Fic: Through and Through
Because I promised misspamela and because it is her fault because *hugs*, we have what I think is my first-ever PWP!
Pete/Patrick, ~1300 words, the most adult thing I've ever written, ever, what. o.O Thanks to astolat for the read-through!
"No," Patrick says, for the fifteenth time. He stomps down the hall, shrugging off his jacket, his hoodie, the short-sleeved shirt he's wearing over a long-sleeved shirt, and leaving them where they fall. Fuck the mess, it's just Pete's place, and Pete wouldn't invite him over if he didn't know what was going to happen.
Pete is hopping along beside him, smacking at his arm. "Dude, come on. Seriously. I don't think it's like, all that much to ask!"
"Dude," Patrick says. He wrenches open the bedroom door, kicks his shoes off against the wall, and turns to face Pete with his arms crossed over his chest. "I am not coming on your face."
Pete is trying to pout around a smirk, looking at him sadly from underneath dark lashes; he's wearing eyeliner and mascara, which is a totally unfair double whammy, and Patrick kind of hates him a little. And Patrick's not giving in.
He shakes his head, frowning, and Pete changes tactics, frowning back at him and saying, "Aaw, come on! I'd do it for you!"
Patrick snorts. "I don't want you to do it for me!"
Pete's frown melts away again. No one does a satisfied smirk like he does, Patrick is pretty sure. Many have tried, and many have failed. Many have probably been punched in their smug, stupid mouths--
An option he considers when Pete says, "That's not what you said last night."
Patrick can feel the blood rushing to his face, that hot, mad flush that's part anger, part embarassment, and part lust. "That's not what I said last night, that's just what you wanted to hear!" he says, but Pete is smirking at him, and Patrick can hear his own voice in his memory, begging for things he doesn't want to think about. Of all the crazy shit that comes along with a relationship with Pete, the thing Patrick finds most difficult is Pete's relentless quest for the whole truth about his every action and emotion. He keeps telling Pete that a little repression is good for the soul, and Pete won't listen to a word of it.
"Fine," he says. "Fine, whatever. But don't--this is where I draw the line, you got it?"
The second most difficult part of being with Pete is that he can't see a line without wanting to cross it, so it's no surprise when he just beams at Patrick, says, "Absolutely," without meaning it at all.
And Patrick, Patrick is an idiot, he's committed to this now and he's fucking committed to Pete Wentz anyway, so he just rolls his eyes, strips off his long-sleeved shirt, and says, "How do you want it?"
Pete pushes him back against the bed, says, "Don't sit," and slides to his knees. He takes Patrick's jeans and boxer-briefs with him, tangling them around his ankles. Patrick is still wearing his shoes. He's still wearing his hat, and he's moving to take it off and toss it when Pete says, "No, leave the hat, I like it," and just when Patrick opens his mouth to bitch that that's not what Pete said last night, that smug, stupid mouth closes around the head of his dick. Pete sucks, hard and dirty, and all that comes out of Patrick's mouth is a long, low moan.
No one gives head like Pete either, is all. He's devoted to it, he loves it, he loves how much Patrick loves it, and he's never bothered to hide that. He'd told Patrick once that he'd taught himself how to go down the whole way just because he knew he'd like to hear the noises Patrick would make, and on Patrick's MacBook is a photo, left in a general folder and labelled like a random image, of Pete's wet mouth. Patrick hadn't taken it and he hadn't saved it to his laptop but he knew a gift from Pete when he saw one, and he'd carefully kept that one for a long, long time.
"Put your hands in my hair," Pete says, pulling back, and Patrick stops clenching the duvet in his hands and runs his fingers gently through Pete's hair, trying not to tug too hard at the coarse, shiny strands. Pete grins up at him and heaves a hugely put-upon sigh. "That is not what this is about, Stump."
"Screw you," Patrick says, and he closes his eyes as he feels the flush surge back into his face; how can Pete love it when he sounds like that, like someone whose spent a few too many nights in a few too many rough bars? Pete chuckles and nuzzles him, then takes him down again, all enthusiasm. Patrick may not understand it, but it's undeniable--Pete loves that voice.
After that, Pete doesn't mess around. It's hard and fast and noisy, and in the morning Patrick is going to be embarassed about it until Pete teases him into being pissed, but it's also good. It's familiar in all the best ways, and so hot that it feels brand new.
He's close when Pete pulls off again, and he groans, but Pete just says, "No, no, come on, you promised," and wraps a hand around him. "Come on, Patrick," so Patrick opens his eyes and slides a hand free to help Pete, and they jack him off together.
"You're going to owe me," Patrick says, gasps, and Pete laughs breathlessly, and that's the last straw, that's what does it; Patrick comes with a shudder and a moan, and Pete's fingers wrapped around him to keep him where Pete wants him.
He stripes Pete's cheek a few times, catches the corner of his mouth, and Pete grins up at him, eyes half-closed, lips parted and red, wet, and Patrick hadn't expected it to twist something in his gut but it does, something possessive and needy that he doesn't ever acknowledge. Something that rears up and says, excellent, yes and also mine, and when it's done, when Patrick is done, he collapses against the bed and slides down to the floor with a thunk.
Maybe that's what's knocked the breath out of him and maybe it isn't, but his breath is gone.
Pete wipes his face clean with his hand and licks his fingers like a porn star, still grinning, possibly having crossed the border of smug and headed into unknown territories of self-satisfied. "Tastes sweeter," he announces, and Patrick tries to find the energy to land a punch, and he just can't. He lists over sideways and Pete says, "Ha, I knew that would kill you," and kisses him triumphantly, a hard, clumsy press of lips and teeth and tongue. Then he's standing and tugging Patrick up, pushing him to lie flat on the bed, stripping off the rest of Patrick's clothes before stripping off his own; a whirling dervish of motion that makes feel Patrick twice as wrung out in comparison.
He's pretty much useless when Pete crawls over him, drops down, buries his face against Patrick's neck, but Pete's pretty far gone anyway. A couple hard shoves against Patrick's hip and he's coming, silent, shuddering, pushing through the aftershocks because he likes to feel everything.
Then he goes still, collapsed against Patrick, panting hotly against his skin; suddenly their breathing is the only sound in the quiet, quiet room.
"Good," Pete says long moments later, having regained the ability to speak way too fast. He nuzzles Patrick's shoulder, stubble burning pleasantly, and yawns. "Tomorrow, I'm going to find us something even better to try, just you wait."
"I can't wait," Patrick manages, and the thing is, the most unbelievable thing about being with Pete, the most bizarre thing about his entire life is that's the truth. It's the damned truth and it's the kind of thing that Pete loves to hear from him, and in a hundred little ways, Patrick means it, through and through.
The conversation that sparked it all:
Giddy: and you know what, I'M NOT EVEN A BIG FAN OF THE FACESHOT, IT'S JUST THAT IT DOESN'T EXIST.
MissP: AHAHHAHAHA
MissP: I LOVE YOUR MORAL OUTRAGE
*facepalm facepalm facepalm*
Pete/Patrick, ~1300 words, the most adult thing I've ever written, ever, what. o.O Thanks to astolat for the read-through!
"No," Patrick says, for the fifteenth time. He stomps down the hall, shrugging off his jacket, his hoodie, the short-sleeved shirt he's wearing over a long-sleeved shirt, and leaving them where they fall. Fuck the mess, it's just Pete's place, and Pete wouldn't invite him over if he didn't know what was going to happen.
Pete is hopping along beside him, smacking at his arm. "Dude, come on. Seriously. I don't think it's like, all that much to ask!"
"Dude," Patrick says. He wrenches open the bedroom door, kicks his shoes off against the wall, and turns to face Pete with his arms crossed over his chest. "I am not coming on your face."
Pete is trying to pout around a smirk, looking at him sadly from underneath dark lashes; he's wearing eyeliner and mascara, which is a totally unfair double whammy, and Patrick kind of hates him a little. And Patrick's not giving in.
He shakes his head, frowning, and Pete changes tactics, frowning back at him and saying, "Aaw, come on! I'd do it for you!"
Patrick snorts. "I don't want you to do it for me!"
Pete's frown melts away again. No one does a satisfied smirk like he does, Patrick is pretty sure. Many have tried, and many have failed. Many have probably been punched in their smug, stupid mouths--
An option he considers when Pete says, "That's not what you said last night."
Patrick can feel the blood rushing to his face, that hot, mad flush that's part anger, part embarassment, and part lust. "That's not what I said last night, that's just what you wanted to hear!" he says, but Pete is smirking at him, and Patrick can hear his own voice in his memory, begging for things he doesn't want to think about. Of all the crazy shit that comes along with a relationship with Pete, the thing Patrick finds most difficult is Pete's relentless quest for the whole truth about his every action and emotion. He keeps telling Pete that a little repression is good for the soul, and Pete won't listen to a word of it.
"Fine," he says. "Fine, whatever. But don't--this is where I draw the line, you got it?"
The second most difficult part of being with Pete is that he can't see a line without wanting to cross it, so it's no surprise when he just beams at Patrick, says, "Absolutely," without meaning it at all.
And Patrick, Patrick is an idiot, he's committed to this now and he's fucking committed to Pete Wentz anyway, so he just rolls his eyes, strips off his long-sleeved shirt, and says, "How do you want it?"
Pete pushes him back against the bed, says, "Don't sit," and slides to his knees. He takes Patrick's jeans and boxer-briefs with him, tangling them around his ankles. Patrick is still wearing his shoes. He's still wearing his hat, and he's moving to take it off and toss it when Pete says, "No, leave the hat, I like it," and just when Patrick opens his mouth to bitch that that's not what Pete said last night, that smug, stupid mouth closes around the head of his dick. Pete sucks, hard and dirty, and all that comes out of Patrick's mouth is a long, low moan.
No one gives head like Pete either, is all. He's devoted to it, he loves it, he loves how much Patrick loves it, and he's never bothered to hide that. He'd told Patrick once that he'd taught himself how to go down the whole way just because he knew he'd like to hear the noises Patrick would make, and on Patrick's MacBook is a photo, left in a general folder and labelled like a random image, of Pete's wet mouth. Patrick hadn't taken it and he hadn't saved it to his laptop but he knew a gift from Pete when he saw one, and he'd carefully kept that one for a long, long time.
"Put your hands in my hair," Pete says, pulling back, and Patrick stops clenching the duvet in his hands and runs his fingers gently through Pete's hair, trying not to tug too hard at the coarse, shiny strands. Pete grins up at him and heaves a hugely put-upon sigh. "That is not what this is about, Stump."
"Screw you," Patrick says, and he closes his eyes as he feels the flush surge back into his face; how can Pete love it when he sounds like that, like someone whose spent a few too many nights in a few too many rough bars? Pete chuckles and nuzzles him, then takes him down again, all enthusiasm. Patrick may not understand it, but it's undeniable--Pete loves that voice.
After that, Pete doesn't mess around. It's hard and fast and noisy, and in the morning Patrick is going to be embarassed about it until Pete teases him into being pissed, but it's also good. It's familiar in all the best ways, and so hot that it feels brand new.
He's close when Pete pulls off again, and he groans, but Pete just says, "No, no, come on, you promised," and wraps a hand around him. "Come on, Patrick," so Patrick opens his eyes and slides a hand free to help Pete, and they jack him off together.
"You're going to owe me," Patrick says, gasps, and Pete laughs breathlessly, and that's the last straw, that's what does it; Patrick comes with a shudder and a moan, and Pete's fingers wrapped around him to keep him where Pete wants him.
He stripes Pete's cheek a few times, catches the corner of his mouth, and Pete grins up at him, eyes half-closed, lips parted and red, wet, and Patrick hadn't expected it to twist something in his gut but it does, something possessive and needy that he doesn't ever acknowledge. Something that rears up and says, excellent, yes and also mine, and when it's done, when Patrick is done, he collapses against the bed and slides down to the floor with a thunk.
Maybe that's what's knocked the breath out of him and maybe it isn't, but his breath is gone.
Pete wipes his face clean with his hand and licks his fingers like a porn star, still grinning, possibly having crossed the border of smug and headed into unknown territories of self-satisfied. "Tastes sweeter," he announces, and Patrick tries to find the energy to land a punch, and he just can't. He lists over sideways and Pete says, "Ha, I knew that would kill you," and kisses him triumphantly, a hard, clumsy press of lips and teeth and tongue. Then he's standing and tugging Patrick up, pushing him to lie flat on the bed, stripping off the rest of Patrick's clothes before stripping off his own; a whirling dervish of motion that makes feel Patrick twice as wrung out in comparison.
He's pretty much useless when Pete crawls over him, drops down, buries his face against Patrick's neck, but Pete's pretty far gone anyway. A couple hard shoves against Patrick's hip and he's coming, silent, shuddering, pushing through the aftershocks because he likes to feel everything.
Then he goes still, collapsed against Patrick, panting hotly against his skin; suddenly their breathing is the only sound in the quiet, quiet room.
"Good," Pete says long moments later, having regained the ability to speak way too fast. He nuzzles Patrick's shoulder, stubble burning pleasantly, and yawns. "Tomorrow, I'm going to find us something even better to try, just you wait."
"I can't wait," Patrick manages, and the thing is, the most unbelievable thing about being with Pete, the most bizarre thing about his entire life is that's the truth. It's the damned truth and it's the kind of thing that Pete loves to hear from him, and in a hundred little ways, Patrick means it, through and through.
The conversation that sparked it all:
Giddy: and you know what, I'M NOT EVEN A BIG FAN OF THE FACESHOT, IT'S JUST THAT IT DOESN'T EXIST.
MissP: AHAHHAHAHA
MissP: I LOVE YOUR MORAL OUTRAGE
*facepalm facepalm facepalm*