surprised than Pete is when Pete walks by and smacks into Patrick with his bass just before he start a new song, and Patrick just loses it.
“Get the fuck off of me and onto the floor,” he hisses, and he is so glad that he turned away from the mic to say it.
Patrick’s not sure if he’s more surprised that he actually just said that, or that Pete’s eyes go wide and he stiffens for a moment, then obeys. They’re playing at a shitty venue, and the kids are used to the people onstage doing weird stuff for attention, so they barely bat an eyelash when Pete just yanks his base from around his neck and drops to his knees.
Pete’s face is level with Patrick’s waist, and he attributes how hot his face is to the lights beating down on him. All the same, he says, “All the way, Pete. Show them all how fucking tough you are.”
Without any hesitation, Pete does as he’s told, wriggling into a push-up position. Patrick hasn’t really thought ahead, and he’s trying to ignore the couple hundred people staring, but he manages to keep his voice steady as he says into the microphone, “Count him off. One. Two.”
With each number, Pete drops a quick push-up. The feeling of having this kind of control is unexpectedly pleasing, and Patrick finds himself bending closer and closer to Pete’s taut form as he continues to count upwards. The crowd has joined in by now, either amused, or too drunk to care, but Patrick is steadily forgetting about them as he barks out each number.
By “Thirty-one,” Pete’s arms are starting to shake-Patrick can see this clearly from his vantage point nearly on top of Pete. At thirty-five, he takes pity and stops, growling, “Get up.”
As Pete rises, Patrick realizes that he’s breathing just as hard as Pete, and Pete is staring at him with a wild, hungry look that Patrick absolutely does not want to think about-except for how he really, really does. Pete’s face is red and sweaty, and when he crowds up into Patrick’s space, Patrick can feel Pete’s hard-on.
Into Patrick’s ear, Pete mutters, “Fucking yes,” before he spins away, bass back in hand, and Patrick thinks, he was getting off on that.
It’s all he can do to finish the set before dragging Pete backstage.
He doesn’t actually snap until they’re onstage that night. Patrick thinks he’s more surprised than Pete is when Pete walks by and smacks into Patrick with his bass just before he start a new song, and Patrick just loses it.
“Get the fuck off of me and onto the floor,” he hisses, and he is so glad that he turned away from the mic to say it.
Patrick’s not sure if he’s more surprised that he actually just said that, or that Pete’s eyes go wide and he stiffens for a moment, then obeys. They’re playing at a shitty venue, and the kids are used to the people onstage doing weird stuff for attention, so they barely bat an eyelash when Pete just yanks his base from around his neck and drops to his knees.
Pete’s face is level with Patrick’s waist, and he attributes how hot his face is to the lights beating down on him. All the same, he says, “All the way, Pete. Show them all how fucking tough you are.”
Without any hesitation, Pete does as he’s told, wriggling into a push-up position. Patrick hasn’t really thought ahead, and he’s trying to ignore the couple hundred people staring, but he manages to keep his voice steady as he says into the microphone, “Count him off. One. Two.”
With each number, Pete drops a quick push-up. The feeling of having this kind of control is unexpectedly pleasing, and Patrick finds himself bending closer and closer to Pete’s taut form as he continues to count upwards. The crowd has joined in by now, either amused, or too drunk to care, but Patrick is steadily forgetting about them as he barks out each number.
By “Thirty-one,” Pete’s arms are starting to shake-Patrick can see this clearly from his vantage point nearly on top of Pete. At thirty-five, he takes pity and stops, growling, “Get up.”
As Pete rises, Patrick realizes that he’s breathing just as hard as Pete, and Pete is staring at him with a wild, hungry look that Patrick absolutely does not want to think about-except for how he really, really does. Pete’s face is red and sweaty, and when he crowds up into Patrick’s space, Patrick can feel Pete’s hard-on.
Into Patrick’s ear, Pete mutters, “Fucking yes,” before he spins away, bass back in hand, and Patrick thinks, he was getting off on that.
It’s all he can do to finish the set before dragging Pete backstage.
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