Kisses on the Necks of Best Friends: gift for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
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Dec. 26th, 2011 02:02 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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bandomstuffsitTitle: Kisses on the Necks of Best Friends
Author:redorchids
Pairing(s): Pete/Patrick
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None
Word count: 2050
Summary: In which Pete is a douche with really obnoxious seduction skills, Patrick is frustrated to the point of wanting to punch him and everything turns out well in the end.
A/N: To my secret recipient, who wished for underage, subby bb!Patrick with awkwardness and jealousy. I apologise in advance for the sad lack of bb!Joe, as well as any early canon mistakes (for which I pass on the blame to Wikipedia). Big thanks to my secret beta as well as to the mods for organising everything. Merry Christmas, everyone.
It’s the sixth song of their fourth show as a band, and Patrick is slowly going mad.
Pete’s been in his space more than he’s been out of it for the last fifteen minutes, pressing himself against Patrick’s back, breathing the words of the song hotly into his neck. More than once, he’s also let go of his bass to run his fingers through the sweaty hair at Patrick’s nape, tugging firmly.
Seriously, how the fuck is Patrick supposed to sing like this?
His voice breaks twice during their next song—fucking Pete and his fucking teeth digging into Patrick’s shoulder—but the audience doesn’t seem to take notice, and those who do definitely don’t seem to mind. To be fair, they’re playing in someone’s basement, and most people were seriously drunk before they made it on stage. Still, Patrick doesn’t know what to make of it when Pete invades his personal space again and at least ten people cheer.
“Come on, Patrick,” Pete breathes into his ear, making Patrick choke on the next word he’s supposed to be singing. “Let’s give them what they want.” Pete’s lips leave his ear and wander down his neck, and Patrick feels his heart like a too-fast, heavy beat in his chest. He doesn’t know what the audience wants, or what Pete thinks they want; he just knows that there are lips and a tongue against his skin, the hot pressure of Pete’s body against his back and girls in front of the makeshift stage, yelling their approval. He tilts his head, leaning into Pete’s touch without thinking, focusing on the words of the song to keep his head from spinning. The girls in front of the stage get louder, and Patrick counts the measures in his head until Joe’s solo, a full-body shudder running through him as Pete moves his mouth back up his neck, teeth grazing teasingly along Patrick’s jaw line.
He belts out the last note before Joe and his guitar take over and swallows hard before turning his head. Pete is still mouthing along his jaw, lips so close that Patrick can almost taste them, and Patrick doesn’t know what he’s doing, or how the fuck he’s going to manage this—having his first kiss, on stage, with a guy that is so far out of his league it’s not even funny—without making a total ass of himself.
He wets his lips when he feels Pete’s nose drag across his cheek, cranes his head a bit more and decides he doesn’t give a fuck that the entire room is watching. Pete’s lips find the corner of his mouth, pressing a kiss there, just out of reach. And then—
And then he pulls away, taking his warmth and hands and fucking lips with him over to Joe’s side of the tiny stage. Patrick stares after him, and Pete winks—fucking winks at him like they’re in on some kind of joke together and he didn’t just wind Patrick up to the point where he’s practically aching.
Pete saunters back to his own side of the stage after that, throwing Patrick another mischievous smile, and Patrick almost misses his cue for the last chorus.
Pete comes back to him again, three more times before their gig is over, and Patrick’s frustration grows to the point where he doesn’t know if he wants to grab Pete and kiss him or grab him and punch him in the face. They finish their last song, and Patrick ignores the way Pete tries to keep him at his side, fleeing the basement as fast as he can and finding an empty bathroom where he’s able to splash some well-needed cold water on his face and get his breathing back under control.
When he comes back out, the rest of his band has joined the party. Joe and Ben are sitting on the edge of the stage, talking to a couple of guys and gesturing at their instruments. And Pete is—
Patrick wishes he could blame the sick feeling surging up inside him on shock, but seeing Pete as he is now, curled up in a chair with an unknown girl in his lap, has been depressingly routine in the short time Patrick’s known him. Tonight, the girl in question is thin and leggy with long, brown hair, making Patrick feel even shorter and stouter than he is by comparison. He watches Pete’s hands stroke teasing paths up and down the girl’s back and wants to kill the world a little bit.
This stupid fucking crush of his really needs to stop.
***
Lifting a lot of heavy equipment into the back of a van does wonders for Patrick’s anger. Until Pete shows up with a satisfied slump in his step and a brand new hickey, that is.
“You know, there’s a party going on just inside,” Pete says, leaning against the side of the van in a way that shows off his hipbones in the most obnoxious way imaginable. “You should go be a rock star.”
Patrick throws another roll of cables into the van and maybe slams the door shut with a little more force than necessary. “We’re playing half-hour shows for pizza in some friend of a friend’s basement,” he says. “We’re not rock stars, Pete.”
Pete’s smile doesn’t fade in the slightest. “We will be. You will be.”
Patrick just huffs.
“I’m serious,” Pete says, moving closer, right into Patrick’s personal space. “You and me, we’re gonna rule the world.”
He leans in and presses a wet kiss to Patrick’s cheek, and, seriously, enough is fucking enough already.
“Stop fucking doing that!”
The shock on Pete’s face at being pushed back is priceless. “Doing what?”
“Oh, fuck you,” Patrick manages, hands curling into fists at his sides. He knows he’s sixteen and doesn’t have any experience, but walking around kissing people like it’s just that fucking casual isn’t normal, and Pete’s a fucking tease and an oblivious ass, and... Patrick just can’t take any more of it right now. “Just—whatever.”
He turns to walk away. Pete stops him with a hand on his arm. “Patrick.”
“No.”
“Come on, man, what the fuck?”
The sound of Pete’s back hitting metal is incredibly rewarding. Patrick doesn’t think, just pulls back and then pushes again, letting his frustration bleed out through his hands as he shoves Pete harder. Pete shoves back, and Patrick feels a surge of finally going through him, because Pete fighting back means Patrick can push again, which he does, hard. Sharp pain shoots through his arm as Pete spins them around and Patrick’s elbow hits the handle of the van’s back door. It makes the itch that’s been under Patrick’s skin since Pete first invaded his personal space on stage finally fade a little, and Patrick pulls in a sharp breath of relief. He attacks Pete again, crying out as Pete trips him and they go down in a messy, writhing heap on the hard concrete.
The ground is wet from earlier rain, soaking through Patrick’s shirt the second he hits the ground. He twists as pain blazes through the back of his head and kicks out furiously. Seconds later, there is more cold water beneath his back, splashing around them as they fight each other. Pete just rolled them into a fucking puddle. Patrick doesn’t even care.
He doesn’t know what changes, just that one moment, Pete’s hands are holding him down and shoving him against the concrete, and the next they’re in his hair, and Pete’s mouth is crashing down on his, hard enough to bruise. Patrick freezes in shock, and then his whole body arches, pushing itself against Pete like a puppet on invisible strings. His mouth opens on a gasp, and the next thing he knows, Pete’s tongue is against his, turning Patrick into a hot, molten mess and setting his head spinning.
“Fuck, Patrick,” Pete whispers above him, his hands in Patrick’s hair tightening their grip even more. “I can’t—I want—have wanted for so fucking—God.” He tugs Patrick head back, lips and teeth going for his throat. Patrick fumbles for the edge of Pete’s shirt, needing to get his hands beneath it, to get at the skin on Pete’s back.
He digs his fingers in, pulling Pete down, and Pete groans, shifting his weight so that their hips line up, and fuck, that’s Pete’s dick, pushing down against him. Patrick can’t—he—oh, Jesus fuck.
“You have to tell me to stop,” Pete pants in his ear, grinding down and pulling an almost pained moan out of Patrick’s throat. “If you don’t—if this isn’t—Patrick.”
Patrick can’t reply. His mouth is too busy finding Pete’s again, biting down on his bottom lip as he pushes his hips desperately against Pete’s, one leg going around Pete’s thighs to get him even closer.
Pete groans and loses his rhythm completely, moving against Patrick erratically. Patrick tries to help as best he can, tightening his leg around Pete’s and letting him fuck both of them into the ground. He can feel himself starting to lose it and bites down hard on his lip to keep himself from shouting as his vision goes a blinding white. Pete grinds down against him, and Patrick comes harder than he ever has in his life, clinging to Pete with everything he’s got. Through the haze, he hears Pete’s breath change, coming heavier and faster with every thrust of his hips until he suddenly stiffens and collapses on top of Patrick with a broken moan.
It takes a while for Patrick’s brain to come back online, and when it does, his first impulse is to freak the fuck out and die of embarrassment—until he realises that Pete is still lying half on top of him, looking rather disgustingly happy.
“Hi,” Pete says, reaching out to push a strand of wet hair out of Patrick’s face. Patrick manages a disbelieving (and completely mortifying) whimper in reply.
“You have mud in your hair,” Pete continues blissfully. “It’s totally hot.”
Patrick has no idea what to say to that. Pete just smiles and leans in to kiss him, long and lingering, before pushing himself to his feet and helping Patrick off the ground.
“Let’s go,” Pete says, grabbing Patrick’s hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “We need a shower. And pancakes. I totally want pancakes. There’s an IHOP five minutes from my house. What do you say?”
“Huh?” Patrick manages, because Pete is making absolutely no sense to him right now. “What? Pete—”
“You don’t want pancakes?” Pete asks, opening the back of the van and pulling out a couple of blankets, handing one to Patrick. “Sure, okay. We can go for something else, I guess. Sandwiches?”
Patrick just stares. Then he blinks. Twice. Pete is still not making sense.
“What about that, you know, that girl you were all over earlier?” he asks, feeling some of his earlier frustration surge back up. Because the last time he checked, Pete was into pretty scene girls, not high school guys who look like Patrick, and the way Pete keeps looking at him is doing a serious number on Patrick’s head.
“What girl?” Pete asks absentmindedly. “Oh, the tall one?” he continues, a grin spreading across his face. “Did it work? It totally worked, didn’t it?”
“Did what work?”
“Making you jealous,” Pete says, leaning in to press a soft kiss to Patrick’s neck. “I’m sorry I went there, but you totally weren’t picking up on my hints, dude.”
He towels his hair dry and throws the blanket back in the van before holding out his hand to Patrick. “So, shower?”
Patrick wants to say no, wants to keep pushing until he gets Pete to explain what the fuck is really going on. Then again, Pete is standing there, holding out his hand, and Patrick’s already getting pretty used to jumping off cliffs with him.
He takes Pete’s hand. Pete beams at him and leads him around to the passenger side, opening the door for him with a small bow.
Patrick rolls his eyes and gets in the car.
THE END
Author:
redorchidsPairing(s): Pete/Patrick
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None
Word count: 2050
Summary: In which Pete is a douche with really obnoxious seduction skills, Patrick is frustrated to the point of wanting to punch him and everything turns out well in the end.
A/N: To my secret recipient, who wished for underage, subby bb!Patrick with awkwardness and jealousy. I apologise in advance for the sad lack of bb!Joe, as well as any early canon mistakes (for which I pass on the blame to Wikipedia). Big thanks to my secret beta as well as to the mods for organising everything. Merry Christmas, everyone.
It’s the sixth song of their fourth show as a band, and Patrick is slowly going mad.
Pete’s been in his space more than he’s been out of it for the last fifteen minutes, pressing himself against Patrick’s back, breathing the words of the song hotly into his neck. More than once, he’s also let go of his bass to run his fingers through the sweaty hair at Patrick’s nape, tugging firmly.
Seriously, how the fuck is Patrick supposed to sing like this?
His voice breaks twice during their next song—fucking Pete and his fucking teeth digging into Patrick’s shoulder—but the audience doesn’t seem to take notice, and those who do definitely don’t seem to mind. To be fair, they’re playing in someone’s basement, and most people were seriously drunk before they made it on stage. Still, Patrick doesn’t know what to make of it when Pete invades his personal space again and at least ten people cheer.
“Come on, Patrick,” Pete breathes into his ear, making Patrick choke on the next word he’s supposed to be singing. “Let’s give them what they want.” Pete’s lips leave his ear and wander down his neck, and Patrick feels his heart like a too-fast, heavy beat in his chest. He doesn’t know what the audience wants, or what Pete thinks they want; he just knows that there are lips and a tongue against his skin, the hot pressure of Pete’s body against his back and girls in front of the makeshift stage, yelling their approval. He tilts his head, leaning into Pete’s touch without thinking, focusing on the words of the song to keep his head from spinning. The girls in front of the stage get louder, and Patrick counts the measures in his head until Joe’s solo, a full-body shudder running through him as Pete moves his mouth back up his neck, teeth grazing teasingly along Patrick’s jaw line.
He belts out the last note before Joe and his guitar take over and swallows hard before turning his head. Pete is still mouthing along his jaw, lips so close that Patrick can almost taste them, and Patrick doesn’t know what he’s doing, or how the fuck he’s going to manage this—having his first kiss, on stage, with a guy that is so far out of his league it’s not even funny—without making a total ass of himself.
He wets his lips when he feels Pete’s nose drag across his cheek, cranes his head a bit more and decides he doesn’t give a fuck that the entire room is watching. Pete’s lips find the corner of his mouth, pressing a kiss there, just out of reach. And then—
And then he pulls away, taking his warmth and hands and fucking lips with him over to Joe’s side of the tiny stage. Patrick stares after him, and Pete winks—fucking winks at him like they’re in on some kind of joke together and he didn’t just wind Patrick up to the point where he’s practically aching.
Pete saunters back to his own side of the stage after that, throwing Patrick another mischievous smile, and Patrick almost misses his cue for the last chorus.
Pete comes back to him again, three more times before their gig is over, and Patrick’s frustration grows to the point where he doesn’t know if he wants to grab Pete and kiss him or grab him and punch him in the face. They finish their last song, and Patrick ignores the way Pete tries to keep him at his side, fleeing the basement as fast as he can and finding an empty bathroom where he’s able to splash some well-needed cold water on his face and get his breathing back under control.
When he comes back out, the rest of his band has joined the party. Joe and Ben are sitting on the edge of the stage, talking to a couple of guys and gesturing at their instruments. And Pete is—
Patrick wishes he could blame the sick feeling surging up inside him on shock, but seeing Pete as he is now, curled up in a chair with an unknown girl in his lap, has been depressingly routine in the short time Patrick’s known him. Tonight, the girl in question is thin and leggy with long, brown hair, making Patrick feel even shorter and stouter than he is by comparison. He watches Pete’s hands stroke teasing paths up and down the girl’s back and wants to kill the world a little bit.
This stupid fucking crush of his really needs to stop.
***
Lifting a lot of heavy equipment into the back of a van does wonders for Patrick’s anger. Until Pete shows up with a satisfied slump in his step and a brand new hickey, that is.
“You know, there’s a party going on just inside,” Pete says, leaning against the side of the van in a way that shows off his hipbones in the most obnoxious way imaginable. “You should go be a rock star.”
Patrick throws another roll of cables into the van and maybe slams the door shut with a little more force than necessary. “We’re playing half-hour shows for pizza in some friend of a friend’s basement,” he says. “We’re not rock stars, Pete.”
Pete’s smile doesn’t fade in the slightest. “We will be. You will be.”
Patrick just huffs.
“I’m serious,” Pete says, moving closer, right into Patrick’s personal space. “You and me, we’re gonna rule the world.”
He leans in and presses a wet kiss to Patrick’s cheek, and, seriously, enough is fucking enough already.
“Stop fucking doing that!”
The shock on Pete’s face at being pushed back is priceless. “Doing what?”
“Oh, fuck you,” Patrick manages, hands curling into fists at his sides. He knows he’s sixteen and doesn’t have any experience, but walking around kissing people like it’s just that fucking casual isn’t normal, and Pete’s a fucking tease and an oblivious ass, and... Patrick just can’t take any more of it right now. “Just—whatever.”
He turns to walk away. Pete stops him with a hand on his arm. “Patrick.”
“No.”
“Come on, man, what the fuck?”
The sound of Pete’s back hitting metal is incredibly rewarding. Patrick doesn’t think, just pulls back and then pushes again, letting his frustration bleed out through his hands as he shoves Pete harder. Pete shoves back, and Patrick feels a surge of finally going through him, because Pete fighting back means Patrick can push again, which he does, hard. Sharp pain shoots through his arm as Pete spins them around and Patrick’s elbow hits the handle of the van’s back door. It makes the itch that’s been under Patrick’s skin since Pete first invaded his personal space on stage finally fade a little, and Patrick pulls in a sharp breath of relief. He attacks Pete again, crying out as Pete trips him and they go down in a messy, writhing heap on the hard concrete.
The ground is wet from earlier rain, soaking through Patrick’s shirt the second he hits the ground. He twists as pain blazes through the back of his head and kicks out furiously. Seconds later, there is more cold water beneath his back, splashing around them as they fight each other. Pete just rolled them into a fucking puddle. Patrick doesn’t even care.
He doesn’t know what changes, just that one moment, Pete’s hands are holding him down and shoving him against the concrete, and the next they’re in his hair, and Pete’s mouth is crashing down on his, hard enough to bruise. Patrick freezes in shock, and then his whole body arches, pushing itself against Pete like a puppet on invisible strings. His mouth opens on a gasp, and the next thing he knows, Pete’s tongue is against his, turning Patrick into a hot, molten mess and setting his head spinning.
“Fuck, Patrick,” Pete whispers above him, his hands in Patrick’s hair tightening their grip even more. “I can’t—I want—have wanted for so fucking—God.” He tugs Patrick head back, lips and teeth going for his throat. Patrick fumbles for the edge of Pete’s shirt, needing to get his hands beneath it, to get at the skin on Pete’s back.
He digs his fingers in, pulling Pete down, and Pete groans, shifting his weight so that their hips line up, and fuck, that’s Pete’s dick, pushing down against him. Patrick can’t—he—oh, Jesus fuck.
“You have to tell me to stop,” Pete pants in his ear, grinding down and pulling an almost pained moan out of Patrick’s throat. “If you don’t—if this isn’t—Patrick.”
Patrick can’t reply. His mouth is too busy finding Pete’s again, biting down on his bottom lip as he pushes his hips desperately against Pete’s, one leg going around Pete’s thighs to get him even closer.
Pete groans and loses his rhythm completely, moving against Patrick erratically. Patrick tries to help as best he can, tightening his leg around Pete’s and letting him fuck both of them into the ground. He can feel himself starting to lose it and bites down hard on his lip to keep himself from shouting as his vision goes a blinding white. Pete grinds down against him, and Patrick comes harder than he ever has in his life, clinging to Pete with everything he’s got. Through the haze, he hears Pete’s breath change, coming heavier and faster with every thrust of his hips until he suddenly stiffens and collapses on top of Patrick with a broken moan.
It takes a while for Patrick’s brain to come back online, and when it does, his first impulse is to freak the fuck out and die of embarrassment—until he realises that Pete is still lying half on top of him, looking rather disgustingly happy.
“Hi,” Pete says, reaching out to push a strand of wet hair out of Patrick’s face. Patrick manages a disbelieving (and completely mortifying) whimper in reply.
“You have mud in your hair,” Pete continues blissfully. “It’s totally hot.”
Patrick has no idea what to say to that. Pete just smiles and leans in to kiss him, long and lingering, before pushing himself to his feet and helping Patrick off the ground.
“Let’s go,” Pete says, grabbing Patrick’s hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “We need a shower. And pancakes. I totally want pancakes. There’s an IHOP five minutes from my house. What do you say?”
“Huh?” Patrick manages, because Pete is making absolutely no sense to him right now. “What? Pete—”
“You don’t want pancakes?” Pete asks, opening the back of the van and pulling out a couple of blankets, handing one to Patrick. “Sure, okay. We can go for something else, I guess. Sandwiches?”
Patrick just stares. Then he blinks. Twice. Pete is still not making sense.
“What about that, you know, that girl you were all over earlier?” he asks, feeling some of his earlier frustration surge back up. Because the last time he checked, Pete was into pretty scene girls, not high school guys who look like Patrick, and the way Pete keeps looking at him is doing a serious number on Patrick’s head.
“What girl?” Pete asks absentmindedly. “Oh, the tall one?” he continues, a grin spreading across his face. “Did it work? It totally worked, didn’t it?”
“Did what work?”
“Making you jealous,” Pete says, leaning in to press a soft kiss to Patrick’s neck. “I’m sorry I went there, but you totally weren’t picking up on my hints, dude.”
He towels his hair dry and throws the blanket back in the van before holding out his hand to Patrick. “So, shower?”
Patrick wants to say no, wants to keep pushing until he gets Pete to explain what the fuck is really going on. Then again, Pete is standing there, holding out his hand, and Patrick’s already getting pretty used to jumping off cliffs with him.
He takes Pete’s hand. Pete beams at him and leads him around to the passenger side, opening the door for him with a small bow.
Patrick rolls his eyes and gets in the car.
THE END
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