New fic: A Little Less Independence Day (a little more fireworks)
Title: A Little Less Independence Day (a little more fireworks)
Author: giddygeek
Pairing: Pete/Patrick/Bob
Notes: Adult. 2300 words for etben, on account of us being horribly selfish and having a random fic exchange. I hope you like it, etben. It's not totally unlike the things you'd mentioned wanting! *grins*
Many thanks to misspamela for--okay, this is pretty much how all of our betas go. She says IS THAT EVEN ENGLISH? and I say THAT'S THE LANGUAGE OF THE INSIDE OF MY HEAD, and we battle, and yet she doesn't make me stop sending her stuff. Nice! Thanks also to bayleaf for supporting one side of the fight; it's your guess as to whose.
The Fourth of July has turned into the fifth of July, and Pete's alone. He had fallen asleep on the couch at some point, tired out from weeks of his insomnia being as bad as it ever gets, plus the sunshine, plus chasing people around all day with a water gun, plus having a couple beers.
He wakes up and it's like between one blink and the next, the party's over, their friends have disappeared, and it's just him in his trunks, smelling like chlorine, sweat, and the veggie burgers they'd done up on the grill.
Bob and Patrick's living room is trashed. Their kitchen is trashed. It looks kind of like a crime scene, or a zoo escape. Pete stumbles away from the couch, rubbing his chin and grinning; Bob is going to lose his shit when he sees the disaster.
There's music coming from Bob's room, and Patrick's laughter, low and quiet. Pete follows the sound, feeling lonely, even though it couldn't have been long since he fell asleep and everyone left him.
"Patrick," he says, tapping his knuckles on the doorframe and opening the door. "Patrick--oh."
Time stops. They all freeze. Pete stands in the doorway with the inside of his head pretty much whited out, and looks at Patrick, who is looking back with wide, startled eyes. He doesn't have his glasses on and Pete's first thought is to offer to go find them--which is ridiculous, because Patrick is also missing his pants and he'll need those before he goes anywhere he'll need his glasses.
And for Patrick to put on his pants, Bob would need to move his hands.
"Um," Pete says, and it means a lot of things ranging from fuck to oh shit to Patrick. He's seen Patrick naked before; he could've drawn a fucking map of Patrick's body, and that's with trying not to look too much. But he's never seen Patrick with his mouth swollen, an even deeper shade of pink than it usually is, irritated by Bob's beard. He's seen Patrick flushed and sweaty, but never because his dick is hard in someone else's hand, the head wet and gleaming. This--is new. This is uncharted territory.
This is the edge of the map where the green-eyed monsters live.
"I should...go," he says, but he can't move, and Patrick doesn't move, doesn't try to hide anything, and the moment drags on for-fucking-ever.
Bob--and Pete had barely even paid attention to Bob somehow, even though he was sitting right there, bigger and broader than Patrick, shaggy and blond and barechested, mouth as pink as Patrick's, lip ring gleaming--Bob says, "Wentz, what the fuck?" in the same mild tone that he uses on Frank, usually right before he smothers Frank with a cushion or carries him around upside down for a while.
And just as that jolts Pete into moving, Bob rolls his eyes. He twists his hand and Patrick's back arches, his chest heaving, his hands scrabbling at Bob's skin. Pete freezes again like they're playing Red Light Green Light; he's entranced, jealous and possessive and fucking wanting.
"Come here," Bob says, and Pete's been in enough accidental threesomes to know the invitiation was coming the second Bob rolled his eyes, but this. This isn't supposed to be his. This is something Patrick had never told him or shown him, which has to mean Pete isn't supposed to know, that Pete isn't supposed to have this.
He shakes his head, takes a step back. Bob says, "Don't." He twists his hand again and Patrick groans, and Pete says, "Okay." He strips off his shorts as he pads across the carpet.
"Patrick," Pete says, laying his hand on Patrick's shoulder so lightly that he can barely feel the warmth and sweat-slickness of Patrick's skin, but Patrick looks up at him. His eyes are huge, the pupils blown, a thin ring of bright green around them. Patrick licks his lip, then says, "Yeah, come on."
Pete cups his hand against the nape of Patrick's neck as Patrick lies back, then follows him down, Bob's hand still curled between them.
After that, somehow it's all Patrick's game. Pete kisses him almost hesitantly, and Patrick is the one who takes it deeper--but just barely. He parts his lips just a little, teasing in a way that has Pete wanting to do fucking ridiculous things to him, to the wet heat of his mouth.
Pete settles over him, straddling him, pushing against him, and Patrick slides his hands down Pete's sides. He curls his hands over Pete's hips and says, "Please," throaty, desperate, but it's not a question.
And it's Bob who pulls lube out of a drawer and flips the cap, slides his fingers inside Pete, thick and careful, but Patrick is the one who fucks him. Patrick is the one pushing inside slowly while Pete gasps, sitting back.
Bob is silent and watchful. Jealous? Pete wonders, and maybe it just proves he's not a good person, that he fucking sucks as a human being, but the thought makes him show off, arching his back, moving his hips. Patrick's hands tighten fitfully and he whines as he pushes up, a low sound that Pete's never heard him make before, even during long weeks when they'd lived in their van most of the time and pretended not to notice each other jerking off at night.
That sound, the idea that he could make Patrick lose it, suddenly seems like a fucking joke. It's fucking harsh of Patrick to have kept this from him, to have hidden it, to give it up now when he's fucking around with Bob and guaranteed--this is how Pete's life works, he knows how this is going to end--guaranteed to take it away.
Pete's been hard since he opened Bob's door and that little whine almost sends him over the edge, but it rips him up too. He groans, a sound that has less to do with what his body is feeling than what he's thinking, and for a wild second he wants to pull off. He wants to walk away before this is done; before he gets to see how it ends but also has to deal with how it ends.
Bob maybe gets that, because his hand is suddenly on Pete, sliding up like he's counting the bones of Pete's spine with his fingertips, pushing lightly at the small of his back. He doesn't say anything but his breath is hot on Pete's cheek; he kisses the corner of Pete's mouth, nips at his ear, and when Pete turns his head, Bob kisses him.
It's slick and thorough, and Bob's beard isn't as rough as it looks--it's softer than the scruff Pete manages to grow. The kiss isn't sweet but but it's reassuring, and when he pulls back, Pete nods in response to the question in Bob's eyes.
He looks back at Patrick, who is looking up at him, wide eyes dark, gleaming--and oh, okay. Patrick loves him, Pete knows that. This--the way the look in his eyes says it, and so does that little whine when Pete moves again and listens for it--this is the kind of proof that Pete's tried not to even hope of having.
Patrick bites his lip and pants, fingertips pressing hard against Pete's skin. "You all right?" he gasps
Pete nods, leans down to kiss him and bite his lip too, not gently, says, "I'm good. This is good," and settles back again.
Then Bob crawls up to kneel closer to Patrick, to get his hand on Pete's dick. "This is selfish," he says. "You guys are assholes," but he's smiling a little, and Patrick laughs breathlessly.
Pete grunts, too busy to talk, trying to hold it together with Patrick's dick in his ass and Bob jerking him off hard and fast. No one would give a fuck what he'd have to say anyway, because Patrick's fumbling all of Bob's pillows under his head and saying, "Come here," and his fucking ridiculous voice makes Pete's spine want to melt.
Patrick reaches out to Bob, who doesn't waste a second before going. Pete watches the head of Bob's dick pushing slowly between Patrick's lips, and that's almost the end of it right there. He looks up, has to look away, and Bob looks at him; Christ, he's fucking gone.
Bob mostly still looks like the same guy that Pete's seen behind the soundboard and the drums a hundred times, sweating and focused and fucking ridiculously hot, pale skin flushing like Patrick's does when he's really into whatever he's doing. But his eyes are glazed and he licks at his lower lip a couple times like he can't help it, running his tongue over the silver gleaming against his skin. Pete had never really thought Bob was the kind of guy who'd want a lip ring, it had always seemed a little off, but now Pete fucking gets it.
This time, he leans forward to kiss Bob.
It's an awkward angle but that doesn't stop him. He wants that ring, he wants Bob's mouth on his, he wants--fuck, he wants this to happen again so he can watch Bob and Patrick together, pink and pale and blond; apparently that's just as hot when it's two dudes as when it's girls.
Patrick groans around Bob's dick and jerks his knees up, pushing his hips forward. Pete thinks about seeing him with Bob between his thighs, fucking him, even as he ends up sitting down hard with his hips cupped tight in Patrick's hands and Bob's mouth still on his.
It turns out that for a drummer, a bass player, and a musical genius, they have a ridiculous lack of rhythm; no goddamned rhythm at all. Not that it matters--Pete pulls back from the kiss to focus and almost can't because he keeps looking down at Patrick beneath him. Patrick's chest is heaving, his nipples tight and pink, the like, three strands of hair the dude has growing on his stomach gleaming with sweat. His chin is wet, and his pink lips are curled around Bob's dick, taking it deeper and deeper.
Rhythm doesn't matter, nothing matters, except Patrick and his mouth, his hands and dick; Bob with his tongue on his lower lip and the curve of his throat as he tips his head back, his deep, rough groans as he comes, his spine arched, his big hand tight and motionless on Pete.
Pete curls his own hand over his dick when Bob sits back against the headboard, looking drowsy and satisfied, and watches Pete move. They both watch when Patrick finally takes a hand off Pete's hips to wipe his mouth, thumb dragging on his lip, and that's it. That is the fucking last straw. Pete comes, spilling out over his fingers and gasping.
Patrick waits for him, and fuck, his face is brick-red, tense. He says, "Oh, nice," when Pete, grinning to himself a little, has recovered enough to rub his hand clean on the sweat-slick skin of Patrick's chest. Then he pushes his hips up, catching Pete off-guard and making him groan and curl forward while Patrick looks smugly up at him.
"Nothing but the best for you, baby," Pete says before he twists his hips and pinches at Patrick's nipples, and Patrick apparently forgets how to keep complaining about how gross Pete is. He just groans, squeezing Pete's hips perfectly and just shy of painfully tight.
They collapse together in a heap afterwards, and Bob runs his fingers through Pete's hair, then down Patrick's outflung arm, then back up again. Pete watches his progress through half-closed eyes, smug with the lazy satisfaction of someone who just happened to be draped across most of their favorite person on the planet.
Eventually, when they're all breathing more normally and Pete's back is beginning to feel a little cold from the air conditioning but his front is starting to feel permanently stuck to Patrick, Bob shifts towards the edge of the bed. He says, "Early call tomorrow. I can--"
"Oh, no you don't," Patrick mumbles against the top of Pete's head, and he flails his hand out, catching Bob's thigh and pinching his leg hair, making Bob yelp and move back over to relieve the pressure.
Pete winces as he shifts, watching. Early call, yeah, they have one too--and this is Bob's bed, Bob's room, Bob and Patrick's apartment, which maybe means more than he'd thought it did. He says, "I should--" and Patrick makes a furious sound, says, "Do I have to do all of this myself?"
"Hey, I did at least half of it," Bob says, but he lies down where Patrick tells him to, and watches Pete with amused eyes when Patrick shoves him off his chest but immediately pins him to the bed.
When they wind up with Bob spooning behind Patrick, draped warmly around him, and Patrick clinging to Pete--and Patrick is never the clinger--Pete raises an eyebrow. Bob grins slowly back at him.
And Patrick says, "Fuck the early call," then yawns and falls asleep between one breath and the next.
Bob rolls his eyes and buries his face against the back of Patrick's neck, sighing a little. Pete watches them, thinking about what this means; now, later, tomorrow. He's not an optimist, he hardly ever thinks the best possible outcome of a situation is the one that's going to happen to him, but it's hard to worry with Patrick's hand curled in the small of his back, pressing him close, Bob so sturdy and quiet on the other side of him.
"Thank you," Pete says, when both of them seem loose and boneless, asleep, and Bob mumbles, "Anytime."
Pete sleeps. And if he realizes when he wakes up in the morning that his pillow is actually just an inflatable palm tree, it's okay because he has an armful of Patrick busy nipping at his neck and groaning, and Bob's blue eyes are gleaming at him over Patrick's shoulder. Bob is thrusting slow and easy, rubbing a hand teasingly low on Patrick's stomach while he fucks him, and well, Pete isn't complaining, and he still isn't worrying.
He's way too busy getting involved in round two.
Author: giddygeek
Pairing: Pete/Patrick/Bob
Notes: Adult. 2300 words for etben, on account of us being horribly selfish and having a random fic exchange. I hope you like it, etben. It's not totally unlike the things you'd mentioned wanting! *grins*
Many thanks to misspamela for--okay, this is pretty much how all of our betas go. She says IS THAT EVEN ENGLISH? and I say THAT'S THE LANGUAGE OF THE INSIDE OF MY HEAD, and we battle, and yet she doesn't make me stop sending her stuff. Nice! Thanks also to bayleaf for supporting one side of the fight; it's your guess as to whose.
The Fourth of July has turned into the fifth of July, and Pete's alone. He had fallen asleep on the couch at some point, tired out from weeks of his insomnia being as bad as it ever gets, plus the sunshine, plus chasing people around all day with a water gun, plus having a couple beers.
He wakes up and it's like between one blink and the next, the party's over, their friends have disappeared, and it's just him in his trunks, smelling like chlorine, sweat, and the veggie burgers they'd done up on the grill.
Bob and Patrick's living room is trashed. Their kitchen is trashed. It looks kind of like a crime scene, or a zoo escape. Pete stumbles away from the couch, rubbing his chin and grinning; Bob is going to lose his shit when he sees the disaster.
There's music coming from Bob's room, and Patrick's laughter, low and quiet. Pete follows the sound, feeling lonely, even though it couldn't have been long since he fell asleep and everyone left him.
"Patrick," he says, tapping his knuckles on the doorframe and opening the door. "Patrick--oh."
Time stops. They all freeze. Pete stands in the doorway with the inside of his head pretty much whited out, and looks at Patrick, who is looking back with wide, startled eyes. He doesn't have his glasses on and Pete's first thought is to offer to go find them--which is ridiculous, because Patrick is also missing his pants and he'll need those before he goes anywhere he'll need his glasses.
And for Patrick to put on his pants, Bob would need to move his hands.
"Um," Pete says, and it means a lot of things ranging from fuck to oh shit to Patrick. He's seen Patrick naked before; he could've drawn a fucking map of Patrick's body, and that's with trying not to look too much. But he's never seen Patrick with his mouth swollen, an even deeper shade of pink than it usually is, irritated by Bob's beard. He's seen Patrick flushed and sweaty, but never because his dick is hard in someone else's hand, the head wet and gleaming. This--is new. This is uncharted territory.
This is the edge of the map where the green-eyed monsters live.
"I should...go," he says, but he can't move, and Patrick doesn't move, doesn't try to hide anything, and the moment drags on for-fucking-ever.
Bob--and Pete had barely even paid attention to Bob somehow, even though he was sitting right there, bigger and broader than Patrick, shaggy and blond and barechested, mouth as pink as Patrick's, lip ring gleaming--Bob says, "Wentz, what the fuck?" in the same mild tone that he uses on Frank, usually right before he smothers Frank with a cushion or carries him around upside down for a while.
And just as that jolts Pete into moving, Bob rolls his eyes. He twists his hand and Patrick's back arches, his chest heaving, his hands scrabbling at Bob's skin. Pete freezes again like they're playing Red Light Green Light; he's entranced, jealous and possessive and fucking wanting.
"Come here," Bob says, and Pete's been in enough accidental threesomes to know the invitiation was coming the second Bob rolled his eyes, but this. This isn't supposed to be his. This is something Patrick had never told him or shown him, which has to mean Pete isn't supposed to know, that Pete isn't supposed to have this.
He shakes his head, takes a step back. Bob says, "Don't." He twists his hand again and Patrick groans, and Pete says, "Okay." He strips off his shorts as he pads across the carpet.
"Patrick," Pete says, laying his hand on Patrick's shoulder so lightly that he can barely feel the warmth and sweat-slickness of Patrick's skin, but Patrick looks up at him. His eyes are huge, the pupils blown, a thin ring of bright green around them. Patrick licks his lip, then says, "Yeah, come on."
Pete cups his hand against the nape of Patrick's neck as Patrick lies back, then follows him down, Bob's hand still curled between them.
After that, somehow it's all Patrick's game. Pete kisses him almost hesitantly, and Patrick is the one who takes it deeper--but just barely. He parts his lips just a little, teasing in a way that has Pete wanting to do fucking ridiculous things to him, to the wet heat of his mouth.
Pete settles over him, straddling him, pushing against him, and Patrick slides his hands down Pete's sides. He curls his hands over Pete's hips and says, "Please," throaty, desperate, but it's not a question.
And it's Bob who pulls lube out of a drawer and flips the cap, slides his fingers inside Pete, thick and careful, but Patrick is the one who fucks him. Patrick is the one pushing inside slowly while Pete gasps, sitting back.
Bob is silent and watchful. Jealous? Pete wonders, and maybe it just proves he's not a good person, that he fucking sucks as a human being, but the thought makes him show off, arching his back, moving his hips. Patrick's hands tighten fitfully and he whines as he pushes up, a low sound that Pete's never heard him make before, even during long weeks when they'd lived in their van most of the time and pretended not to notice each other jerking off at night.
That sound, the idea that he could make Patrick lose it, suddenly seems like a fucking joke. It's fucking harsh of Patrick to have kept this from him, to have hidden it, to give it up now when he's fucking around with Bob and guaranteed--this is how Pete's life works, he knows how this is going to end--guaranteed to take it away.
Pete's been hard since he opened Bob's door and that little whine almost sends him over the edge, but it rips him up too. He groans, a sound that has less to do with what his body is feeling than what he's thinking, and for a wild second he wants to pull off. He wants to walk away before this is done; before he gets to see how it ends but also has to deal with how it ends.
Bob maybe gets that, because his hand is suddenly on Pete, sliding up like he's counting the bones of Pete's spine with his fingertips, pushing lightly at the small of his back. He doesn't say anything but his breath is hot on Pete's cheek; he kisses the corner of Pete's mouth, nips at his ear, and when Pete turns his head, Bob kisses him.
It's slick and thorough, and Bob's beard isn't as rough as it looks--it's softer than the scruff Pete manages to grow. The kiss isn't sweet but but it's reassuring, and when he pulls back, Pete nods in response to the question in Bob's eyes.
He looks back at Patrick, who is looking up at him, wide eyes dark, gleaming--and oh, okay. Patrick loves him, Pete knows that. This--the way the look in his eyes says it, and so does that little whine when Pete moves again and listens for it--this is the kind of proof that Pete's tried not to even hope of having.
Patrick bites his lip and pants, fingertips pressing hard against Pete's skin. "You all right?" he gasps
Pete nods, leans down to kiss him and bite his lip too, not gently, says, "I'm good. This is good," and settles back again.
Then Bob crawls up to kneel closer to Patrick, to get his hand on Pete's dick. "This is selfish," he says. "You guys are assholes," but he's smiling a little, and Patrick laughs breathlessly.
Pete grunts, too busy to talk, trying to hold it together with Patrick's dick in his ass and Bob jerking him off hard and fast. No one would give a fuck what he'd have to say anyway, because Patrick's fumbling all of Bob's pillows under his head and saying, "Come here," and his fucking ridiculous voice makes Pete's spine want to melt.
Patrick reaches out to Bob, who doesn't waste a second before going. Pete watches the head of Bob's dick pushing slowly between Patrick's lips, and that's almost the end of it right there. He looks up, has to look away, and Bob looks at him; Christ, he's fucking gone.
Bob mostly still looks like the same guy that Pete's seen behind the soundboard and the drums a hundred times, sweating and focused and fucking ridiculously hot, pale skin flushing like Patrick's does when he's really into whatever he's doing. But his eyes are glazed and he licks at his lower lip a couple times like he can't help it, running his tongue over the silver gleaming against his skin. Pete had never really thought Bob was the kind of guy who'd want a lip ring, it had always seemed a little off, but now Pete fucking gets it.
This time, he leans forward to kiss Bob.
It's an awkward angle but that doesn't stop him. He wants that ring, he wants Bob's mouth on his, he wants--fuck, he wants this to happen again so he can watch Bob and Patrick together, pink and pale and blond; apparently that's just as hot when it's two dudes as when it's girls.
Patrick groans around Bob's dick and jerks his knees up, pushing his hips forward. Pete thinks about seeing him with Bob between his thighs, fucking him, even as he ends up sitting down hard with his hips cupped tight in Patrick's hands and Bob's mouth still on his.
It turns out that for a drummer, a bass player, and a musical genius, they have a ridiculous lack of rhythm; no goddamned rhythm at all. Not that it matters--Pete pulls back from the kiss to focus and almost can't because he keeps looking down at Patrick beneath him. Patrick's chest is heaving, his nipples tight and pink, the like, three strands of hair the dude has growing on his stomach gleaming with sweat. His chin is wet, and his pink lips are curled around Bob's dick, taking it deeper and deeper.
Rhythm doesn't matter, nothing matters, except Patrick and his mouth, his hands and dick; Bob with his tongue on his lower lip and the curve of his throat as he tips his head back, his deep, rough groans as he comes, his spine arched, his big hand tight and motionless on Pete.
Pete curls his own hand over his dick when Bob sits back against the headboard, looking drowsy and satisfied, and watches Pete move. They both watch when Patrick finally takes a hand off Pete's hips to wipe his mouth, thumb dragging on his lip, and that's it. That is the fucking last straw. Pete comes, spilling out over his fingers and gasping.
Patrick waits for him, and fuck, his face is brick-red, tense. He says, "Oh, nice," when Pete, grinning to himself a little, has recovered enough to rub his hand clean on the sweat-slick skin of Patrick's chest. Then he pushes his hips up, catching Pete off-guard and making him groan and curl forward while Patrick looks smugly up at him.
"Nothing but the best for you, baby," Pete says before he twists his hips and pinches at Patrick's nipples, and Patrick apparently forgets how to keep complaining about how gross Pete is. He just groans, squeezing Pete's hips perfectly and just shy of painfully tight.
They collapse together in a heap afterwards, and Bob runs his fingers through Pete's hair, then down Patrick's outflung arm, then back up again. Pete watches his progress through half-closed eyes, smug with the lazy satisfaction of someone who just happened to be draped across most of their favorite person on the planet.
Eventually, when they're all breathing more normally and Pete's back is beginning to feel a little cold from the air conditioning but his front is starting to feel permanently stuck to Patrick, Bob shifts towards the edge of the bed. He says, "Early call tomorrow. I can--"
"Oh, no you don't," Patrick mumbles against the top of Pete's head, and he flails his hand out, catching Bob's thigh and pinching his leg hair, making Bob yelp and move back over to relieve the pressure.
Pete winces as he shifts, watching. Early call, yeah, they have one too--and this is Bob's bed, Bob's room, Bob and Patrick's apartment, which maybe means more than he'd thought it did. He says, "I should--" and Patrick makes a furious sound, says, "Do I have to do all of this myself?"
"Hey, I did at least half of it," Bob says, but he lies down where Patrick tells him to, and watches Pete with amused eyes when Patrick shoves him off his chest but immediately pins him to the bed.
When they wind up with Bob spooning behind Patrick, draped warmly around him, and Patrick clinging to Pete--and Patrick is never the clinger--Pete raises an eyebrow. Bob grins slowly back at him.
And Patrick says, "Fuck the early call," then yawns and falls asleep between one breath and the next.
Bob rolls his eyes and buries his face against the back of Patrick's neck, sighing a little. Pete watches them, thinking about what this means; now, later, tomorrow. He's not an optimist, he hardly ever thinks the best possible outcome of a situation is the one that's going to happen to him, but it's hard to worry with Patrick's hand curled in the small of his back, pressing him close, Bob so sturdy and quiet on the other side of him.
"Thank you," Pete says, when both of them seem loose and boneless, asleep, and Bob mumbles, "Anytime."
Pete sleeps. And if he realizes when he wakes up in the morning that his pillow is actually just an inflatable palm tree, it's okay because he has an armful of Patrick busy nipping at his neck and groaning, and Bob's blue eyes are gleaming at him over Patrick's shoulder. Bob is thrusting slow and easy, rubbing a hand teasingly low on Patrick's stomach while he fucks him, and well, Pete isn't complaining, and he still isn't worrying.
He's way too busy getting involved in round two.