fic: 5 People Patrick Stump Didn't Sleep With...(1/1, bandslash, multiple pairings)
How many words can I write about Patrick getting laid? Um, apparently 6,421. Roughly.
Patrick/Gerard, Patrick/Travis, Patrick/Ryan/Brendon/Spencer, Patrick/Chris, Patrick/Pete. And a smidge of het, but that’s one line and you can totally skip it, if you want.
5 People Patrick Stump Never Slept With (Under the Loosely Defined Concept of "Slept With" As Regards to "Sleeping Next to Someone"), and One He Did
by Gale
1. Gerard (we'll carry on)
The thing with Gerard lasted exactly three weeks and four days, on Warped.
Even now, Patrick can't explain why it happened; if pressed, he's pretty sure Gerard couldn't, either. Patrick's theory involved it being some kind of subconscious "fuck you" to Pete and Mikey, but that didn't really hold up, mostly because they'd gone to great, insane lengths to hide it from both of them. They'd been careful not to hang out together without at least four other people in the room, and even then they didn't pay each other enough attention to be conspicuous.
As soon as they were alone, though, all bets were off. And pants, usually.
Gerard wasn't, strictly speaking, phenomenal in bed; but honestly, who was? He was enthusiastic, though, and tactile. He liked stroking the skin of Patrick's bare back at least as much as he liked blowjobs -- more, sometimes, because skin made Gerard go stupid with appreciation every time; sex had an eighty, eighty-five percent success rate.
And he liked sex -- all sex, every kind, even when it was at least a hundred degrees on the bus and they were fucking in a patch of sunshine, cranking it up even higher, sweating and slippery skin and positions that left Patrick scrambling to come up with an excuse for why he had twinges in his back. Gerard just said that made it better, since porn was the only place people were attractive and neat and clean every single time they had sex. Other than Gerard's friendship, it was the one thing Patrick took with him from the whole thing.
Sometimes, though -- a lot more often after he and Anna broke up -- he remembered leaving as soon as they were done; like they were doing something wrong, when all they were doing was enjoying themselves. Like fucking kids, like they'd been cheating or breaking some unwritten rule.
If he could go back and do it over again, that'd be the one thing he'd change. The part where he left. Or maybe the part where it ended.
2. Travis (with Teddy Ruxpin and a Slayer tape)
"Hey," Travis said, "you want to fuck around?"
Patrick looked up from the mixing board. "What did y-" he started to say, but then Travis was--
--Travis was already on the floor, fly already open. He tugged Patrick down by the ankle and got his fly unbuttoned and -zipped.
Patrick blinked at him for a second. A good bit of him was sitting back, baffled. This kind of thing happened to Pete or Andy, not him; he could count the number of times he'd gotten off in the studio on his hands with ten fingers left over. The studio was for working, not fucking around.
That was Patrick's position, anyway, right up until Travis got his jeans off and sucked his cock deep against the back of his throat, and then Patrick's brain shut off entirely.
Travis was good; even better, he was fun. Patrick was used to hooking up with guys -- when he did -- with as many hang-ups as he had, if not more. It lent itself to a surprising amount of messing around in the dark, not saying a lot, not even making a lot of noise. He was pretty sure that that wasn't how it was supposed to go.
And then there was Travis, who smelled a little like weed and got quiet when he was serious, but had great volume control and even better breath control, which made Patrick's eyes roll back in his head twice before Travis let him reciprocate. He just grinned when Patrick tangled his hands in his 'fro, and didn't blink or protest when he insisted on keeping his shirt on.
"Fucking crime, keeping this covered up," he said, stroking down Patrick's thighs with strong fingers, and oh, if he kept that up, they were headed for Round Three right now. "But we've all got something, right?" He leaned in, bit at Patrick's knee.
"You're ruining the mood," Patrick shot back, and kick-rolled Travis onto his back. Travis stared up at him, surprised. "I've been friends with Pete for almost seven years," he explained. "You learn how to fight dirty." He scooted down and bit at the tops of Travis' thighs, grinning when Travis shuddered. Easy access; Travis, at least, didn't have any problem getting naked.
Travis was pretty all over, though Patrick didn’t say it; most guys didn't really appreciate being called pretty. But he smelled a little like sweat, under the weed, and he spread his thighs wider when Patrick slid his hands between them and pushed them apart, ducked his head to lick at the head of his cock. Travis groaned.
Patrick didn't know why some people didn't like doing this. He had the mouth for it, or so everyone kept telling him, and fuck it, why not be good at something that didn't involve chord changes? One of the worst-kept secrets around, when he wanted it to be; and Travis knew that, because Travis wasn't stupid. And everyone knew Travis didn't do anything with guys unless he liked them. Really, he should've seen this coming a year back, when they first met.
When Travis came he was solicitous about it, trying to warn Patrick -- "fuck, fuck, Trick, I'm I'm ohfuck" -- but Patrick held on and swallowed anyway, because he wanted to. If this hadn't just been for fun, or an evening, he would've tried to back away at the last second and get Travis to come on his face. It wasn’t like Travis would mind; he attracted the freaks, and he liked it that way. Giving someone a facial probably wouldn't even register.
"Goddamn," Travis said a minute later, struggling to sit up. He still looked bleary-eyed, not quite with it. But not red-rimmed, and he was coherent, so Patrick was pretty sure he wasn't high. "You should patent that shit. Give up touring and move into a big-ass mansion somewhere."
"Nah," Patrick said. He sprawled on the ground and rested his head on his elbow, looking at Travis. "Then everyone would know, and I'd lose all exclusivity. My mouth is not a trademark, Travis."
Travis grinned and kissed him. "It should be."
"Mmmn." Patrick raised an eyebrow at him. His hat had come off sometime during all the excitement, but Travis was looking at him, not his hairline. "You feel like going again, or do you need a couple of minutes?"
"Like I’m fucking ancient,” Travis muttered, but he was smiling when he leaned over and started sucking a mark onto Patrick’s neck.
3. Spencer (and Ryan and Brendon, oh my)
Spencer's thighs tightened around Patrick's hips as he rolled, thrusting sharply when Ryan arched against his back and said "please, Spence, please" in this soft, broken voice.
Brendon pulled him back by his hair. "Don't listen to him," he ordered. Spencer nodded and fucked Patrick harder, all perfect one-two one-two one-two rhythm. Patrick groaned and tightened his grip on Spencer's shoulder and came, throwing his head back and panting into the pillow to keep from screaming.
Oh, God. Oh, God. He'd just come over to ask if they'd seen Andy.
Patrick came back to himself just in time to hear Ryan moan something in this drawn-out, lovely voice that sounded nothing like his speaking voice and shudder hard against the mattress, Brendon a panting weight against his back. He closed his eyes and moved his hand, absently stroking whatever bit of Spencer he could reach.
"Fuck," Brendon said after a minute, still panting. "That was--"
"Yeah." Spencer sounded dreamy, maybe a little giggly. Patrick smiled. "Do you know how to play bass, Patrick? We're looking for a guy--"
"Fuck off," Ryan said loudly. Patrick opened his eyes in time to see him pinch Spencer's hip. "You know Pete doesn't like poaching."
Patrick had his doubts about that, but he kept them to himself. Ryan's little vague, still-quasi-formed fanboy crush on Pete wasn't ever not going to be cute. It was just that you couldn’t say that around him, unless you had twenty minutes to kill and the ability to plaster a "no, I'm listening! really!" expression on your face, because Ryan could talk someone into a wall if he really wanted to.
He sat up on one elbow and watched Spencer scoot closer to Ryan, Brendon move to splay on Ryan's chest. Then he leaned over reached for his pants.
"Hey," Spencer said, "no, you don't have to," and Brendon said, "it's cool, man, this isn't--"
Patrick looked at Ryan. "Practice run?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. He found his pants and slipped out of bed, put them on. "For the new guy?"
"Jon," Ryan said. He looked embarrassed, or as close to embarrassed as he got.
"Don't be weird about this," Spencer said, and Patrick stopped looking for his shirt long enough to stare at him. Spencer looked -- there wasn't a term for his expression, really. "Not sorry it happened, actually kind of pleased, and more than half sex YAY!, but also a little bit like he's kicking a puppy" wasn't really concise.
Patrick sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, shirt in his hand. He'd sort of been able to tell when the three of them had advanced on him like he was Jonathan Harkness and the Count had left the door open, but it still sucked. A little. For about a minute. Then Brendon had gotten Ryan's shirt off, and Ryan had made this little noise in the back of his throat, and all of Patrick's higher brain functions suddenly remembered they had to go do something.
"Spencer," he said, "it's not--"
It wasn't like there were speeches to cover this kind of thing, or at least there weren't any that didn't make everyone involved sound like a cliché or a total asshole. Patrick had been in bands since he was fourteen (twelve, if you counted that thing he did in Jake Morrello's garage that didn't last long enough to have a name); he knew what it was like to be a stand-in for someone else. There wasn’t any shame in it, and if there was, there shouldn't have been. That's how it happened, sometimes.
Sitting on the edge of a hotel bed in Cleveland, watching Brendon and Spencer turn into Ryan's body like they'd been doing it for years -- and God, maybe they had; it's not like Patrick knew -- he mostly thought that Jon had no idea what he was in for. And maybe that was for the best; this wasn't the kind of thing you could go into with a plan. Plans just fucked everything up.
"Spencer," he said again, "shut up and say thank you, okay?"
So Spencer did.
4. Jeanae (my ex-boyfriend's ex-girlfriend cheated on him twice in one weekend, and all she got was two albums written about her)
Exactly once, during Pete's eleven-day Michelle Trachtenberg Phase. They never speak of it.
5. Chris (like vines)
--but Chris was young, like, perilously young. Young enough that even Pete's finely-tuned jailbait radar sat up and went "whoa, boy”; or so Patrick guessed, since Pete never so much as glanced at him.
Not, like, chronologically -- he was in his 20s, Patrick thought, like the rest of them -- but all of them were like that; even Greta, who Patrick had had more than one mildly-disturbing Valkyrie-themed daydream about. (Something about girls in bands made him immediately make them out to be Eowyn from The Lord of the Rings. He kept meaning to ask Andy about getting her a sword for Christmas.) Compared to other bands -- compared to other bands on their label -- they were. They were babies.
So, okay, the Chris thing was probably a bad idea. But they were in the studio one night, late, and Patrick was staring at the mixing board like it was out to get him, and Dan had just called and told him something about Pete, and the only words Patrick could make out were "naked pictures" and "all over the internet".
So when Chris stood a little too close to Patrick, shoulders bumping more than strictly necessary, looking at him intently whenever he spoke, Patrick thought, oh. Then something sat up in the back of his head and thought, ohhhhhh, and he was so going to hell when he died.
But, he thought. In his 20s. He'd already made it clear to Patrick that they knew what they wanted out of this record, and he respected that; he saw no reason Chris wouldn't be like that in his personal life, too. And if he'd misjudged the situation, and Chris said no thanks, no skin off his nose.
"Hey," Patrick said. He couldn't help smiling a little. "You wanna fuck around?"
*
Chris didn't so much as blink when Patrick said he wanted to keep his shirt on, just nodded and slid into his lap, already rubbing himself against Patrick's thigh. He looked normal, messy hair and mouth tasting like Tic-Tacs, breathing hard and trying not to want it too much.
"Is this going to be--" Chris moaned softly. "--weird tomorrow?" he asked. "'Cause I don't want to be weird around you, Patrick. I like you."
Patrick sighed and pinched Chris' nipple through his plaid shirt. "I like you too," he said, kissing him softly on the mouth. "I don't do this with people I don't like."
Chris just nodded and let himself be kissed, riding Patrick's thigh harder and groaned with each thrust. When Patrick bent his head to kiss the corner of his arm, the spot where it curved at his elbow, he could taste the sweat there, the tiny raised hairs.
God, Chris was so fucking ready -- maybe not for Patrick, but for someone. Patrick had a pretty good idea who. But that hadn't happened, not yet, and they were both grownups, and music got Patrick harder than anything else in the world, up to and including tattoos and the plane or curve of someone's hip.
When Chris came, he threw his head back and made soft panting noises through it, like an animal. The cords of his neck stood out, his lips were wet and red, there was warmth staining Patrick's thigh, and Patrick shouted and came, because he couldn't not. Not with Chris in his lap, pretty and straining and needy.
"God," Chris said. He sounded young, suddenly, young enough to make Patrick's stomach give a little lurch. "That was okay, right? I mean, it wasn't just me--"
Patrick kissed him again and slid his hand under Chris' shirt to stroke his stomach. "You can check, if you want," he said, grinning against Chris' mouth. "But that's not really necessary."
Chris shivered. "Wow. Um. Okay." He blinked a few times. "Is this going to be a big deal?"
"If you want," Patrick said evenly. "I wasn't thinking that way, but." He kissed him again. "I mean. I can be convinced."
"No," Chris said quickly, "that's. I mean." He cleared his throat. "This was -- I mean, wow. But Darren asked me to get coffee tomorrow, so."
There was a faint blush on his cheeks. Patrick sighed and shook his head. Babies. Pete had gotten him babies. "Coffee's good," he said, nodding. "You want to get out of here for the night?"
Chris nodded. "We should probably let it--" he waved a hand "--air out. Or whatever."
And when they came in the next morning, and the first words out of Darren's mouth were, "Okay, who had sex in the studio last night?" and Greta punched him in the arm, reflexively, Patrick looked at Chris, and took his cues from him, and didn't say anything.
6. Pete (we'll make them so jealous)
The first time was faster than Patrick would've liked -- but, he reminded himself, it was four in the morning and they were both jet-lagged. Besides, it was hard to stay on your game when you had a curious bulldog coming in and jumping on the bed at exactly the wrong moment.
"I'm sorry," Pete had said, trying to stop laughing. "I'm sor -- no, this isn't funny. It isn't. I'll lock him out on the patio next time, okay?"
"Or," Patrick had said, rubbing his head where he'd smacked it against the headboard, "you could just shut the door."
"Or I could shut the door," Pete had agreed, and they'd tried again.
Round Two went considerably better: Hemingway was outside, the phone was unplugged, and Pete's Sidekick was on the living room sofa next to Patrick's cellphone. No interruptions.
"Seriously," Pete said, after, "if someone calls for, like, a week, I'm stabbing them. In the head."
"You can't stab them," Patrick said. He kicked the sheets up from where they were scrunched near the bottom of the bed, then pulled them over the two of them.
Pete shot him a look and yanked them back. "Of course I can. I have my own label. I can totally stab someone in the head." He tried to yank the sheets away again, but Patrick kept hold of them. The tussle that followed was less of a tussle and more of an excuse for Pete to yank Patrick in close and kiss him.
Patrick leaned back against the pillow. He still had the urge to look around for his hat, but fuck it. Pete's hair was at least as bad as his own right now, and he had an excuse. He'd find it in the morning.
Pete was silent for a minute, then said, "We totally could have had sex six years ago, you know."
"No we couldn't," Patrick said faintly, already drowsing. He didn't know why girls got offended when guys fell asleep afterwards; it just meant everything had gone okay. "I was sixteen."
Pete shook his head, brushing his face against the side of Patrick's neck. "You were so hot for me back then--"
Okay, that woke him up. "No I wasn't."
Pete grinned. "That first time we all played together, in Joe's garage? You were wearing that Atari t-shirt and those jeans that were a size too small for you, and you kept making cow eyes at me."
They weren't cow eyes, they were -- okay, maybe he'd stared more than he should have. But staring didn't equal cow eyes. "I had known you fifteen hours," Patrick said. "And you called me Gary, once."
"That doesn't change the fact that you were trying to eye-fuck me," Pete said. "Not that I didn't appreciate it, but you were sixteen--"
"Like that's ever stopped you," Patrick muttered.
"--sixteen," Pete said again, "and you had the best fucking voice I'd ever heard, and there was no way I was getting in the way of that." He slid his hands around Patrick's waist. Patrick kept wanting to twist away or crack a joke of some kind. All those years of spiky scene boys with razorblade hipbones had probably ruined Pete for other guys, and he didn't want to do anything to jinx this.
After a minute, he said, "So, what, if I hadn't been sixteen, you'd have gone for it?"
Pete went still for a second. "I don't know," he said thoughtfully. "I don't think I would have been so quick to rule it out."
"God knows you don't have any rules against sleeping with your friends," Patrick said.
Pete bit his ear. "I'm thinking," he said. Patrick shuddered, could feel Pete grinning against his neck.
"Maybe nothing," he finally said. "Maybe -- maybe something. I don't know. I can't know, because I didn't let myself go there. It's weird to look back on it now and try and analyze it, you know?" He stroked the soft curve of Patrick's stomach, smacked Patrick's hand when he tried to move it. "If I had tried anything, though -- and this is completely hypothetical, you realize--"
"Just like cold fusion," Patrick said, nodding.
"It would've been in the basement," Pete said. "Probably my house, probably the basement--"
Two sentences in, he already had questions. "Wait, why your house?"
Pete shrugged. "No reason."
"Uh-huh." Patrick scooted a little closer and rested his head on his forearm. "Okay: your house, basement."
"Right." Pete tilted his head a little, moving his mouth right up against Patrick's ear; his mouth brushed it when he spoke. "So we would've been in the basement, and it wouldn't -- it would've just happened, you know? There wouldn't have been a lot of lead-in.”
And maybe he'd known Pete entirely too long, or just long enough, because Patrick could see it: it would've been at night, probably, after everyone else had gone to sleep. There had been -- and still was -- a sofa in the basement, about fifty years old and big enough for both of them to stretch out on. They'd spent enough nights that way, usually on weekends after a show when it hit three in the morning on a Saturday and it was way too early to drop him and Joe off at their houses, all three of them hopped up on enough post-show adrenaline to make them obnoxious to anyone else.
"How would you have done it?" Patrick asked.
"We would've been on the sofa," Pete said. "Just talking. It's not important about what, because you're on the sofa and I'm, like, half in your lap."
Which, to be fair, Pete was, if it was at all possible. He'd been worse about it back then, but he still did it now, usually on the bus or sometimes when they were in the hotel working on songs.
Patrick held still for a minute, then slid over the last quarter-inch of space between them. If he tried, he could feel the rhythm of Pete's heart through his chest. "And then what?"
Pete tightened his hold on Patrick's waist. "And then I would've done this," he said, and kissed him.
Patrick stayed completely still for a minute. It hadn't really kicked in that he got to do this, now; that this wasn't some kind of weird-ass dream he was having, brought on by some of Andy's pomegranate-apple blend and not enough sleep. Then he remembered oh, right and kissed Pete back, still a little surprised at how he tasted, warm and wet and maybe a little like toothpaste, just bitter enough for Patrick to remember why.
"We could've been doing this months ago," Pete said, words muffled against Patrick's mouth. "If you hadn't been out fucking your way through everyone in my address book--"
"That's the pot calling the kettle slutty," Patrick shot back, biting Pete's lower lip. "I'd start making a list, but at some point I'd like to maybe go out and do things today."
"Fucker." Pete pulled away and licked at the mark Patrick had just left. He wrapped his fingers around Patrick's wrist and let his thumb stroke the bones there. "Where were we?"
"Basement," Patrick said, half-dreamy, and shook his head. He hoped Pete hadn't -- no, wait, grinning already. Crap. "We were in your basement, and we were kissing."
"No," Pete corrected, "we should have been." He shifted onto his side, tilted Patrick's head to the left. His fingers stroked Patrick's jaw. "Among other things."
"You had a girlfriend," Patrick said weakly.
"I've had a girlfriend for, like, the entire time you've known me," Pete pointed out. "Usually the same two or three, just with breaks. Many, many breaks. Breaks that I was not always aware of." He bit the soft skin under Patrick's ear, grinned against it. "And I would have had to talk you through the whole thing, so--"
"Wait, wait, no." Patrick pulled away and looked at him. "I wasn't raised in a cave, Pete, Jesus. I've been in bands since I was twelve. Most of my friends are in bands or recovering scene kids. I understand the basic mechanics of gay sex." Seriously. He wasn't Amish.
"No," Pete said, "but you didn't sleep with a guy until you were eighteen," Pete said. "That college guy? The one with the ponytail and the comprehensive Elvis Costello collection?"
Okay, he couldn't really argue that one. Mostly because Pete had walked in on them at the time, and promptly busted up whatever passed for afterglow with twice-stoned college guys and awkward post-coital teenage boys. "That doesn't mean I didn't understand what happened."
"I know," Pete said. He didn't sound like he was going to budge. "But that doesn't prepare you for everything, you know?" He leaned on his elbow and looked off, staring at the ceiling.
"It doesn't tell you how good he's going to smell, or how weird it's going to be, even if you want to do it." He let go of Patrick's wrist and slid his hand up, resting it on Patrick's stomach. "You can do clinical reading until your eyes fall out, but that doesn't tell you how much you're going to want it -- or *if* you're going to want it, sometimes. It won't tell you about the next morning, when you have to go downstairs and realize you just had sex with another guy." He closed his eyes. "It doesn't tell you about the noises the guy's going to make, or even if he *makes* noise, and it doesn't tell you how messy it's going to be. And it doesn't tell you how much you're going to like it."
Patrick just looked at him, startled. A couple of seconds later, he closed his mouth.
Pete opened his eyes and looked at him. "I wasn't -- you were sixteen," he said matter-of-factly, "and you'd never had sex with another guy. There were things I'd have had to talk you through, kind of."
Patrick didn't say anything.
Pete cleared his throat. "It would've been fast," he said after a second. "Not -- that's not a knock," he added, "but, you know, basement sofa, quarter to one in the morning, hand clamped over your mouth to keep you from yelling too loud--"
"I don't make any noise," Patrick said quietly.
"--it wouldn't have been--" Pete stopped and looked at him.
"I'm pretty quiet," Patrick said, and Jesus, it was like Pete had never seen him before, the way he was staring. "It's not...I don't know. It always seems rude, to make a lot of noise."
"It's like directing traffic," Pete said. He sounded a little distracted. Patrick knew the feeling; his own dick was getting hard again. "I'd like to have some kind of idea that you like what I'm doing." He paused. "No noise? Nothing? Not even some kind of really embarrassing squeak?"
Patrick shook his head. "I just -- I don't." There wasn't any reason for it, particularly; he just...wasn't vocal. Gerard had suggested once that it was somehow related to Patrick using his voice every other hour of the day and wanting to rest it during sex, but Patrick didn't really buy that.
He touched the ring of thorns around Pete's neck, carefully. Under his fingers, Pete shivered.
"Keep talking," Patrick said quietly.
Pete just looked at him, eyes going wide, all pupil.
Patrick could see it in his head, clear as day: It would have been good. Not great, not run-out-and-tell-people-at-ungodly-hour-of-the-morning fantastic, but good. What they were doing now was careful, more because it was new and they were still figuring things out, but also because they'd known each other too long and been in each other's heads way too often; but back then it would have been fun, all hands and lazy instructions and Pete muttering "please, God, tell me you suck cock" against his mouth. And he would have said something like "what the hell, first time for everything" and slid down on his knees in faded jeans and it would have been so fucking good.
"I'm tired of talking," Pete said, and kissed him again.
And then things got fuzzy for a minute, because Pete fell over onto his back and Patrick went with him, and one of Pete's hands was on his ass and he was biting Patrick's lower lip and humming a little, and Patrick's skin felt like it was going to come off any second now.
Pete smiled a little when he noticed Patrick's hand still touching the thorns around his neck. "I didn't know you had a thing for guys with ink."
"I really don't," Patrick said weakly. It sounded like bullshit in his own head, let alone out of his mouth, but it wasn't. Most guys, he could just sit back and look critically, but not Pete. Actually, that explained a lot of things in his life. "It's just -- and your arms, and your stomach, and -- I don't have enough hands."
"I know the feeling," Pete said. He kept one hand on Patrick's ass and let the other splay over his upper back. Patrick had no idea what Pete was seeing, but he guessed it was pretty good, if the glazed look on Pete's face was any indication.
"We." Pete looked at him. "If I ask really nicely, do you think you could put all your clothes back on so I can take them off again?"
"No," Patrick said. "That's a deal-breaker, right there: seeing me get dressed. There's. Things shift." He made a face and hoped Pete hadn't noticed the traces of self-esteem issues in his voice. They weren't as bad as Rolling Stone had halfway implied, but the whole thing was just spoiling for a "you need to be naked more often"/"you know, it's kind of cold in here, so I should keep a shirt on" argument, and he'd like to have at least one more orgasm before that little talk. Instead--
"I miss the nipple rings," he admitted. "I just--" He didn't look away from Pete's face, just moved his hand away from Pete's neck and ran his thumb over one of the nipples, pressing down firmly.
Pete shuddered and thrust against him once, reflexively, then looked up at him. "Oh my God," he said happily, "you're such a freak."
Oh, he really had no idea. Patrick just smiled, a little sheepish, and kept thumbing his nipple.
"You could have, you know," he said after a minute. Pete stopped making pleased noises and looked at him. "Slept with me back then, I mean. You would have had to work at it, but not a lot."
"You were easy?" Pete said. He sounded hopeful. Patrick pinched his nipple and glared at him.
"I had a crush," he said. "You were smart, you played soccer -- you were in Racetraitor, okay? And it went away after, like, three weeks, when you turned into Pete, That Asshole Who Lets Me Sleep On His Futon On Weekends After a Show and Owes Me Twenty Bucks." He took Pete's hand and slid it down, down, over the soft slope of his stomach, and--
--and Pete wrapped his fingers around Patrick's cock, and Patrick twitched and thrust his hips, reflexively. "Fuck," he muttered, breathing hard.
Pete rubbed the head with his thumb. "Not yet."
Patrick let out a soft sigh and spread his legs, arching into the touch. God, he was never going to get used to this, Pete touching him and looking like it was Christmas morning. He let his hand go slack on Pete's chest and took deep breaths. His eyes slipped shut.
"Fuck, that's hot," Pete breathed, warm against his throat. Patrick opened an eye and watched Pete wrap one of his hands around his own cock. Patrick's breath got a little shaky at that, for a minute; watching someone -- watching Pete -- jerk off was hardwired into his brain under "okay, look at this". Which he did. Happily.
"It would have been so good," Pete said in his ear, mouth brushing it. Patrick shuddered and tried to angle his hips a little differently, allow him more room to work. "We would have been spread out on the sofa, and we might not have done it right away, but we would've done something." He brought his hand up and licked the palm, stroked it along Patrick's cock. Patrick shuddered again.
"I probably would've blown you," Pete added, matter-of-factly, and bit his earlobe. "You can't ask virgins to go first, man, that's mean. Besides, you'd need a model to work off."
Patrick's laugh was kind of strangled. "What," he said, "you're that good at it?" Oh God. Pete really needed to shut up right now. Forget the handjob; the words were enough. The words.
Pete bit him again. "I'm that good at everything," he said, voice low. Patrick couldn't really argue with that; everyone he'd ever slept with, even the ones he'd pissed off, and he'd never had so much as a complaint. "Don't interrupt. I'm telling a story. Where was I?"
"You were blowing me," Patrick said, almost inaudibly. He couldn't see his own eyes, but he was pretty sure they were half-lidded and all pupil. He turned his head enough to take a deep breath. God, Pete smelled *great*. Fucking libido.
"Mmmn." Pete pulled back a little, his touch going feather-light. "The good kind, all sloppy and wet, the way you get when you like doing it, you know? When you love it." Patrick opened his eyes. In the late afternoon light, a little sweaty, with his eyes half-closed and one hand lazily stroking his cock, Pete looked like half the wet dreams Patrick had had since he was sixteen.
Pete's eyes were narrow, fixed on him. "You love it, don't you?" he said hoarsely, fingers teasing Patrick.
"I love it," Patrick said, panting, head falling back. His eyes closed again. "I love going down. I like the way someone tastes, the way they smell, how when they really start making noise you can feel it echo down through them and into your mouth--"
"Fuck, yeah," Pete said. He tightened his grip and breathed heavy and slow in Patrick's ear, tugging him carefully. Nothing to see here, officer, just two guys giving each other a hand. "But you don't make noise, remember?"
"Would've made an exception," Patrick said, eyes still closed. He bit his lower lip and breathed fast and deep. There was tension in his stomach, the tops of his thighs. "The first time? Jesus, you would've been lucky if I didn't try to pull out in time and hit you in the face."
And that must've set something off, because Pete scraped his teeth against Patrick’s shoulder in a clumsy bite, moaning, and pumped his own cock 'til he came. Patrick panted and pressed his fingers into Pete's hair, scratching a little against his scalp.
"Fuck," Pete whispered, breathing evening out after a couple of seconds. "Fuck, Patrick, that was--" He took a long, shaking breath and looked up. His eyes were all pupil, his mouth red and wet; if Patrick tried, even without his glasses, he could see a couple smears of white against one long, tanned thigh.
Patrick made a noise and reached down to finish himself off. It'd take maybe ten seconds--
--and Pete knocked his hand away, saying "oh fuck that" in this soft growl that made Patrick's stomach clench. Pete's hand was warm against his cock, warm and a little sticky, because he hadn't stopped to wipe it off, that was Pete against his skin, and Patrick bit his lip hard enough to taste copper, and came. Started to come, actually, since Pete kept stroking him through the aftershocks, using just enough pressure to rev him up without being a tease, and something slammed into his stomach and made Patrick's eyes roll back in his head.
His eyes had just uncrossed when he felt Pete laugh against his throat. The angle was a little weird until he realized that at some point, Pete had probably pushed him over onto his side. Which made sense, since that was where he was now.
"And that," Pete said, nipping him, "is what happens when you're so worked up you come without, you know, coming."
"'s not possible," Patrick said. His tongue felt thick; focusing his eyes on Pete took a minute.
"Spoken like someone who never took a Human Sexuality class in college," Pete said. Patrick was in too good of a mood to remind Pete that, hey, never been to college. He made himself scoot up a little and lean back against the pillows. Damp and sweaty, yeah, but for a good reason. He'd almost forgotten what that was like. "It's possible. Not likely, but possible."
Patrick made a noise and flung out an arm, smiled when Pete immediately slid against him, kissing his shoulder where he’d bitten a minute ago. "So that was good," he said, blinking his eyes open. He was already getting sleepy. Very good sign.
"That was good?" Pete sounded incredulous. "I just came in, like, four minutes, you came twice, and all you can say is 'that was good'? Oh my God, you need to get laid more often." He buried his face against Patrick's skin for a moment. "I haven't done it this fast in -- fuck, *months*. I feel like a fucking teenager."
"God, I hope not," Patrick said. "If you're fifteen, I'm ten."
"Oh my God." Pete opened his eyes, looking horrified. "Please don't ever say that again, dude, seriously."
"Sorry," Patrick said, not at all sorry. He was trying not to laugh. "Unless, you know, you want to be eighteen and I can be thirteen, but just very mature for my age--"
"Seriously," Pete said, "stop talking right now."
Patrick made a noise and curled against him, fumbling for the sheet. "Move over," he mumbled. He rolled onto his side and buried his face against Pete's neck. He trailed his thumb along the ring of thorns one more time, then let it fall to rest on his stomach.
"Fuck you," Pete said, "I'm not *spooning*." Except he already was, arm tightening around Patrick's waist and hauling him close.
"Of course not," Patrick said faintly. "That's not manly. Not like, oh, wearing eyeliner."
"As soon as I'm awake, I'm telling you to fuck off," Pete said. could hear him punching the pillow to fluff it up.
"'kay," Patrick said, and closed his eyes.
***
I thought about asking my f-list for prompts for that "5 things" meme a while back, and then I realized, no, wait, I could just write a story. And if I did *that*, there would be porn. Everyone wins. (And then I gave up and did the meme anyway, because I was in a mood.)
jenish first described the Ryan/Brendon/Spencer trifecta as Dracula's wives; and that's how I see them now, so that analogy is ALL HER FAULT.
The list of rejected "suitors" includes William, Butcher, Gabe, Greta, and Anna, all for various reasons. Make of that what you will. Or better yet, bug me to do another one.
Patrick/Gerard, Patrick/Travis, Patrick/Ryan/Brendon/Spencer, Patrick/Chris, Patrick/Pete. And a smidge of het, but that’s one line and you can totally skip it, if you want.
5 People Patrick Stump Never Slept With (Under the Loosely Defined Concept of "Slept With" As Regards to "Sleeping Next to Someone"), and One He Did
by Gale
1. Gerard (we'll carry on)
The thing with Gerard lasted exactly three weeks and four days, on Warped.
Even now, Patrick can't explain why it happened; if pressed, he's pretty sure Gerard couldn't, either. Patrick's theory involved it being some kind of subconscious "fuck you" to Pete and Mikey, but that didn't really hold up, mostly because they'd gone to great, insane lengths to hide it from both of them. They'd been careful not to hang out together without at least four other people in the room, and even then they didn't pay each other enough attention to be conspicuous.
As soon as they were alone, though, all bets were off. And pants, usually.
Gerard wasn't, strictly speaking, phenomenal in bed; but honestly, who was? He was enthusiastic, though, and tactile. He liked stroking the skin of Patrick's bare back at least as much as he liked blowjobs -- more, sometimes, because skin made Gerard go stupid with appreciation every time; sex had an eighty, eighty-five percent success rate.
And he liked sex -- all sex, every kind, even when it was at least a hundred degrees on the bus and they were fucking in a patch of sunshine, cranking it up even higher, sweating and slippery skin and positions that left Patrick scrambling to come up with an excuse for why he had twinges in his back. Gerard just said that made it better, since porn was the only place people were attractive and neat and clean every single time they had sex. Other than Gerard's friendship, it was the one thing Patrick took with him from the whole thing.
Sometimes, though -- a lot more often after he and Anna broke up -- he remembered leaving as soon as they were done; like they were doing something wrong, when all they were doing was enjoying themselves. Like fucking kids, like they'd been cheating or breaking some unwritten rule.
If he could go back and do it over again, that'd be the one thing he'd change. The part where he left. Or maybe the part where it ended.
2. Travis (with Teddy Ruxpin and a Slayer tape)
"Hey," Travis said, "you want to fuck around?"
Patrick looked up from the mixing board. "What did y-" he started to say, but then Travis was--
--Travis was already on the floor, fly already open. He tugged Patrick down by the ankle and got his fly unbuttoned and -zipped.
Patrick blinked at him for a second. A good bit of him was sitting back, baffled. This kind of thing happened to Pete or Andy, not him; he could count the number of times he'd gotten off in the studio on his hands with ten fingers left over. The studio was for working, not fucking around.
That was Patrick's position, anyway, right up until Travis got his jeans off and sucked his cock deep against the back of his throat, and then Patrick's brain shut off entirely.
Travis was good; even better, he was fun. Patrick was used to hooking up with guys -- when he did -- with as many hang-ups as he had, if not more. It lent itself to a surprising amount of messing around in the dark, not saying a lot, not even making a lot of noise. He was pretty sure that that wasn't how it was supposed to go.
And then there was Travis, who smelled a little like weed and got quiet when he was serious, but had great volume control and even better breath control, which made Patrick's eyes roll back in his head twice before Travis let him reciprocate. He just grinned when Patrick tangled his hands in his 'fro, and didn't blink or protest when he insisted on keeping his shirt on.
"Fucking crime, keeping this covered up," he said, stroking down Patrick's thighs with strong fingers, and oh, if he kept that up, they were headed for Round Three right now. "But we've all got something, right?" He leaned in, bit at Patrick's knee.
"You're ruining the mood," Patrick shot back, and kick-rolled Travis onto his back. Travis stared up at him, surprised. "I've been friends with Pete for almost seven years," he explained. "You learn how to fight dirty." He scooted down and bit at the tops of Travis' thighs, grinning when Travis shuddered. Easy access; Travis, at least, didn't have any problem getting naked.
Travis was pretty all over, though Patrick didn’t say it; most guys didn't really appreciate being called pretty. But he smelled a little like sweat, under the weed, and he spread his thighs wider when Patrick slid his hands between them and pushed them apart, ducked his head to lick at the head of his cock. Travis groaned.
Patrick didn't know why some people didn't like doing this. He had the mouth for it, or so everyone kept telling him, and fuck it, why not be good at something that didn't involve chord changes? One of the worst-kept secrets around, when he wanted it to be; and Travis knew that, because Travis wasn't stupid. And everyone knew Travis didn't do anything with guys unless he liked them. Really, he should've seen this coming a year back, when they first met.
When Travis came he was solicitous about it, trying to warn Patrick -- "fuck, fuck, Trick, I'm I'm ohfuck" -- but Patrick held on and swallowed anyway, because he wanted to. If this hadn't just been for fun, or an evening, he would've tried to back away at the last second and get Travis to come on his face. It wasn’t like Travis would mind; he attracted the freaks, and he liked it that way. Giving someone a facial probably wouldn't even register.
"Goddamn," Travis said a minute later, struggling to sit up. He still looked bleary-eyed, not quite with it. But not red-rimmed, and he was coherent, so Patrick was pretty sure he wasn't high. "You should patent that shit. Give up touring and move into a big-ass mansion somewhere."
"Nah," Patrick said. He sprawled on the ground and rested his head on his elbow, looking at Travis. "Then everyone would know, and I'd lose all exclusivity. My mouth is not a trademark, Travis."
Travis grinned and kissed him. "It should be."
"Mmmn." Patrick raised an eyebrow at him. His hat had come off sometime during all the excitement, but Travis was looking at him, not his hairline. "You feel like going again, or do you need a couple of minutes?"
"Like I’m fucking ancient,” Travis muttered, but he was smiling when he leaned over and started sucking a mark onto Patrick’s neck.
3. Spencer (and Ryan and Brendon, oh my)
Spencer's thighs tightened around Patrick's hips as he rolled, thrusting sharply when Ryan arched against his back and said "please, Spence, please" in this soft, broken voice.
Brendon pulled him back by his hair. "Don't listen to him," he ordered. Spencer nodded and fucked Patrick harder, all perfect one-two one-two one-two rhythm. Patrick groaned and tightened his grip on Spencer's shoulder and came, throwing his head back and panting into the pillow to keep from screaming.
Oh, God. Oh, God. He'd just come over to ask if they'd seen Andy.
Patrick came back to himself just in time to hear Ryan moan something in this drawn-out, lovely voice that sounded nothing like his speaking voice and shudder hard against the mattress, Brendon a panting weight against his back. He closed his eyes and moved his hand, absently stroking whatever bit of Spencer he could reach.
"Fuck," Brendon said after a minute, still panting. "That was--"
"Yeah." Spencer sounded dreamy, maybe a little giggly. Patrick smiled. "Do you know how to play bass, Patrick? We're looking for a guy--"
"Fuck off," Ryan said loudly. Patrick opened his eyes in time to see him pinch Spencer's hip. "You know Pete doesn't like poaching."
Patrick had his doubts about that, but he kept them to himself. Ryan's little vague, still-quasi-formed fanboy crush on Pete wasn't ever not going to be cute. It was just that you couldn’t say that around him, unless you had twenty minutes to kill and the ability to plaster a "no, I'm listening! really!" expression on your face, because Ryan could talk someone into a wall if he really wanted to.
He sat up on one elbow and watched Spencer scoot closer to Ryan, Brendon move to splay on Ryan's chest. Then he leaned over reached for his pants.
"Hey," Spencer said, "no, you don't have to," and Brendon said, "it's cool, man, this isn't--"
Patrick looked at Ryan. "Practice run?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. He found his pants and slipped out of bed, put them on. "For the new guy?"
"Jon," Ryan said. He looked embarrassed, or as close to embarrassed as he got.
"Don't be weird about this," Spencer said, and Patrick stopped looking for his shirt long enough to stare at him. Spencer looked -- there wasn't a term for his expression, really. "Not sorry it happened, actually kind of pleased, and more than half sex YAY!, but also a little bit like he's kicking a puppy" wasn't really concise.
Patrick sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, shirt in his hand. He'd sort of been able to tell when the three of them had advanced on him like he was Jonathan Harkness and the Count had left the door open, but it still sucked. A little. For about a minute. Then Brendon had gotten Ryan's shirt off, and Ryan had made this little noise in the back of his throat, and all of Patrick's higher brain functions suddenly remembered they had to go do something.
"Spencer," he said, "it's not--"
It wasn't like there were speeches to cover this kind of thing, or at least there weren't any that didn't make everyone involved sound like a cliché or a total asshole. Patrick had been in bands since he was fourteen (twelve, if you counted that thing he did in Jake Morrello's garage that didn't last long enough to have a name); he knew what it was like to be a stand-in for someone else. There wasn’t any shame in it, and if there was, there shouldn't have been. That's how it happened, sometimes.
Sitting on the edge of a hotel bed in Cleveland, watching Brendon and Spencer turn into Ryan's body like they'd been doing it for years -- and God, maybe they had; it's not like Patrick knew -- he mostly thought that Jon had no idea what he was in for. And maybe that was for the best; this wasn't the kind of thing you could go into with a plan. Plans just fucked everything up.
"Spencer," he said again, "shut up and say thank you, okay?"
So Spencer did.
4. Jeanae (my ex-boyfriend's ex-girlfriend cheated on him twice in one weekend, and all she got was two albums written about her)
Exactly once, during Pete's eleven-day Michelle Trachtenberg Phase. They never speak of it.
5. Chris (like vines)
--but Chris was young, like, perilously young. Young enough that even Pete's finely-tuned jailbait radar sat up and went "whoa, boy”; or so Patrick guessed, since Pete never so much as glanced at him.
Not, like, chronologically -- he was in his 20s, Patrick thought, like the rest of them -- but all of them were like that; even Greta, who Patrick had had more than one mildly-disturbing Valkyrie-themed daydream about. (Something about girls in bands made him immediately make them out to be Eowyn from The Lord of the Rings. He kept meaning to ask Andy about getting her a sword for Christmas.) Compared to other bands -- compared to other bands on their label -- they were. They were babies.
So, okay, the Chris thing was probably a bad idea. But they were in the studio one night, late, and Patrick was staring at the mixing board like it was out to get him, and Dan had just called and told him something about Pete, and the only words Patrick could make out were "naked pictures" and "all over the internet".
So when Chris stood a little too close to Patrick, shoulders bumping more than strictly necessary, looking at him intently whenever he spoke, Patrick thought, oh. Then something sat up in the back of his head and thought, ohhhhhh, and he was so going to hell when he died.
But, he thought. In his 20s. He'd already made it clear to Patrick that they knew what they wanted out of this record, and he respected that; he saw no reason Chris wouldn't be like that in his personal life, too. And if he'd misjudged the situation, and Chris said no thanks, no skin off his nose.
"Hey," Patrick said. He couldn't help smiling a little. "You wanna fuck around?"
*
Chris didn't so much as blink when Patrick said he wanted to keep his shirt on, just nodded and slid into his lap, already rubbing himself against Patrick's thigh. He looked normal, messy hair and mouth tasting like Tic-Tacs, breathing hard and trying not to want it too much.
"Is this going to be--" Chris moaned softly. "--weird tomorrow?" he asked. "'Cause I don't want to be weird around you, Patrick. I like you."
Patrick sighed and pinched Chris' nipple through his plaid shirt. "I like you too," he said, kissing him softly on the mouth. "I don't do this with people I don't like."
Chris just nodded and let himself be kissed, riding Patrick's thigh harder and groaned with each thrust. When Patrick bent his head to kiss the corner of his arm, the spot where it curved at his elbow, he could taste the sweat there, the tiny raised hairs.
God, Chris was so fucking ready -- maybe not for Patrick, but for someone. Patrick had a pretty good idea who. But that hadn't happened, not yet, and they were both grownups, and music got Patrick harder than anything else in the world, up to and including tattoos and the plane or curve of someone's hip.
When Chris came, he threw his head back and made soft panting noises through it, like an animal. The cords of his neck stood out, his lips were wet and red, there was warmth staining Patrick's thigh, and Patrick shouted and came, because he couldn't not. Not with Chris in his lap, pretty and straining and needy.
"God," Chris said. He sounded young, suddenly, young enough to make Patrick's stomach give a little lurch. "That was okay, right? I mean, it wasn't just me--"
Patrick kissed him again and slid his hand under Chris' shirt to stroke his stomach. "You can check, if you want," he said, grinning against Chris' mouth. "But that's not really necessary."
Chris shivered. "Wow. Um. Okay." He blinked a few times. "Is this going to be a big deal?"
"If you want," Patrick said evenly. "I wasn't thinking that way, but." He kissed him again. "I mean. I can be convinced."
"No," Chris said quickly, "that's. I mean." He cleared his throat. "This was -- I mean, wow. But Darren asked me to get coffee tomorrow, so."
There was a faint blush on his cheeks. Patrick sighed and shook his head. Babies. Pete had gotten him babies. "Coffee's good," he said, nodding. "You want to get out of here for the night?"
Chris nodded. "We should probably let it--" he waved a hand "--air out. Or whatever."
And when they came in the next morning, and the first words out of Darren's mouth were, "Okay, who had sex in the studio last night?" and Greta punched him in the arm, reflexively, Patrick looked at Chris, and took his cues from him, and didn't say anything.
6. Pete (we'll make them so jealous)
The first time was faster than Patrick would've liked -- but, he reminded himself, it was four in the morning and they were both jet-lagged. Besides, it was hard to stay on your game when you had a curious bulldog coming in and jumping on the bed at exactly the wrong moment.
"I'm sorry," Pete had said, trying to stop laughing. "I'm sor -- no, this isn't funny. It isn't. I'll lock him out on the patio next time, okay?"
"Or," Patrick had said, rubbing his head where he'd smacked it against the headboard, "you could just shut the door."
"Or I could shut the door," Pete had agreed, and they'd tried again.
Round Two went considerably better: Hemingway was outside, the phone was unplugged, and Pete's Sidekick was on the living room sofa next to Patrick's cellphone. No interruptions.
"Seriously," Pete said, after, "if someone calls for, like, a week, I'm stabbing them. In the head."
"You can't stab them," Patrick said. He kicked the sheets up from where they were scrunched near the bottom of the bed, then pulled them over the two of them.
Pete shot him a look and yanked them back. "Of course I can. I have my own label. I can totally stab someone in the head." He tried to yank the sheets away again, but Patrick kept hold of them. The tussle that followed was less of a tussle and more of an excuse for Pete to yank Patrick in close and kiss him.
Patrick leaned back against the pillow. He still had the urge to look around for his hat, but fuck it. Pete's hair was at least as bad as his own right now, and he had an excuse. He'd find it in the morning.
Pete was silent for a minute, then said, "We totally could have had sex six years ago, you know."
"No we couldn't," Patrick said faintly, already drowsing. He didn't know why girls got offended when guys fell asleep afterwards; it just meant everything had gone okay. "I was sixteen."
Pete shook his head, brushing his face against the side of Patrick's neck. "You were so hot for me back then--"
Okay, that woke him up. "No I wasn't."
Pete grinned. "That first time we all played together, in Joe's garage? You were wearing that Atari t-shirt and those jeans that were a size too small for you, and you kept making cow eyes at me."
They weren't cow eyes, they were -- okay, maybe he'd stared more than he should have. But staring didn't equal cow eyes. "I had known you fifteen hours," Patrick said. "And you called me Gary, once."
"That doesn't change the fact that you were trying to eye-fuck me," Pete said. "Not that I didn't appreciate it, but you were sixteen--"
"Like that's ever stopped you," Patrick muttered.
"--sixteen," Pete said again, "and you had the best fucking voice I'd ever heard, and there was no way I was getting in the way of that." He slid his hands around Patrick's waist. Patrick kept wanting to twist away or crack a joke of some kind. All those years of spiky scene boys with razorblade hipbones had probably ruined Pete for other guys, and he didn't want to do anything to jinx this.
After a minute, he said, "So, what, if I hadn't been sixteen, you'd have gone for it?"
Pete went still for a second. "I don't know," he said thoughtfully. "I don't think I would have been so quick to rule it out."
"God knows you don't have any rules against sleeping with your friends," Patrick said.
Pete bit his ear. "I'm thinking," he said. Patrick shuddered, could feel Pete grinning against his neck.
"Maybe nothing," he finally said. "Maybe -- maybe something. I don't know. I can't know, because I didn't let myself go there. It's weird to look back on it now and try and analyze it, you know?" He stroked the soft curve of Patrick's stomach, smacked Patrick's hand when he tried to move it. "If I had tried anything, though -- and this is completely hypothetical, you realize--"
"Just like cold fusion," Patrick said, nodding.
"It would've been in the basement," Pete said. "Probably my house, probably the basement--"
Two sentences in, he already had questions. "Wait, why your house?"
Pete shrugged. "No reason."
"Uh-huh." Patrick scooted a little closer and rested his head on his forearm. "Okay: your house, basement."
"Right." Pete tilted his head a little, moving his mouth right up against Patrick's ear; his mouth brushed it when he spoke. "So we would've been in the basement, and it wouldn't -- it would've just happened, you know? There wouldn't have been a lot of lead-in.”
And maybe he'd known Pete entirely too long, or just long enough, because Patrick could see it: it would've been at night, probably, after everyone else had gone to sleep. There had been -- and still was -- a sofa in the basement, about fifty years old and big enough for both of them to stretch out on. They'd spent enough nights that way, usually on weekends after a show when it hit three in the morning on a Saturday and it was way too early to drop him and Joe off at their houses, all three of them hopped up on enough post-show adrenaline to make them obnoxious to anyone else.
"How would you have done it?" Patrick asked.
"We would've been on the sofa," Pete said. "Just talking. It's not important about what, because you're on the sofa and I'm, like, half in your lap."
Which, to be fair, Pete was, if it was at all possible. He'd been worse about it back then, but he still did it now, usually on the bus or sometimes when they were in the hotel working on songs.
Patrick held still for a minute, then slid over the last quarter-inch of space between them. If he tried, he could feel the rhythm of Pete's heart through his chest. "And then what?"
Pete tightened his hold on Patrick's waist. "And then I would've done this," he said, and kissed him.
Patrick stayed completely still for a minute. It hadn't really kicked in that he got to do this, now; that this wasn't some kind of weird-ass dream he was having, brought on by some of Andy's pomegranate-apple blend and not enough sleep. Then he remembered oh, right and kissed Pete back, still a little surprised at how he tasted, warm and wet and maybe a little like toothpaste, just bitter enough for Patrick to remember why.
"We could've been doing this months ago," Pete said, words muffled against Patrick's mouth. "If you hadn't been out fucking your way through everyone in my address book--"
"That's the pot calling the kettle slutty," Patrick shot back, biting Pete's lower lip. "I'd start making a list, but at some point I'd like to maybe go out and do things today."
"Fucker." Pete pulled away and licked at the mark Patrick had just left. He wrapped his fingers around Patrick's wrist and let his thumb stroke the bones there. "Where were we?"
"Basement," Patrick said, half-dreamy, and shook his head. He hoped Pete hadn't -- no, wait, grinning already. Crap. "We were in your basement, and we were kissing."
"No," Pete corrected, "we should have been." He shifted onto his side, tilted Patrick's head to the left. His fingers stroked Patrick's jaw. "Among other things."
"You had a girlfriend," Patrick said weakly.
"I've had a girlfriend for, like, the entire time you've known me," Pete pointed out. "Usually the same two or three, just with breaks. Many, many breaks. Breaks that I was not always aware of." He bit the soft skin under Patrick's ear, grinned against it. "And I would have had to talk you through the whole thing, so--"
"Wait, wait, no." Patrick pulled away and looked at him. "I wasn't raised in a cave, Pete, Jesus. I've been in bands since I was twelve. Most of my friends are in bands or recovering scene kids. I understand the basic mechanics of gay sex." Seriously. He wasn't Amish.
"No," Pete said, "but you didn't sleep with a guy until you were eighteen," Pete said. "That college guy? The one with the ponytail and the comprehensive Elvis Costello collection?"
Okay, he couldn't really argue that one. Mostly because Pete had walked in on them at the time, and promptly busted up whatever passed for afterglow with twice-stoned college guys and awkward post-coital teenage boys. "That doesn't mean I didn't understand what happened."
"I know," Pete said. He didn't sound like he was going to budge. "But that doesn't prepare you for everything, you know?" He leaned on his elbow and looked off, staring at the ceiling.
"It doesn't tell you how good he's going to smell, or how weird it's going to be, even if you want to do it." He let go of Patrick's wrist and slid his hand up, resting it on Patrick's stomach. "You can do clinical reading until your eyes fall out, but that doesn't tell you how much you're going to want it -- or *if* you're going to want it, sometimes. It won't tell you about the next morning, when you have to go downstairs and realize you just had sex with another guy." He closed his eyes. "It doesn't tell you about the noises the guy's going to make, or even if he *makes* noise, and it doesn't tell you how messy it's going to be. And it doesn't tell you how much you're going to like it."
Patrick just looked at him, startled. A couple of seconds later, he closed his mouth.
Pete opened his eyes and looked at him. "I wasn't -- you were sixteen," he said matter-of-factly, "and you'd never had sex with another guy. There were things I'd have had to talk you through, kind of."
Patrick didn't say anything.
Pete cleared his throat. "It would've been fast," he said after a second. "Not -- that's not a knock," he added, "but, you know, basement sofa, quarter to one in the morning, hand clamped over your mouth to keep you from yelling too loud--"
"I don't make any noise," Patrick said quietly.
"--it wouldn't have been--" Pete stopped and looked at him.
"I'm pretty quiet," Patrick said, and Jesus, it was like Pete had never seen him before, the way he was staring. "It's not...I don't know. It always seems rude, to make a lot of noise."
"It's like directing traffic," Pete said. He sounded a little distracted. Patrick knew the feeling; his own dick was getting hard again. "I'd like to have some kind of idea that you like what I'm doing." He paused. "No noise? Nothing? Not even some kind of really embarrassing squeak?"
Patrick shook his head. "I just -- I don't." There wasn't any reason for it, particularly; he just...wasn't vocal. Gerard had suggested once that it was somehow related to Patrick using his voice every other hour of the day and wanting to rest it during sex, but Patrick didn't really buy that.
He touched the ring of thorns around Pete's neck, carefully. Under his fingers, Pete shivered.
"Keep talking," Patrick said quietly.
Pete just looked at him, eyes going wide, all pupil.
Patrick could see it in his head, clear as day: It would have been good. Not great, not run-out-and-tell-people-at-ungodly-hour-of-the-morning fantastic, but good. What they were doing now was careful, more because it was new and they were still figuring things out, but also because they'd known each other too long and been in each other's heads way too often; but back then it would have been fun, all hands and lazy instructions and Pete muttering "please, God, tell me you suck cock" against his mouth. And he would have said something like "what the hell, first time for everything" and slid down on his knees in faded jeans and it would have been so fucking good.
"I'm tired of talking," Pete said, and kissed him again.
And then things got fuzzy for a minute, because Pete fell over onto his back and Patrick went with him, and one of Pete's hands was on his ass and he was biting Patrick's lower lip and humming a little, and Patrick's skin felt like it was going to come off any second now.
Pete smiled a little when he noticed Patrick's hand still touching the thorns around his neck. "I didn't know you had a thing for guys with ink."
"I really don't," Patrick said weakly. It sounded like bullshit in his own head, let alone out of his mouth, but it wasn't. Most guys, he could just sit back and look critically, but not Pete. Actually, that explained a lot of things in his life. "It's just -- and your arms, and your stomach, and -- I don't have enough hands."
"I know the feeling," Pete said. He kept one hand on Patrick's ass and let the other splay over his upper back. Patrick had no idea what Pete was seeing, but he guessed it was pretty good, if the glazed look on Pete's face was any indication.
"We." Pete looked at him. "If I ask really nicely, do you think you could put all your clothes back on so I can take them off again?"
"No," Patrick said. "That's a deal-breaker, right there: seeing me get dressed. There's. Things shift." He made a face and hoped Pete hadn't noticed the traces of self-esteem issues in his voice. They weren't as bad as Rolling Stone had halfway implied, but the whole thing was just spoiling for a "you need to be naked more often"/"you know, it's kind of cold in here, so I should keep a shirt on" argument, and he'd like to have at least one more orgasm before that little talk. Instead--
"I miss the nipple rings," he admitted. "I just--" He didn't look away from Pete's face, just moved his hand away from Pete's neck and ran his thumb over one of the nipples, pressing down firmly.
Pete shuddered and thrust against him once, reflexively, then looked up at him. "Oh my God," he said happily, "you're such a freak."
Oh, he really had no idea. Patrick just smiled, a little sheepish, and kept thumbing his nipple.
"You could have, you know," he said after a minute. Pete stopped making pleased noises and looked at him. "Slept with me back then, I mean. You would have had to work at it, but not a lot."
"You were easy?" Pete said. He sounded hopeful. Patrick pinched his nipple and glared at him.
"I had a crush," he said. "You were smart, you played soccer -- you were in Racetraitor, okay? And it went away after, like, three weeks, when you turned into Pete, That Asshole Who Lets Me Sleep On His Futon On Weekends After a Show and Owes Me Twenty Bucks." He took Pete's hand and slid it down, down, over the soft slope of his stomach, and--
--and Pete wrapped his fingers around Patrick's cock, and Patrick twitched and thrust his hips, reflexively. "Fuck," he muttered, breathing hard.
Pete rubbed the head with his thumb. "Not yet."
Patrick let out a soft sigh and spread his legs, arching into the touch. God, he was never going to get used to this, Pete touching him and looking like it was Christmas morning. He let his hand go slack on Pete's chest and took deep breaths. His eyes slipped shut.
"Fuck, that's hot," Pete breathed, warm against his throat. Patrick opened an eye and watched Pete wrap one of his hands around his own cock. Patrick's breath got a little shaky at that, for a minute; watching someone -- watching Pete -- jerk off was hardwired into his brain under "okay, look at this". Which he did. Happily.
"It would have been so good," Pete said in his ear, mouth brushing it. Patrick shuddered and tried to angle his hips a little differently, allow him more room to work. "We would have been spread out on the sofa, and we might not have done it right away, but we would've done something." He brought his hand up and licked the palm, stroked it along Patrick's cock. Patrick shuddered again.
"I probably would've blown you," Pete added, matter-of-factly, and bit his earlobe. "You can't ask virgins to go first, man, that's mean. Besides, you'd need a model to work off."
Patrick's laugh was kind of strangled. "What," he said, "you're that good at it?" Oh God. Pete really needed to shut up right now. Forget the handjob; the words were enough. The words.
Pete bit him again. "I'm that good at everything," he said, voice low. Patrick couldn't really argue with that; everyone he'd ever slept with, even the ones he'd pissed off, and he'd never had so much as a complaint. "Don't interrupt. I'm telling a story. Where was I?"
"You were blowing me," Patrick said, almost inaudibly. He couldn't see his own eyes, but he was pretty sure they were half-lidded and all pupil. He turned his head enough to take a deep breath. God, Pete smelled *great*. Fucking libido.
"Mmmn." Pete pulled back a little, his touch going feather-light. "The good kind, all sloppy and wet, the way you get when you like doing it, you know? When you love it." Patrick opened his eyes. In the late afternoon light, a little sweaty, with his eyes half-closed and one hand lazily stroking his cock, Pete looked like half the wet dreams Patrick had had since he was sixteen.
Pete's eyes were narrow, fixed on him. "You love it, don't you?" he said hoarsely, fingers teasing Patrick.
"I love it," Patrick said, panting, head falling back. His eyes closed again. "I love going down. I like the way someone tastes, the way they smell, how when they really start making noise you can feel it echo down through them and into your mouth--"
"Fuck, yeah," Pete said. He tightened his grip and breathed heavy and slow in Patrick's ear, tugging him carefully. Nothing to see here, officer, just two guys giving each other a hand. "But you don't make noise, remember?"
"Would've made an exception," Patrick said, eyes still closed. He bit his lower lip and breathed fast and deep. There was tension in his stomach, the tops of his thighs. "The first time? Jesus, you would've been lucky if I didn't try to pull out in time and hit you in the face."
And that must've set something off, because Pete scraped his teeth against Patrick’s shoulder in a clumsy bite, moaning, and pumped his own cock 'til he came. Patrick panted and pressed his fingers into Pete's hair, scratching a little against his scalp.
"Fuck," Pete whispered, breathing evening out after a couple of seconds. "Fuck, Patrick, that was--" He took a long, shaking breath and looked up. His eyes were all pupil, his mouth red and wet; if Patrick tried, even without his glasses, he could see a couple smears of white against one long, tanned thigh.
Patrick made a noise and reached down to finish himself off. It'd take maybe ten seconds--
--and Pete knocked his hand away, saying "oh fuck that" in this soft growl that made Patrick's stomach clench. Pete's hand was warm against his cock, warm and a little sticky, because he hadn't stopped to wipe it off, that was Pete against his skin, and Patrick bit his lip hard enough to taste copper, and came. Started to come, actually, since Pete kept stroking him through the aftershocks, using just enough pressure to rev him up without being a tease, and something slammed into his stomach and made Patrick's eyes roll back in his head.
His eyes had just uncrossed when he felt Pete laugh against his throat. The angle was a little weird until he realized that at some point, Pete had probably pushed him over onto his side. Which made sense, since that was where he was now.
"And that," Pete said, nipping him, "is what happens when you're so worked up you come without, you know, coming."
"'s not possible," Patrick said. His tongue felt thick; focusing his eyes on Pete took a minute.
"Spoken like someone who never took a Human Sexuality class in college," Pete said. Patrick was in too good of a mood to remind Pete that, hey, never been to college. He made himself scoot up a little and lean back against the pillows. Damp and sweaty, yeah, but for a good reason. He'd almost forgotten what that was like. "It's possible. Not likely, but possible."
Patrick made a noise and flung out an arm, smiled when Pete immediately slid against him, kissing his shoulder where he’d bitten a minute ago. "So that was good," he said, blinking his eyes open. He was already getting sleepy. Very good sign.
"That was good?" Pete sounded incredulous. "I just came in, like, four minutes, you came twice, and all you can say is 'that was good'? Oh my God, you need to get laid more often." He buried his face against Patrick's skin for a moment. "I haven't done it this fast in -- fuck, *months*. I feel like a fucking teenager."
"God, I hope not," Patrick said. "If you're fifteen, I'm ten."
"Oh my God." Pete opened his eyes, looking horrified. "Please don't ever say that again, dude, seriously."
"Sorry," Patrick said, not at all sorry. He was trying not to laugh. "Unless, you know, you want to be eighteen and I can be thirteen, but just very mature for my age--"
"Seriously," Pete said, "stop talking right now."
Patrick made a noise and curled against him, fumbling for the sheet. "Move over," he mumbled. He rolled onto his side and buried his face against Pete's neck. He trailed his thumb along the ring of thorns one more time, then let it fall to rest on his stomach.
"Fuck you," Pete said, "I'm not *spooning*." Except he already was, arm tightening around Patrick's waist and hauling him close.
"Of course not," Patrick said faintly. "That's not manly. Not like, oh, wearing eyeliner."
"As soon as I'm awake, I'm telling you to fuck off," Pete said. could hear him punching the pillow to fluff it up.
"'kay," Patrick said, and closed his eyes.
***
I thought about asking my f-list for prompts for that "5 things" meme a while back, and then I realized, no, wait, I could just write a story. And if I did *that*, there would be porn. Everyone wins. (And then I gave up and did the meme anyway, because I was in a mood.)
jenish first described the Ryan/Brendon/Spencer trifecta as Dracula's wives; and that's how I see them now, so that analogy is ALL HER FAULT.
The list of rejected "suitors" includes William, Butcher, Gabe, Greta, and Anna, all for various reasons. Make of that what you will. Or better yet, bug me to do another one.