Watch it, boy! You don't want to dis me! Or I'll dish out my misery.
I'm having trouble writing/editing the pornoliciousness for this story I'm working on - people's elbows are everywhere, there's awkward over-description, I just can't deal - and as I often do when I'm woebegone about my writing ability, I went and wandered around on Nifty. (I am aware that this makes me a very bad person.) Then, of course, I spent two hours writing bad porn about Pete copying other people's bad porn. Of course. Wait, what?
Bandom is evil. RUN FROM IT.
The stories mentioned in here are inspired by stories from the Nifty Boyband archive, to be found here, and are not actually Pete/Patrick stories; I've lifted from a few of them, but the citation is usually made clear. If you want an essay on why this is a tribute and not (totally) mockery, just ask. I love the Nifty.
Ten bonus points if you know the movie my subject line is from.
This is why they should make NetNanny for rockstars.
2,260 words, Pete/Patrick, NC-17 for intentionally bad porn.
Patrick knew that allowing Pete access to the internet was a bad idea from the start, even before the Sidekick Debacle. Sometimes he daydreams about parallel universes where Pete doesn't know what the word "internet" means. In those universes, he imagines, Patrick doesn't have a persistent-stomachache-no-really-I-think-it's-actually-an-ulcer-this-time.
"Seriously, though," Pete says. "Seriously, this is some great shit."
In this universe, Patrick calls the little not-an-ulcer that could Pete Jr.
"Listen to this: 'Patrick smiled at Pete. Pete started rubbing his head again. Patrick knew the headache was back. "Lie back Pete, and I will rub your head again." Pete lay back against Patrick, and Patrick started massaging his temples again.'" Pete stops and smiles encouragingly. "Just a head rub, see?"
"When does the sex come in?"
"I don't know. I figure there's got to be some, since this is the sixth chapter."
"Sixth?"
"Out of seventy-three." Pete frowns down at the page, ignoring Patrick's horrified noise. "Okay, I think we have sex later, but I don't think I can use this one. My dad puts out cigarettes on my shoulders."
"Oh, gross," Patrick says, and Pete nods. "Wait, okay, explain to me why we're doing this?"
Pete drops the sixth chapter of "Patrick's Angel" on the floor and picks up another story. "Because this stuff is amazing, and it's about us. I figure we should at least see if it's possible." Patrick translates this to mean 'I was bored, no one was around to talk dirty with me on the phone, and I'd already wasted three hours on FOE.' "Hey," Pete says, sitting up, "here I smell 'musky.' I'm 'all man.'"
"Okay, definitely no to that one."
"Why not?"
"Well, first, you smell nothing like a man."
Pete takes a meditative sniff of one armpit. "Point taken." He takes another deep drag, nostrils flaring. "Lady Speed Stick today, actually."
"Second," Patrick continues, "I have the feeling that one's going to be another 'Patrick is a swooning virgin' stories, and I can't take that." Pete drops that story and roots around in the scattered paper for another. "Give up already, will you?"
"No," Pete says, stubbornly. "Okay, this one is just porn. Let's go."
"I could not be less turned on," Patrick begins, fully intending to get up and go get some work done until Pete snaps out of this mood he's in, but then Pete yanks open the button open the button on his jeans and drags them down his legs, still looking down at the paper. "What are you doing?"
"This isn't completely realistic," Pete says, "because I'm supposed to be wearing a wifebeater and boxers. Isn't that weird? They've probably seen me in my underpants before, if they have access to the internet." He puts the paper down on the couch and pulls his shirt up over his head. He's not wearing anything underneath, and as per usual the sight of him makes Patrick's mouth go dry. Patrick leans back against the couch again and smiles at Pete when he steps closer. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of Pete's boxer briefs. The skin there is warm and soft, and he presses his lips against the bottom of the tattoo. Then Pete says, "Are you gonna lay me in those jeans and that hoody?" and he nearly snot-rockets on it.
"What the fuck was that?" he manages.
Pete looks a little perturbed. "That was my line."
"Oh my god," Patrick says, and gasps. "Am I really going to 'lay you'?"
"'I just wanna lay with you, I don't even wanna leave this apartment,'" Pete reads, skimming, and stops. "Maybe we should skip the dialogue. You've been wearing my hoody for the past six weeks to sleep in."
"I must smell pretty rank by now," Patrick says. He's mostly regained control of himself, and he rubs his thumbs over Pete's hipbones, earning a shudder and a smile. "What if I just gave you a blowjob? No swooning virgins, no laying, no smelly hoodies."
"No, no, this'll work," Pete says, and puts the paper on the edge of the couch before he presses Patrick back, straddling his lap and kissing him. "But you should have most of your clothes off by this point in the story, come on."
Patrick sighs and takes his hat and glasses off. Pete grabs the hem of his shirt and drags it up and off of him, throwing it somewhere behind the couch. "This is fiction, it doesn't matter where it lands," he says when Patrick turns to look.
"Tell that to the housefire you start when it knocks over a lamp."
"There are no lamps back there," Pete says, and unbuttons Patrick's pants. "Get your pants off."
"Is that what your character would say?" he says, but lifts his hips to let Pete pull his pants off.
"No, he'd say something about our future engagement."
"We're getting married?" Patrick says, and then Pete's back in his lap, looking down at him with a wry grin, and all he can think is sure, yes, please. "That's a really bad idea," he says instead. "I know you'd make Hemmy ringbearer."
Pete snickers and leans down to suck at his neck. He never does that, but it makes Patrick arch, a little, to feel his mouth and his teeth there, carefully moving up. He lips at Patrick's ear, making him laugh, and then whispers, "I'm supposed to be saying little messages here." His breath is cool against Patrick's neck.
"What kinds of messages?"
"It doesn't say. Maybe 'I'm gonna lay you so hard.'" They both get the giggles then, and have to stop to let them peter out. Pete rests his forehead against Patrick's. "Maybe 'gun to your head, would you choose me again,'" he says, once they've quieted. Patrick tips his head back and smiles.
"Am I allowed to respond to these messages?"
Pete looks over at the paper. "Nope." He frowns. "Wait, you're on top of me now."
"Really?" Patrick peers down at the paper, trying to see without his glasses. "But we were so comfortable like this. When did that happen?"
"Well, we're supposed to be on a bed," Pete says. "Oh! Lube!" He gets up, kicking Patrick in the knee, and fishes in between the cushions at the other end of the couch. He's got a bottle of Wet in one hand when he finally pulls them out. "I knew this would come in handy. Get out of the way, you have to sit on top of me, now."
He stands up, flushing a little at how obvious it is that he's turned on, and when Pete lays down on the couch he straddles him, gingerly. "This is kind of uncomfortable," he says. "My knee's sliding into the couch."
"You look really hot, though," Pete says, and shifts his hips until his dick is rubbing against Patrick's ass. Patrick can feel the blood rising in his face. "Total pin-up." Patrick puts his hands up behind his head and purses his lips, and Pete thrusts a little. "Yeah, exactly." Patrick snorts and drops back down to his hands and knees.
"Great. What now?"
"I'm--" Pete pulls the paper out from underneath his head and tries to straighten it out. "Oh, you're supposed to have your underwear off."
"Jesus. When did that happen?"
"It's kind of unclear."
Patrick stands up with difficulty, nearly wrenching his knee in the process, and strips off his underwear. He takes off Pete's for good measure, Pete putting his feet up in the air to aid the process. The underwear follows the same trajectory as his shirt, and he forces down the urge to check after it. "I don't care if that was ahead of the story," he says, as he climbs back on, "so don't bitch about it."
"No, you're good," Pete says fondly, looking at him over the top of the paper. "Don't be grumpy."
"I'm not grumpy." Pete hides his face behind the paper, like Patrick doesn't know that he's laughing. "Can you get on with it?"
"All right, all right, Pete says, and picks up the bottle of lube. Patrick's interest, which was flagging a little, so to speak, ratchets back up again. Pete puts lube on his fingers, and then stares down at the paper. "I'm supposed to let my hand disappear," he says strangely. "But then I've got to circle around your hole."
"Oh god. Wait, disappear where? I am not down with fisting."
"I think - I think my hand stops existing, and then comes back into existence by your ass," Pete says, waving one lube-covered finger in what he must think is a mystical gesture. "Kazaam, or whatever."
"Don't make me think of Shaq right now," Patrick says, and then, "okay, here." He braces his hands on either side of Pete's chest and levers himself up a little bit, just enough that Pete can slide his hand back behind Patrick's balls. He bites his lip when Pete does, but Pete just circles, his finger maddeningly light. Patrick waits, but he doesn't do anything. His thighs are starting to burn. "What the fuck?"
"That's what you said in this," Pete says, waving the paper, "only it was 'don't tease,' and you said it in a sultry voice."
"Pete."
"Yeah?"
"Fucking fuck me already."
Pete looks like he's going to protest, but Patrick's already gritting his teeth, and he seems to decide that it isn't worth the hissyfit. He drops the paper over the side of the couch and puts his hand on Patrick's thigh, helping him stay up long enough to let Pete slide his fingers into his ass. "You don't look like a pin-up anymore," he says thoughtfully. Patrick shifts his weight back onto Pete's fingers.
"I don't think they let pin-ups get naked," he says, then bites his lip again. "Give me another."
"You're so easy," Pete whispers, and Patrick grins down at him.
"What was your first clue?"
"Probably my fingers in your ass."
"All right, come on," Patrick says, "if I'm so easy."
Pete pulls his hand out from between them and squirts out a little more lube. Patrick makes a face, and Pete says, "yeah, I know, I know. This is the emergency couch bottle, okay, it couldn't be the kind that doesn't make noise."
"It's just so unsexy," he says. He leans forward a little more so that Pete can get his hand down again.
"Here," Pete says, after a second, "push back."
Patrick does. Pete can't see what he's doing - they don't usually do it like this - and there's a fidgety moment when it seems like they're going to fail at sex, but then Patrick shifts the right way and Pete cranes his head up at a really unflattering angle, and Patrick's sliding down.
"Okay," Pete says, dragging the syllable out. "That took too much work."
"Yeah." Patrick's zoned out, though, biting his lip again and rocking, a little. Pete sighs, put out, and wraps the hand still covered in lube around Patrick's cock. "Wait, I-- okay," Patrick says, and finally moves a little more. Pete thrusts, following Patrick's rhythm, and Patrick tosses his head back and moans, low and soft. It doesn't take him a long time to come after that.
"Sorry," he says, wiping come off of the thorns at Pete's neck.
"Don't apologize, just get on your back," Pete says.
"Romantic," Patrick chides, but when Pete pulls out, he maneuvers so that he can lie back on the couch. He lets his knees fall open and tilts his hips up. Pete slides back in and kisses him, stupid and sloppy. His hips are already moving erratically. "And a quick draw."
"You're one to talk," Pete says, then bows his head and grunts. He puts one hand against the arm of the couch to brace himself and curls the other around Patrick's hip.
"Come on," Patrick says, in lieu of a retort, and presses the pad of his thumb against Pete's lips. Pete licks at it, then exhales shakily and comes, his hips stuttering and slowing down.
"That was so awkward," he says, and collapses on Patrick's chest. Patrick oofs, but he doesn't move.
"I don't know," he says, "I felt like you laid me."
"I did, didn't I?" Pete rests his chin against Patrick's chest. "I laid you pretty good." They sit in meditative silence for a second, and then Pete sits up. "Get me snacks?"
"It's your house," Patrick protests, but he's already lost this argument before.
"It's my L.A. house," Pete says patiently. "If this were my parents' house, I'd know where the Triscuits are, but it's not and I don't. You do," he says. "You have a sixth sense for my scary L.A. kitchen, admit it."
"I do not," Patrick insists, but he gets up anyway, retrieving his underwear and his shirt from the floor. He puts them on in spite of Pete's grumbling.
They're halfway through a box of Crackerjack that Patrick found in the kitchen, both slumped against the foot of the couch, when Pete suddenly guffaws, spraying caramel popcorn bits everywhere. "Oh, ew," Patrick says, "what was that?"
"Holy shit, we were supposed to have about eight hours of sex," Pete says, "and I forgot to lather my cock."
Patrick peers into the Crackerjack box, looking for an almond. "There's always tomorrow," he says, and finally finds one.
"I think I broke you," Pete says, but he puts his head against Patrick's shoulder as he says it, and it sounds like he's smiling. "Save me the prize."
"Duh," Patrick replies, without having to think about it.
Wait, did you actually read all that? Have two pop songs:
The Sounds - Tony The Beat
Scissor Sisters - I Can't Decide
And go get yourself a snack, you deserve it.
I feel better, though. My porn block hasn't been broken, but this is porn that won't be going into my story! HA! Take that, brain.
Bandom is evil. RUN FROM IT.
The stories mentioned in here are inspired by stories from the Nifty Boyband archive, to be found here, and are not actually Pete/Patrick stories; I've lifted from a few of them, but the citation is usually made clear. If you want an essay on why this is a tribute and not (totally) mockery, just ask. I love the Nifty.
Ten bonus points if you know the movie my subject line is from.
This is why they should make NetNanny for rockstars.
2,260 words, Pete/Patrick, NC-17 for intentionally bad porn.
Patrick knew that allowing Pete access to the internet was a bad idea from the start, even before the Sidekick Debacle. Sometimes he daydreams about parallel universes where Pete doesn't know what the word "internet" means. In those universes, he imagines, Patrick doesn't have a persistent-stomachache-no-really-I-think-it's-actually-an-ulcer-this-time.
"Seriously, though," Pete says. "Seriously, this is some great shit."
In this universe, Patrick calls the little not-an-ulcer that could Pete Jr.
"Listen to this: 'Patrick smiled at Pete. Pete started rubbing his head again. Patrick knew the headache was back. "Lie back Pete, and I will rub your head again." Pete lay back against Patrick, and Patrick started massaging his temples again.'" Pete stops and smiles encouragingly. "Just a head rub, see?"
"When does the sex come in?"
"I don't know. I figure there's got to be some, since this is the sixth chapter."
"Sixth?"
"Out of seventy-three." Pete frowns down at the page, ignoring Patrick's horrified noise. "Okay, I think we have sex later, but I don't think I can use this one. My dad puts out cigarettes on my shoulders."
"Oh, gross," Patrick says, and Pete nods. "Wait, okay, explain to me why we're doing this?"
Pete drops the sixth chapter of "Patrick's Angel" on the floor and picks up another story. "Because this stuff is amazing, and it's about us. I figure we should at least see if it's possible." Patrick translates this to mean 'I was bored, no one was around to talk dirty with me on the phone, and I'd already wasted three hours on FOE.' "Hey," Pete says, sitting up, "here I smell 'musky.' I'm 'all man.'"
"Okay, definitely no to that one."
"Why not?"
"Well, first, you smell nothing like a man."
Pete takes a meditative sniff of one armpit. "Point taken." He takes another deep drag, nostrils flaring. "Lady Speed Stick today, actually."
"Second," Patrick continues, "I have the feeling that one's going to be another 'Patrick is a swooning virgin' stories, and I can't take that." Pete drops that story and roots around in the scattered paper for another. "Give up already, will you?"
"No," Pete says, stubbornly. "Okay, this one is just porn. Let's go."
"I could not be less turned on," Patrick begins, fully intending to get up and go get some work done until Pete snaps out of this mood he's in, but then Pete yanks open the button open the button on his jeans and drags them down his legs, still looking down at the paper. "What are you doing?"
"This isn't completely realistic," Pete says, "because I'm supposed to be wearing a wifebeater and boxers. Isn't that weird? They've probably seen me in my underpants before, if they have access to the internet." He puts the paper down on the couch and pulls his shirt up over his head. He's not wearing anything underneath, and as per usual the sight of him makes Patrick's mouth go dry. Patrick leans back against the couch again and smiles at Pete when he steps closer. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of Pete's boxer briefs. The skin there is warm and soft, and he presses his lips against the bottom of the tattoo. Then Pete says, "Are you gonna lay me in those jeans and that hoody?" and he nearly snot-rockets on it.
"What the fuck was that?" he manages.
Pete looks a little perturbed. "That was my line."
"Oh my god," Patrick says, and gasps. "Am I really going to 'lay you'?"
"'I just wanna lay with you, I don't even wanna leave this apartment,'" Pete reads, skimming, and stops. "Maybe we should skip the dialogue. You've been wearing my hoody for the past six weeks to sleep in."
"I must smell pretty rank by now," Patrick says. He's mostly regained control of himself, and he rubs his thumbs over Pete's hipbones, earning a shudder and a smile. "What if I just gave you a blowjob? No swooning virgins, no laying, no smelly hoodies."
"No, no, this'll work," Pete says, and puts the paper on the edge of the couch before he presses Patrick back, straddling his lap and kissing him. "But you should have most of your clothes off by this point in the story, come on."
Patrick sighs and takes his hat and glasses off. Pete grabs the hem of his shirt and drags it up and off of him, throwing it somewhere behind the couch. "This is fiction, it doesn't matter where it lands," he says when Patrick turns to look.
"Tell that to the housefire you start when it knocks over a lamp."
"There are no lamps back there," Pete says, and unbuttons Patrick's pants. "Get your pants off."
"Is that what your character would say?" he says, but lifts his hips to let Pete pull his pants off.
"No, he'd say something about our future engagement."
"We're getting married?" Patrick says, and then Pete's back in his lap, looking down at him with a wry grin, and all he can think is sure, yes, please. "That's a really bad idea," he says instead. "I know you'd make Hemmy ringbearer."
Pete snickers and leans down to suck at his neck. He never does that, but it makes Patrick arch, a little, to feel his mouth and his teeth there, carefully moving up. He lips at Patrick's ear, making him laugh, and then whispers, "I'm supposed to be saying little messages here." His breath is cool against Patrick's neck.
"What kinds of messages?"
"It doesn't say. Maybe 'I'm gonna lay you so hard.'" They both get the giggles then, and have to stop to let them peter out. Pete rests his forehead against Patrick's. "Maybe 'gun to your head, would you choose me again,'" he says, once they've quieted. Patrick tips his head back and smiles.
"Am I allowed to respond to these messages?"
Pete looks over at the paper. "Nope." He frowns. "Wait, you're on top of me now."
"Really?" Patrick peers down at the paper, trying to see without his glasses. "But we were so comfortable like this. When did that happen?"
"Well, we're supposed to be on a bed," Pete says. "Oh! Lube!" He gets up, kicking Patrick in the knee, and fishes in between the cushions at the other end of the couch. He's got a bottle of Wet in one hand when he finally pulls them out. "I knew this would come in handy. Get out of the way, you have to sit on top of me, now."
He stands up, flushing a little at how obvious it is that he's turned on, and when Pete lays down on the couch he straddles him, gingerly. "This is kind of uncomfortable," he says. "My knee's sliding into the couch."
"You look really hot, though," Pete says, and shifts his hips until his dick is rubbing against Patrick's ass. Patrick can feel the blood rising in his face. "Total pin-up." Patrick puts his hands up behind his head and purses his lips, and Pete thrusts a little. "Yeah, exactly." Patrick snorts and drops back down to his hands and knees.
"Great. What now?"
"I'm--" Pete pulls the paper out from underneath his head and tries to straighten it out. "Oh, you're supposed to have your underwear off."
"Jesus. When did that happen?"
"It's kind of unclear."
Patrick stands up with difficulty, nearly wrenching his knee in the process, and strips off his underwear. He takes off Pete's for good measure, Pete putting his feet up in the air to aid the process. The underwear follows the same trajectory as his shirt, and he forces down the urge to check after it. "I don't care if that was ahead of the story," he says, as he climbs back on, "so don't bitch about it."
"No, you're good," Pete says fondly, looking at him over the top of the paper. "Don't be grumpy."
"I'm not grumpy." Pete hides his face behind the paper, like Patrick doesn't know that he's laughing. "Can you get on with it?"
"All right, all right, Pete says, and picks up the bottle of lube. Patrick's interest, which was flagging a little, so to speak, ratchets back up again. Pete puts lube on his fingers, and then stares down at the paper. "I'm supposed to let my hand disappear," he says strangely. "But then I've got to circle around your hole."
"Oh god. Wait, disappear where? I am not down with fisting."
"I think - I think my hand stops existing, and then comes back into existence by your ass," Pete says, waving one lube-covered finger in what he must think is a mystical gesture. "Kazaam, or whatever."
"Don't make me think of Shaq right now," Patrick says, and then, "okay, here." He braces his hands on either side of Pete's chest and levers himself up a little bit, just enough that Pete can slide his hand back behind Patrick's balls. He bites his lip when Pete does, but Pete just circles, his finger maddeningly light. Patrick waits, but he doesn't do anything. His thighs are starting to burn. "What the fuck?"
"That's what you said in this," Pete says, waving the paper, "only it was 'don't tease,' and you said it in a sultry voice."
"Pete."
"Yeah?"
"Fucking fuck me already."
Pete looks like he's going to protest, but Patrick's already gritting his teeth, and he seems to decide that it isn't worth the hissyfit. He drops the paper over the side of the couch and puts his hand on Patrick's thigh, helping him stay up long enough to let Pete slide his fingers into his ass. "You don't look like a pin-up anymore," he says thoughtfully. Patrick shifts his weight back onto Pete's fingers.
"I don't think they let pin-ups get naked," he says, then bites his lip again. "Give me another."
"You're so easy," Pete whispers, and Patrick grins down at him.
"What was your first clue?"
"Probably my fingers in your ass."
"All right, come on," Patrick says, "if I'm so easy."
Pete pulls his hand out from between them and squirts out a little more lube. Patrick makes a face, and Pete says, "yeah, I know, I know. This is the emergency couch bottle, okay, it couldn't be the kind that doesn't make noise."
"It's just so unsexy," he says. He leans forward a little more so that Pete can get his hand down again.
"Here," Pete says, after a second, "push back."
Patrick does. Pete can't see what he's doing - they don't usually do it like this - and there's a fidgety moment when it seems like they're going to fail at sex, but then Patrick shifts the right way and Pete cranes his head up at a really unflattering angle, and Patrick's sliding down.
"Okay," Pete says, dragging the syllable out. "That took too much work."
"Yeah." Patrick's zoned out, though, biting his lip again and rocking, a little. Pete sighs, put out, and wraps the hand still covered in lube around Patrick's cock. "Wait, I-- okay," Patrick says, and finally moves a little more. Pete thrusts, following Patrick's rhythm, and Patrick tosses his head back and moans, low and soft. It doesn't take him a long time to come after that.
"Sorry," he says, wiping come off of the thorns at Pete's neck.
"Don't apologize, just get on your back," Pete says.
"Romantic," Patrick chides, but when Pete pulls out, he maneuvers so that he can lie back on the couch. He lets his knees fall open and tilts his hips up. Pete slides back in and kisses him, stupid and sloppy. His hips are already moving erratically. "And a quick draw."
"You're one to talk," Pete says, then bows his head and grunts. He puts one hand against the arm of the couch to brace himself and curls the other around Patrick's hip.
"Come on," Patrick says, in lieu of a retort, and presses the pad of his thumb against Pete's lips. Pete licks at it, then exhales shakily and comes, his hips stuttering and slowing down.
"That was so awkward," he says, and collapses on Patrick's chest. Patrick oofs, but he doesn't move.
"I don't know," he says, "I felt like you laid me."
"I did, didn't I?" Pete rests his chin against Patrick's chest. "I laid you pretty good." They sit in meditative silence for a second, and then Pete sits up. "Get me snacks?"
"It's your house," Patrick protests, but he's already lost this argument before.
"It's my L.A. house," Pete says patiently. "If this were my parents' house, I'd know where the Triscuits are, but it's not and I don't. You do," he says. "You have a sixth sense for my scary L.A. kitchen, admit it."
"I do not," Patrick insists, but he gets up anyway, retrieving his underwear and his shirt from the floor. He puts them on in spite of Pete's grumbling.
They're halfway through a box of Crackerjack that Patrick found in the kitchen, both slumped against the foot of the couch, when Pete suddenly guffaws, spraying caramel popcorn bits everywhere. "Oh, ew," Patrick says, "what was that?"
"Holy shit, we were supposed to have about eight hours of sex," Pete says, "and I forgot to lather my cock."
Patrick peers into the Crackerjack box, looking for an almond. "There's always tomorrow," he says, and finally finds one.
"I think I broke you," Pete says, but he puts his head against Patrick's shoulder as he says it, and it sounds like he's smiling. "Save me the prize."
"Duh," Patrick replies, without having to think about it.
Wait, did you actually read all that? Have two pop songs:
The Sounds - Tony The Beat
Scissor Sisters - I Can't Decide
And go get yourself a snack, you deserve it.
I feel better, though. My porn block hasn't been broken, but this is porn that won't be going into my story! HA! Take that, brain.