FIC: in between the rights and the wrongs . Patrick/Brendon . NC-17
title: in between the rights and the wrongs
fandom: Fall Out Boy/Panic! at the Disco
pairing: Brendon Urie/Patrick Stump
rating: NC-17
A/N: Alternate title being, of course, Bridget's Ultimate Gay Fantasy, Or All I Want For Christmas Is A Video Of This. Tons of love and thanks to beingothrwrldly and anindeliblemark for the beta duty and awesome comments.
"Do you ever worry that Pete will run out of words?"
Patrick looks over at Brendon, who's more than a little drunk, and cocks an eyebrow. "Peter Wentz?"
Brendon laughs, and even that sounds like music. "No, but seriously. You're the voice, right? We're the voices, the, the…vessels through which all the words come tumbling out of the beautiful heads." Brendon speaks with his hands, gesturing between their chests and fingers flitting around his head like birds and Patrick is having a hard time following. "We're the megaphones for the beautiful boys, the filters through which they send all their secrets to the world. Doesn't that ever, like, worry you?"
Patrick frowns. "It's more than that, Brendon. We're a band. You guys are a band. It's not just about Pete and Ryan and the lyrics. It's about the music." He's aware of how trite that sounds, but it's true. From the beginning this has been about making music that they all love, and the fact that a lot of other people happen to love it too doesn’t change that.
"Right, but, see, I go between feeling like I can never do these words justice, and wishing sometimes that I could hold on to pieces of them just for me, all to myself to keep in my pocket. And sometimes I feel like, what a huge thing to ask someone to do, you know? To say the things that you can't say yourself? To scream them at strangers until your throat is raw? That's…that's, like, insane, sometimes."
Before Patrick can respond, Pete sits down in between them and throws an arm around each of their shoulders, grinning madly, and then Brendon’s asking about the album and the moment is gone.
…
He can't stop thinking about everything that Brendon said. He's given up on sleep entirely, choosing instead to lie in his room with his iPod and try to make sense of Brendon's drunken rambling and his own feelings about being…what had Brendon said? A megaphone for the beautiful boy?
The thing is, though, that Patrick doesn't really think of it like that. This friendship with Pete, this inexplicable…thing that connects them, it's so much more than Pete writes the lyrics and Patrick writes the songs. It's…he doesn't even know, honestly. But there is so much going on in Pete's brain all the time that just the fact that he lets Patrick into that, without question or fear, that's amazing.
And he wonders, now, about Brendon and Ryan's process. He doubts it's like theirs, doesn't know anyone else who works the way that they do, and he doesn't think he should tell Brendon that there are so many pieces that he keeps for himself, tiny pieces of paper that he keeps in the pockets of his jackets or tucked inside the lining of his hats. So many things that are too personal, too raw and open to sing over and over for the next however many years they're going to do this. There are lines he can't bear to read more than once, lines that grab him by the throat and drag him into this terrifying place where he doesn't understand anything about Pete, or himself. There are lines he's never used but he's memorized, kept for later, waiting for the right moment to slide them into a bridge because they're just too fucking perfect to keep to himself. For too much longer, at least.
Ryan's not Pete, though. He's insanely private and almost creepily shy, peeking out from behind a mask of eye makeup that Patrick's always believed is more for some semblance of privacy on stage than decoration. He's a secret diary in a locked box, where Pete is an online journal, no membership required.
A knock on the door wakes him from a dream about being locked in an underground library, which, okay, no more Red Bull. For at least, like, a day. He doesn't even think to put pants on, because if someone's knocking on his bedroom door in the middle of the night they should prepare for boxers.
Brendon's standing on the other side, looking a little bit sheepish and a lot more sober. Patrick scratches the back of his neck and looks at him.
"Hey."
"Um, hey. Can I come in?"
"Yeah, yeah, of course."
Brendon makes a beeline for Patrick's bed, sitting on the edge near the middle, and Patrick sits and leans against the headboard, crossing his legs underneath him Indian-style. His knee is pressed against Brendon's thigh and he clears his throat for no real reason.
"Is everyone else gone?"
"If by gone, you mean sleeping, then yes. Everyone is gone. The couch looks like a gay porn post-party, by the way. Just, you know, as a heads up."
Patrick nods. "Duly noted."
"So, that is not at all how I wanted that conversation to go."
"I'm surprised you remember that conversation, dude."
"I wasn't that drunk, really." Brendon turns to look at him, scooting closer until his shin is flush with Patrick's. "I just. I fully intended to just come over and be, like, hey, let's go make out or something, but then I looked at you and all this stuff just came out of my mouth, and none of it sexy at all."
"No, seriously, it's okay. I've actually been thinking about-- I'm sorry, did you say make out?"
Brendon nods, blushing, and Patrick almost swallows his tongue. "You were hitting on me? By starting philosophical conversations about our role as lead singers?"
"Yeah, I'm not so smooth with the gay hookup." Brendon sighs. "You're really easy to talk to, did you know that? Not so easy to hit on, right, but really easy to talk to."
Patrick looks around the room quickly, searching for Pete's shoes at the bottom of the curtains or his hair sticking up from behind the dresser. He almost looks for Ashton Kutcher, because this is just that unbelievable, but then Brendon sets his hand on Patrick's thigh and his whole mind kinda goes blank.
"Look, if I'm totally off base here, you can tell me and I won't be offended." Brendon's eyes are so sincere that Patrick almost winces, but he stops himself at the last second because he figures that could easily be misinterpreted. Instead, he opens his mouth, then closes it again, because what the fuck do you say in a moment like this?
Brendon smirks, his eyes shining. "Do you want me to get Pete in here to tell you what to say?" Patrick clocks him on the arm, muttering "shut up, asshole" and then Brendon grabs Patrick's shoulder and kinda moves himself into Patrick's lap and kisses him, mouth warm and a little bit sweet. His lips are impossibly soft, like a girl, and Patrick's lips are chapped and he almost worries about that, except Brendon swipes his tongue across them and his mind does the blank thing again, because, wow, Brendon is an amazing kisser.
When Brendon pulls away, Patrick follows instinctively until Brendon sets his hands against Patrick's chest and pushes him back against the headboard. Brendon is smiling like he knows a really juicy secret, and when Patrick licks his lips Brendon does the same, focused on Patrick's mouth.
He feels like maybe he should say something, because the responsible part in the back of his mind knows that this is not a good idea, because this kid isn't even old enough to drink yet, but he's in Patrick's fucking lap and his mouth is amazing and he tastes good, like strawberries, and he's staring at Patrick in this way that makes him feel like the clichéd candy store.
"What?"
Brendon shakes his head slightly. "Nothing. You're a good kisser."
He kisses Patrick again, running his hands up Patrick's chest and curving them around the side of his neck, and his hands are soft like a girl except for all the calluses in all the right places from playing guitar and Patrick starts to think that maybe this isn't as gay as he originally thought, because it's Brendon Urie.
"You're thinking too loudly," Brendon whispers into his mouth.
"Right, right, sorry." Patrick wraps his arms around Brendon's (tiny, tiny) hips and pulls him closer.
Brendon grabs the bottom of Patrick’s shirt and tugs upwards, and Patrick instinctively stops him before thinking better of it. Brendon moves away slightly and Patrick opens his mouth to explain, but Brendon just rolls his eyes and pulls Patrick’s shirt off before he can say a word. And then that beautiful mouth is on his neck, strong fingers across his shoulders and down his arms. He’s almost completely hard, just from kissing, and when Brendon’s palm slides across his cock he remembers that he isn’t wearing much of anything anymore.
Brendon sucks on the spot where his neck meets his shoulder, sliding his thumbs into the waistband of Patrick’s boxers and pulling them down.
"I want to taste you," and, fuck, like Patrick's going to argue at this point, and then Brendon's licking a wet stripe from the base of his cock to the head and he can't fucking breathe. Patrick looks down just as Brendon wraps his lips around the head and sucks lightly, and he's never, ever going to be able to watch Brendon sing again without thinking about this moment, and won't that make for some unfortunate erections? He digs his heels into the mattress and fists his hands in the sheets and it takes every single ounce of concentration not to lift his hips and fuck Brendon's mouth until he dies. Brendon takes him deeper, deeper, and Jesus fucking Christ his entire body is burning.
Brendon wraps his hand around the base of Patrick's cock, squeezing lightly, and his tongue is swirling around and his mouth is so hot and fucking perfect and Patrick is going to die right here, going to spontaneously combust while Brendon fucking Urie is giving him a blow job and Christ, what a way to go. He reaches down and combs his fingers through the hair at the nape of Brendon's neck, and when Brendon moans appreciatively he feels the thrum in every millimeter of his body.
"Brendon." His voice is so hoarse it's not even a whisper. "Brendon, I'm going to, I need to." Brendon runs his fingernails up the inside of Patrick's thighs, cupping his balls and squeezing, and it feels like he's nodding. When Patrick looks down (for verification, because you gotta make sure in situations like this that everyone is on the same page, right?) Brendon looks up at him and smiles around his cock and that is it, Patrick is gone. His legs tense and tighten, his hips bucking up involuntarily, "fuck, yes, God, Brendon, yes" and everything whites out when he comes.
Brendon climbs up his body, impossibly graceful, and when Patrick opens his eyes he's leaning over him with a hand on either side of Patrick's shoulders, smiling and looking just a little bit worried.
"I haven't really done that before, so I'm not sure--" and Patrick doesn't even want to think about that, so he reaches up and brings Brendon's head down, crashing their lips together. He runs his hands up the back of Brendon's shirt and Brendon shivers.
"You okay?" He looks up, concerned, and when he slides his hands down Brendon’s back he shivers again.
“No, yeah, I’m fine. It’s just.” Brendon trails off, cheeks reddening. “It’s a thing. Never mind.”
“What kind of thing?”
Brendon sits back on Patrick’s thighs, taking his hands and tracing the lines on Patrick’s palms. “I have this…fetish thing, about your hands? They’re just unbelievable.” He presses Patrick’s palms together and covers them with his own hands. “I love watching you play the guitar. The way your fingers move, it’s better than porn. Amazing.” Brendon laces their fingers together and looks up at him. “You’re just, like, amazing.”
Patrick has absolutely no idea what to do with such honesty, so he does what seems like the most logical thing. He grabs the bottom of Brendon’s shirt and lifts up, pulling it off and tossing it aside. He trails his thumbs across Brendon’s collarbone, smiling when Brendon closes his eyes and sighs dramatically. He ghosts his fingertips down Brendon’s chest, pausing to circle his left nipple with a fingertip. Brendon inhales sharply, biting his bottom lip. Patrick leans forward, drawing a light circle around the other nipple with the tip of his tongue. Brendon makes a noise that’s part whimper and part gasp and all sex.
Patrick sits up, grabbing his ass and grinding their hips together, sucking a small bruise just below Brendon’s collarbone.
“Fuck.” That word has never sounded as hot as when Brendon breathes it into his neck, kissing and licking in alternate turns as Patrick slides his hand between their bodies and squeezes Brendon’s cock through his jeans.
Brendon shudders against him, pulling back to kiss Patrick, sucking on his bottom lip. This time Patrick grips his hips so tightly he’s afraid he’ll leave a bruise, sliding him back enough to unbutton his jeans.
"Dude, are these girl's pants?" Patrick fumbles with the zipper and laughs.
"Shut up and take them off, God, please," and the whining shouldn't be hot, but it so is. Patrick fumbles again, on purpose this time, brushing the back of his hand along the length of Brendon’s cock and Brendon whimpers again-which, shit, so hot-and tries to push Patrick's hands out of the way. Patrick slaps them away, which earns him a gasp and a smile, and he lifts Brendon slightly to the side. He finally gets them unzipped and pulled down and off in one fluid motion.
Brendon crawls back into his lap, hard cock pressing into Patrick stomach, and kisses him like Patrick’s mouth is the only thing keeping him alive. Patrick rubs the tip of Brendon’s cock with his thumb, making lazy circles around Brendon’s nipple with his other. Brendon leans down and kisses him.
“We need lube.” Brendon has this thing where he talks into Patrick’s mouth, and it’s inexplicably hot. Like, he can’t even stand to leave Patrick’s lips for the short amount of time a sentence encompasses.
Patrick reaches between the mattress and the box spring and produces a pretty pathetic looking bottle of lube. He squeezes a small amount into his hand and tosses that aside, not even bothering to recap it. Brendon’s hips are moving slightly and Patrick wraps his hand around the base of his cock and strokes upward slowly, applying insanely light pressure.
Patrick strokes again, squeezing a little tighter this time, rubbing his thumb across the head of Brendon’s cock on every other pull. Brendon trails hot kisses along Patrick’s jaw, burying his face in Patrick’s neck and Patrick strokes faster, Brendon’s hips move faster, faster, until he’s fucking Patrick’s hand. Patrick twists his hand slightly on each upward stroke and Brendon is breathing heavily against his neck, murmuring things that Patrick can’t hear. He reaches down and cups Brendon’s balls, squeezing them, and Brendon’s breathing is erratic.
Brendon moves his head back, pressing his forehead against Patrick’s. “God, that’s so good, yes, fuck, so close, yes,” and he grabs Patrick’s biceps. Patrick strokes, twists, squeezes, and Brendon tightens his legs around Patrick’s thighs. Patrick kisses him as he comes, biting Brendon’s bottom lip a little too hard.
Brendon sags against him, wrapping his arms around Patrick’s shoulders. “Oh my fucking God, Patrick.” He giggles a little bit hysterically, and Patrick smiles into his neck.
“Yeah, that’s kinda what I was thinking.” He grabs his boxers and cleans them both up, which isn’t perfect but he’s not really in a state to be moving a whole lot at this point. He wraps his arms around Brendon and moves them both to where they’re lying down on their sides, reaching down to pull the sheet up over them. Brendon moves so close that there isn’t much of their skin that isn’t touching and rests his forehead against Patrick’s again. Patrick wraps his arm around Brendon, splaying his fingers across the small of his back.
“I cannot believe I just had sex with you.”
Patrick smiles. “Because I’m a rock star?”
Brendon opens his eyes and whispers, “No, because you’re Patrick,” and then closes them again, like that explains it all. And maybe it kinda does, but Patrick doesn’t want to let himself think about it too much. Not right now. Instead, he kisses Brendon lightly before falling into dreamless sleep.
fandom: Fall Out Boy/Panic! at the Disco
pairing: Brendon Urie/Patrick Stump
rating: NC-17
A/N: Alternate title being, of course, Bridget's Ultimate Gay Fantasy, Or All I Want For Christmas Is A Video Of This. Tons of love and thanks to beingothrwrldly and anindeliblemark for the beta duty and awesome comments.
"Do you ever worry that Pete will run out of words?"
Patrick looks over at Brendon, who's more than a little drunk, and cocks an eyebrow. "Peter Wentz?"
Brendon laughs, and even that sounds like music. "No, but seriously. You're the voice, right? We're the voices, the, the…vessels through which all the words come tumbling out of the beautiful heads." Brendon speaks with his hands, gesturing between their chests and fingers flitting around his head like birds and Patrick is having a hard time following. "We're the megaphones for the beautiful boys, the filters through which they send all their secrets to the world. Doesn't that ever, like, worry you?"
Patrick frowns. "It's more than that, Brendon. We're a band. You guys are a band. It's not just about Pete and Ryan and the lyrics. It's about the music." He's aware of how trite that sounds, but it's true. From the beginning this has been about making music that they all love, and the fact that a lot of other people happen to love it too doesn’t change that.
"Right, but, see, I go between feeling like I can never do these words justice, and wishing sometimes that I could hold on to pieces of them just for me, all to myself to keep in my pocket. And sometimes I feel like, what a huge thing to ask someone to do, you know? To say the things that you can't say yourself? To scream them at strangers until your throat is raw? That's…that's, like, insane, sometimes."
Before Patrick can respond, Pete sits down in between them and throws an arm around each of their shoulders, grinning madly, and then Brendon’s asking about the album and the moment is gone.
…
He can't stop thinking about everything that Brendon said. He's given up on sleep entirely, choosing instead to lie in his room with his iPod and try to make sense of Brendon's drunken rambling and his own feelings about being…what had Brendon said? A megaphone for the beautiful boy?
The thing is, though, that Patrick doesn't really think of it like that. This friendship with Pete, this inexplicable…thing that connects them, it's so much more than Pete writes the lyrics and Patrick writes the songs. It's…he doesn't even know, honestly. But there is so much going on in Pete's brain all the time that just the fact that he lets Patrick into that, without question or fear, that's amazing.
And he wonders, now, about Brendon and Ryan's process. He doubts it's like theirs, doesn't know anyone else who works the way that they do, and he doesn't think he should tell Brendon that there are so many pieces that he keeps for himself, tiny pieces of paper that he keeps in the pockets of his jackets or tucked inside the lining of his hats. So many things that are too personal, too raw and open to sing over and over for the next however many years they're going to do this. There are lines he can't bear to read more than once, lines that grab him by the throat and drag him into this terrifying place where he doesn't understand anything about Pete, or himself. There are lines he's never used but he's memorized, kept for later, waiting for the right moment to slide them into a bridge because they're just too fucking perfect to keep to himself. For too much longer, at least.
Ryan's not Pete, though. He's insanely private and almost creepily shy, peeking out from behind a mask of eye makeup that Patrick's always believed is more for some semblance of privacy on stage than decoration. He's a secret diary in a locked box, where Pete is an online journal, no membership required.
A knock on the door wakes him from a dream about being locked in an underground library, which, okay, no more Red Bull. For at least, like, a day. He doesn't even think to put pants on, because if someone's knocking on his bedroom door in the middle of the night they should prepare for boxers.
Brendon's standing on the other side, looking a little bit sheepish and a lot more sober. Patrick scratches the back of his neck and looks at him.
"Hey."
"Um, hey. Can I come in?"
"Yeah, yeah, of course."
Brendon makes a beeline for Patrick's bed, sitting on the edge near the middle, and Patrick sits and leans against the headboard, crossing his legs underneath him Indian-style. His knee is pressed against Brendon's thigh and he clears his throat for no real reason.
"Is everyone else gone?"
"If by gone, you mean sleeping, then yes. Everyone is gone. The couch looks like a gay porn post-party, by the way. Just, you know, as a heads up."
Patrick nods. "Duly noted."
"So, that is not at all how I wanted that conversation to go."
"I'm surprised you remember that conversation, dude."
"I wasn't that drunk, really." Brendon turns to look at him, scooting closer until his shin is flush with Patrick's. "I just. I fully intended to just come over and be, like, hey, let's go make out or something, but then I looked at you and all this stuff just came out of my mouth, and none of it sexy at all."
"No, seriously, it's okay. I've actually been thinking about-- I'm sorry, did you say make out?"
Brendon nods, blushing, and Patrick almost swallows his tongue. "You were hitting on me? By starting philosophical conversations about our role as lead singers?"
"Yeah, I'm not so smooth with the gay hookup." Brendon sighs. "You're really easy to talk to, did you know that? Not so easy to hit on, right, but really easy to talk to."
Patrick looks around the room quickly, searching for Pete's shoes at the bottom of the curtains or his hair sticking up from behind the dresser. He almost looks for Ashton Kutcher, because this is just that unbelievable, but then Brendon sets his hand on Patrick's thigh and his whole mind kinda goes blank.
"Look, if I'm totally off base here, you can tell me and I won't be offended." Brendon's eyes are so sincere that Patrick almost winces, but he stops himself at the last second because he figures that could easily be misinterpreted. Instead, he opens his mouth, then closes it again, because what the fuck do you say in a moment like this?
Brendon smirks, his eyes shining. "Do you want me to get Pete in here to tell you what to say?" Patrick clocks him on the arm, muttering "shut up, asshole" and then Brendon grabs Patrick's shoulder and kinda moves himself into Patrick's lap and kisses him, mouth warm and a little bit sweet. His lips are impossibly soft, like a girl, and Patrick's lips are chapped and he almost worries about that, except Brendon swipes his tongue across them and his mind does the blank thing again, because, wow, Brendon is an amazing kisser.
When Brendon pulls away, Patrick follows instinctively until Brendon sets his hands against Patrick's chest and pushes him back against the headboard. Brendon is smiling like he knows a really juicy secret, and when Patrick licks his lips Brendon does the same, focused on Patrick's mouth.
He feels like maybe he should say something, because the responsible part in the back of his mind knows that this is not a good idea, because this kid isn't even old enough to drink yet, but he's in Patrick's fucking lap and his mouth is amazing and he tastes good, like strawberries, and he's staring at Patrick in this way that makes him feel like the clichéd candy store.
"What?"
Brendon shakes his head slightly. "Nothing. You're a good kisser."
He kisses Patrick again, running his hands up Patrick's chest and curving them around the side of his neck, and his hands are soft like a girl except for all the calluses in all the right places from playing guitar and Patrick starts to think that maybe this isn't as gay as he originally thought, because it's Brendon Urie.
"You're thinking too loudly," Brendon whispers into his mouth.
"Right, right, sorry." Patrick wraps his arms around Brendon's (tiny, tiny) hips and pulls him closer.
Brendon grabs the bottom of Patrick’s shirt and tugs upwards, and Patrick instinctively stops him before thinking better of it. Brendon moves away slightly and Patrick opens his mouth to explain, but Brendon just rolls his eyes and pulls Patrick’s shirt off before he can say a word. And then that beautiful mouth is on his neck, strong fingers across his shoulders and down his arms. He’s almost completely hard, just from kissing, and when Brendon’s palm slides across his cock he remembers that he isn’t wearing much of anything anymore.
Brendon sucks on the spot where his neck meets his shoulder, sliding his thumbs into the waistband of Patrick’s boxers and pulling them down.
"I want to taste you," and, fuck, like Patrick's going to argue at this point, and then Brendon's licking a wet stripe from the base of his cock to the head and he can't fucking breathe. Patrick looks down just as Brendon wraps his lips around the head and sucks lightly, and he's never, ever going to be able to watch Brendon sing again without thinking about this moment, and won't that make for some unfortunate erections? He digs his heels into the mattress and fists his hands in the sheets and it takes every single ounce of concentration not to lift his hips and fuck Brendon's mouth until he dies. Brendon takes him deeper, deeper, and Jesus fucking Christ his entire body is burning.
Brendon wraps his hand around the base of Patrick's cock, squeezing lightly, and his tongue is swirling around and his mouth is so hot and fucking perfect and Patrick is going to die right here, going to spontaneously combust while Brendon fucking Urie is giving him a blow job and Christ, what a way to go. He reaches down and combs his fingers through the hair at the nape of Brendon's neck, and when Brendon moans appreciatively he feels the thrum in every millimeter of his body.
"Brendon." His voice is so hoarse it's not even a whisper. "Brendon, I'm going to, I need to." Brendon runs his fingernails up the inside of Patrick's thighs, cupping his balls and squeezing, and it feels like he's nodding. When Patrick looks down (for verification, because you gotta make sure in situations like this that everyone is on the same page, right?) Brendon looks up at him and smiles around his cock and that is it, Patrick is gone. His legs tense and tighten, his hips bucking up involuntarily, "fuck, yes, God, Brendon, yes" and everything whites out when he comes.
Brendon climbs up his body, impossibly graceful, and when Patrick opens his eyes he's leaning over him with a hand on either side of Patrick's shoulders, smiling and looking just a little bit worried.
"I haven't really done that before, so I'm not sure--" and Patrick doesn't even want to think about that, so he reaches up and brings Brendon's head down, crashing their lips together. He runs his hands up the back of Brendon's shirt and Brendon shivers.
"You okay?" He looks up, concerned, and when he slides his hands down Brendon’s back he shivers again.
“No, yeah, I’m fine. It’s just.” Brendon trails off, cheeks reddening. “It’s a thing. Never mind.”
“What kind of thing?”
Brendon sits back on Patrick’s thighs, taking his hands and tracing the lines on Patrick’s palms. “I have this…fetish thing, about your hands? They’re just unbelievable.” He presses Patrick’s palms together and covers them with his own hands. “I love watching you play the guitar. The way your fingers move, it’s better than porn. Amazing.” Brendon laces their fingers together and looks up at him. “You’re just, like, amazing.”
Patrick has absolutely no idea what to do with such honesty, so he does what seems like the most logical thing. He grabs the bottom of Brendon’s shirt and lifts up, pulling it off and tossing it aside. He trails his thumbs across Brendon’s collarbone, smiling when Brendon closes his eyes and sighs dramatically. He ghosts his fingertips down Brendon’s chest, pausing to circle his left nipple with a fingertip. Brendon inhales sharply, biting his bottom lip. Patrick leans forward, drawing a light circle around the other nipple with the tip of his tongue. Brendon makes a noise that’s part whimper and part gasp and all sex.
Patrick sits up, grabbing his ass and grinding their hips together, sucking a small bruise just below Brendon’s collarbone.
“Fuck.” That word has never sounded as hot as when Brendon breathes it into his neck, kissing and licking in alternate turns as Patrick slides his hand between their bodies and squeezes Brendon’s cock through his jeans.
Brendon shudders against him, pulling back to kiss Patrick, sucking on his bottom lip. This time Patrick grips his hips so tightly he’s afraid he’ll leave a bruise, sliding him back enough to unbutton his jeans.
"Dude, are these girl's pants?" Patrick fumbles with the zipper and laughs.
"Shut up and take them off, God, please," and the whining shouldn't be hot, but it so is. Patrick fumbles again, on purpose this time, brushing the back of his hand along the length of Brendon’s cock and Brendon whimpers again-which, shit, so hot-and tries to push Patrick's hands out of the way. Patrick slaps them away, which earns him a gasp and a smile, and he lifts Brendon slightly to the side. He finally gets them unzipped and pulled down and off in one fluid motion.
Brendon crawls back into his lap, hard cock pressing into Patrick stomach, and kisses him like Patrick’s mouth is the only thing keeping him alive. Patrick rubs the tip of Brendon’s cock with his thumb, making lazy circles around Brendon’s nipple with his other. Brendon leans down and kisses him.
“We need lube.” Brendon has this thing where he talks into Patrick’s mouth, and it’s inexplicably hot. Like, he can’t even stand to leave Patrick’s lips for the short amount of time a sentence encompasses.
Patrick reaches between the mattress and the box spring and produces a pretty pathetic looking bottle of lube. He squeezes a small amount into his hand and tosses that aside, not even bothering to recap it. Brendon’s hips are moving slightly and Patrick wraps his hand around the base of his cock and strokes upward slowly, applying insanely light pressure.
Patrick strokes again, squeezing a little tighter this time, rubbing his thumb across the head of Brendon’s cock on every other pull. Brendon trails hot kisses along Patrick’s jaw, burying his face in Patrick’s neck and Patrick strokes faster, Brendon’s hips move faster, faster, until he’s fucking Patrick’s hand. Patrick twists his hand slightly on each upward stroke and Brendon is breathing heavily against his neck, murmuring things that Patrick can’t hear. He reaches down and cups Brendon’s balls, squeezing them, and Brendon’s breathing is erratic.
Brendon moves his head back, pressing his forehead against Patrick’s. “God, that’s so good, yes, fuck, so close, yes,” and he grabs Patrick’s biceps. Patrick strokes, twists, squeezes, and Brendon tightens his legs around Patrick’s thighs. Patrick kisses him as he comes, biting Brendon’s bottom lip a little too hard.
Brendon sags against him, wrapping his arms around Patrick’s shoulders. “Oh my fucking God, Patrick.” He giggles a little bit hysterically, and Patrick smiles into his neck.
“Yeah, that’s kinda what I was thinking.” He grabs his boxers and cleans them both up, which isn’t perfect but he’s not really in a state to be moving a whole lot at this point. He wraps his arms around Brendon and moves them both to where they’re lying down on their sides, reaching down to pull the sheet up over them. Brendon moves so close that there isn’t much of their skin that isn’t touching and rests his forehead against Patrick’s again. Patrick wraps his arm around Brendon, splaying his fingers across the small of his back.
“I cannot believe I just had sex with you.”
Patrick smiles. “Because I’m a rock star?”
Brendon opens his eyes and whispers, “No, because you’re Patrick,” and then closes them again, like that explains it all. And maybe it kinda does, but Patrick doesn’t want to let himself think about it too much. Not right now. Instead, he kisses Brendon lightly before falling into dreamless sleep.