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New fic: A Minor Fall (a Major Pain in the Ass), Pete/Patrick
Title: A Minor Fall (a Major Pain in the Ass Lift Pain in the Ass)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
giddygeek
Pairing: Pete/Patrick, 2100 words, adult.
Notes: Sometimes you've got to break through the writer's block however you can. Fluff works!
By the third time he has to duck a water bottle that had totally been launched directly at his head -- one of those Fiji ones, too; a bottle with corners -- Pete's pretty much gotten over finding Patrick's tantrum adorable.
"Asshole!" he yells, as the bottle hits the wall behind him. "Stop throwing shit and pay attention for two fucking seconds!" He ducks a stuffed monkey and Hemmy's (mostly) empty food bowl as they come flying at him, then says, "Oh, screw this," and climbs over the back of the couch. He gets shot in the ass with something sharp as he goes, motherfucking fuck.
He takes cover in the narrow space between the grungy, rough plaid fabric back and the wall, then crouches a little, out of the line of fire, and takes up yelling again. "That major to minor progression sucks dick, Patrick, and you know it!"
"You suck dick," Patrick yells back, and he's so mad he probably doesn't even hear what he's saying. Honestly, though, honestly. How does he expect Pete to keep fighting when Patrick keeps feeding him such awesome lines? He tries to keep his sudden, convulsive laughter quiet -- why poke the beast when it's already enraged? -- but pretty much Pete's a guy who pokes enraged beasts just to see 'em roar, so, yeah. Except usually he has a somewhat carefully planned escape route figured out. With Patrick, not so much.
Something heavy thuds against the back of the couch, evidence that Patrick does not appreciate being laughed at. "Shut your fucking face," Patrick orders. "This isn't funny. You don't know a good minor progression from being a major pain in the ass!"
"Well, if that's how we're playing, it could be arranged," Pete says, poking his head up for a hopeful second, and that's when Patrick pounces.
Sort of.
Patrick tries to shove the couch out of his way so he can get to Pete and, probably, attempt to murder him in one of his uncreative ways; the guy keeps going back to strangulation like that's ever worked. But the couch is roughly 900 years old and made almost entirely of wood with a thin layer of cushions and blue plaid, because it's not a real studio unless it's got all the comforts of Pete's parents basement, circa 1986. It's heavy, and Pete's pretty sure some molecular process, possibly involving the Great Jell-O Wars of last week, has joined its legs to the old linoleum beneath it.
The couch is like, at one with the floor, and all Patrick's accomplishing with shoving at it is making his face even redder, and getting sweaty.
Patrick's almost a realist. For their band, anyway; he's the closest thing to a realist they've got. He's the one who remembers to fill the tank when Pete's ready to drive through the night. But there he is, huffing and puffing and heaving so he can get to Pete and drag him out of his narrow hiding space and try to choke him a little. Just like that, Pete goes from kind of pissed off, a lot amused, and a little bit turned on to flat-out amused -- and turned on. He cracks up and has to hold on to the back of the couch, bracing his hips against the wall, to keep from toppling over.
"Big Bad Wolf," he tries to say. "Blowing down my cushion house. But you'll never get me!" Except for how oh, fuck, that sweet red face, sweaty disheveled hair, and soft, grim mouth, Patrick -- Pete's been got for an awful long time.
Patrick stops pushing at the arm of the couch and looks up, eyes narrow behind his glasses. "Did you just make a three little pigs reference?"
"Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin," Pete swears, and the force of Patrick's glare sets him off again.
"Fuck it, if you're not even going to try to take me seriously," Patrick says, and Pete has to fling an arm out to catch him by the collar of his shirt as he turns to stomp away. His grip knocks Patrick off-balance and he thumps backwards against the couch, falling onto the cushions with a startled oof.
Pete scrambles over the back of the couch and across Patrick's lap, Patrick's shirt still held in his fist to keep him from shaking Pete off. Fuck, he feels good, all solid and running at about 120 degrees even in the air conditioning. Pete takes a second to settle himself comfortably, his knees widespread, his feet in about twenty pounds of sneaker tucked against Patrick's calves. Patrick stares at him, wide-eyed, and Pete shakes him a little, then pins him against the back of the couch with the hand still wrapped in his shirt.
"Trust me, I am always taking you seriously," Pete says, and then he digs his phone out of his back pocket with his free hand.
Patrick pretty much goes supernova at that, like Pete needing his phone is evidence of his disrespect as opposed to oh, say, Pete's natural state of being. He rides out the storm, clinging to Patrick as he bucks and wiggles, pushing into the hands that are trying to push him off.
"Hey lady," he says when Ashlee answers her phone. He's breathless, a little husky, and she says, "Uh-huh?" all knowing and amused. Fuck, she's awesome. "You mind if I take some serious Patrick-time tonight? We got that thing tomorrow, but I should be home in the morning, or if not I'll just meet you there. Hey, no, motherfucker, oww." He sidles away from Patrick's pinching fingers and glares at him, tucks the phone against his shoulder and switches to two hands holding Patrick down; much safer that way.
"Only if you promise me you'll show up with a big hickey and a really bad, obvious, messed up makeup job to hide it," Ashlee says, and Pete's totally down with that.
"You got it," he promises, grinning at Patrick's pissy attempts to get his hands free. "You want me to bring you anything else?"
"Some nachos and a pumpkin pie," Ashlee says. "Don't forget the Cool Whip. But I gotta go, baby, I'm out -- you be good to Patrick, okay?"
"Always," Pete says. "Okay, love you, bye," and he disconnects, drops the phone, tries to recapture Patrick's flailing arm.
"We are supposed to be working," Patrick says, and Pete knows that work is pretty much Patrick's lifeblood, absolutely, but if he doesn't chill the fuck out he's going to pop something in his little artist brain, and then where will Pete be? Who'll be the Christian to his Cyrano? Who'll keep the music coming, so Pete's not just jerking words off on the internet?
He wraps an arm around the back of Patrick's neck and snuggles close, even though Patrick's doing his best to be no good at snuggling. "We are working," he says, nuzzling Patrick's neck with his stubbly chin; can't seduce a guy a couple times a year without learning exactly what gets him in the mood fast and easy. "We're doing a thing you sometimes do in working, where you stop working for a little while, and relax, and then you go back to working and you don't want to kill anyone anymore. It's called taking a fucking break." He stops and thinks about that for a second, then says, "Haha, literally."
"I still want to kill you," Patrick says grimly, but whatever. He's going limp and tilting his head back; he shivers when Pete bites him a little, just under his chin.
"You can try again later," Pete says, but he knows that's not how this is going to go. He's going to get Patrick off, and let him do his Patrick-thing where he sleeps like the dead for twenty minutes after. Then he's dragging Patrick upstairs to a bedroom, turning him over and fucking him through the goddamned mattress for an hour or ten minutes, whatever; Pete knows his limits.
Another twenty minute nap, a shower, some food, and they'll work like they've got a mind meld until Patrick seriously crashes and drags himself back to bed to faceplant. He'll let Pete curl up around him, although Pete probably won't be sleeping much, and in the morning they'll do it all over again. They'll probably finish three songs and a video treatment before Pete has to leave.
It's a system they've got. Pete calls it Dealing With the Diva.
Whereby Diva he means, First Love of My Life.
Except when he means, That Fucking Asshole Patrick, Motherfucker Tried to Kill Me Again.
He goes for Patrick's zipper, and Patrick lets him. Pete kind of wants to blow him, but he also kind of wants to kiss him, keep working on his neck maybe. Nothing wrong with a good handjob, he decides, and he leans back, brings his hand up to Patrick's mouth, says, "Lick."
Patrick slits his eyes open, gives Pete a turned-on version of the death glare, and bites.
"That is not punishment," Pete says, wiggling a little, trying to get some room in his pants. "C'mon, I want to jerk you off."
Patrick considers that, still glaring at Pete, and then he licks a broad, wet stripe across Pete's palm, the tip of his tongue dipping between Pete's fingers, and fuck, Pete loves him. A couple more stripes, Pete watching avidly and Patrick watching him right back, and they're both ready. Pete wraps his hand around Patrick's dick, thumbs just beneath the already slick head, and Patrick's head rolls back against the arm Pete still has wrapped behind him; his eyes close, his lips part.
Pete has to kiss him then because fuck, but he's pretty, and when polygamy is legal, Pete's marrying him for that mouth. And for the heavy, gorgeous dick sliding in Pete's palm, and the thighs between his knees, and the heart pounding away in Patrick's broad chest.
"Fast," he says, breaking the kiss for a second, shifting back so he can get a better angle. "I want it now -- how fast can you come?"
Patrick groans, bites his lip, his hips trying to arch under Pete's weight. "Faster if you'd just shut up and kiss me," he says, and since Pete is a man who knows a good idea when he hears one, he leans up and kisses Patrick again. He tries to figure out a rhythm between his hand and his mouth that'll get Patrick off so fast and so hard he has music notes dancing around his head, like a cartoon character who just got an anvil dropped on him.
And it works; it works really well. Patrick's squirming, pushing up, hands scrabbling at Pete's side before settling on his ass, fingertips digging in just right. His mouth is fierce, demanding, stale from working too long but sweet anyway. It doesn't take much more at all before he twists and freezes and gasps. Pete can feel him coming, a hard, fast 1-2-3, wet across his hand and probably all over both of their clothes; naked is good, but Pete has to admit he loves a good come stain too.
He slows his hand to ease Patrick through it, shifts his grip so it's just his fingers lightly cupping the head, his thumb rubbing gentle circles underneath it. He kisses Patrick's temple, slick with sweat. Patrick's neck is sweaty too, pressed against his arm, but that's okay, that's all right; Pete's never been one to complain about that. Not when it comes along with Patrick all limp and wrung-out and relaxed, finally, easy and trusting under his hands.
After a long, slow while, Patrick coughs a little, clears his throat. "You can have your chord progression," he says, languid and husky, and they really could sell a million records of him reading the phone book, if he'd do it like that.
Pete smiles against his skin, kisses his neck again for the hell of it. "I know," he says. "This wasn't about getting a chord progression, I was totally getting my chord progression. I just kind of also wanted to get laid."
Patrick laughs at him, a tired little huff of sound, and murmurs, "Asshole," but Pete knows him, knows this. Patrick's too tired and content and in fucking love with him to mean it, if he ever does; he may not have quarter notes bobbing around his head, but he might as well have cartoon hearts coming out of his eyes, just like Pete's.
"I'm your favorite," he says smugly, and settles against Patrick's chest as Patrick agrees himself to sleep, pale lashes on flushed cheeks and pink mouth slack. Patrick'll wake up again soon, and then Pete will see what else he can get from him; man, he fucking loves recording.
Scratch that. He fucking loves his life.
Author:
giddygeekPairing: Pete/Patrick, 2100 words, adult.
Notes: Sometimes you've got to break through the writer's block however you can. Fluff works!
By the third time he has to duck a water bottle that had totally been launched directly at his head -- one of those Fiji ones, too; a bottle with corners -- Pete's pretty much gotten over finding Patrick's tantrum adorable.
"Asshole!" he yells, as the bottle hits the wall behind him. "Stop throwing shit and pay attention for two fucking seconds!" He ducks a stuffed monkey and Hemmy's (mostly) empty food bowl as they come flying at him, then says, "Oh, screw this," and climbs over the back of the couch. He gets shot in the ass with something sharp as he goes, motherfucking fuck.
He takes cover in the narrow space between the grungy, rough plaid fabric back and the wall, then crouches a little, out of the line of fire, and takes up yelling again. "That major to minor progression sucks dick, Patrick, and you know it!"
"You suck dick," Patrick yells back, and he's so mad he probably doesn't even hear what he's saying. Honestly, though, honestly. How does he expect Pete to keep fighting when Patrick keeps feeding him such awesome lines? He tries to keep his sudden, convulsive laughter quiet -- why poke the beast when it's already enraged? -- but pretty much Pete's a guy who pokes enraged beasts just to see 'em roar, so, yeah. Except usually he has a somewhat carefully planned escape route figured out. With Patrick, not so much.
Something heavy thuds against the back of the couch, evidence that Patrick does not appreciate being laughed at. "Shut your fucking face," Patrick orders. "This isn't funny. You don't know a good minor progression from being a major pain in the ass!"
"Well, if that's how we're playing, it could be arranged," Pete says, poking his head up for a hopeful second, and that's when Patrick pounces.
Sort of.
Patrick tries to shove the couch out of his way so he can get to Pete and, probably, attempt to murder him in one of his uncreative ways; the guy keeps going back to strangulation like that's ever worked. But the couch is roughly 900 years old and made almost entirely of wood with a thin layer of cushions and blue plaid, because it's not a real studio unless it's got all the comforts of Pete's parents basement, circa 1986. It's heavy, and Pete's pretty sure some molecular process, possibly involving the Great Jell-O Wars of last week, has joined its legs to the old linoleum beneath it.
The couch is like, at one with the floor, and all Patrick's accomplishing with shoving at it is making his face even redder, and getting sweaty.
Patrick's almost a realist. For their band, anyway; he's the closest thing to a realist they've got. He's the one who remembers to fill the tank when Pete's ready to drive through the night. But there he is, huffing and puffing and heaving so he can get to Pete and drag him out of his narrow hiding space and try to choke him a little. Just like that, Pete goes from kind of pissed off, a lot amused, and a little bit turned on to flat-out amused -- and turned on. He cracks up and has to hold on to the back of the couch, bracing his hips against the wall, to keep from toppling over.
"Big Bad Wolf," he tries to say. "Blowing down my cushion house. But you'll never get me!" Except for how oh, fuck, that sweet red face, sweaty disheveled hair, and soft, grim mouth, Patrick -- Pete's been got for an awful long time.
Patrick stops pushing at the arm of the couch and looks up, eyes narrow behind his glasses. "Did you just make a three little pigs reference?"
"Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin," Pete swears, and the force of Patrick's glare sets him off again.
"Fuck it, if you're not even going to try to take me seriously," Patrick says, and Pete has to fling an arm out to catch him by the collar of his shirt as he turns to stomp away. His grip knocks Patrick off-balance and he thumps backwards against the couch, falling onto the cushions with a startled oof.
Pete scrambles over the back of the couch and across Patrick's lap, Patrick's shirt still held in his fist to keep him from shaking Pete off. Fuck, he feels good, all solid and running at about 120 degrees even in the air conditioning. Pete takes a second to settle himself comfortably, his knees widespread, his feet in about twenty pounds of sneaker tucked against Patrick's calves. Patrick stares at him, wide-eyed, and Pete shakes him a little, then pins him against the back of the couch with the hand still wrapped in his shirt.
"Trust me, I am always taking you seriously," Pete says, and then he digs his phone out of his back pocket with his free hand.
Patrick pretty much goes supernova at that, like Pete needing his phone is evidence of his disrespect as opposed to oh, say, Pete's natural state of being. He rides out the storm, clinging to Patrick as he bucks and wiggles, pushing into the hands that are trying to push him off.
"Hey lady," he says when Ashlee answers her phone. He's breathless, a little husky, and she says, "Uh-huh?" all knowing and amused. Fuck, she's awesome. "You mind if I take some serious Patrick-time tonight? We got that thing tomorrow, but I should be home in the morning, or if not I'll just meet you there. Hey, no, motherfucker, oww." He sidles away from Patrick's pinching fingers and glares at him, tucks the phone against his shoulder and switches to two hands holding Patrick down; much safer that way.
"Only if you promise me you'll show up with a big hickey and a really bad, obvious, messed up makeup job to hide it," Ashlee says, and Pete's totally down with that.
"You got it," he promises, grinning at Patrick's pissy attempts to get his hands free. "You want me to bring you anything else?"
"Some nachos and a pumpkin pie," Ashlee says. "Don't forget the Cool Whip. But I gotta go, baby, I'm out -- you be good to Patrick, okay?"
"Always," Pete says. "Okay, love you, bye," and he disconnects, drops the phone, tries to recapture Patrick's flailing arm.
"We are supposed to be working," Patrick says, and Pete knows that work is pretty much Patrick's lifeblood, absolutely, but if he doesn't chill the fuck out he's going to pop something in his little artist brain, and then where will Pete be? Who'll be the Christian to his Cyrano? Who'll keep the music coming, so Pete's not just jerking words off on the internet?
He wraps an arm around the back of Patrick's neck and snuggles close, even though Patrick's doing his best to be no good at snuggling. "We are working," he says, nuzzling Patrick's neck with his stubbly chin; can't seduce a guy a couple times a year without learning exactly what gets him in the mood fast and easy. "We're doing a thing you sometimes do in working, where you stop working for a little while, and relax, and then you go back to working and you don't want to kill anyone anymore. It's called taking a fucking break." He stops and thinks about that for a second, then says, "Haha, literally."
"I still want to kill you," Patrick says grimly, but whatever. He's going limp and tilting his head back; he shivers when Pete bites him a little, just under his chin.
"You can try again later," Pete says, but he knows that's not how this is going to go. He's going to get Patrick off, and let him do his Patrick-thing where he sleeps like the dead for twenty minutes after. Then he's dragging Patrick upstairs to a bedroom, turning him over and fucking him through the goddamned mattress for an hour or ten minutes, whatever; Pete knows his limits.
Another twenty minute nap, a shower, some food, and they'll work like they've got a mind meld until Patrick seriously crashes and drags himself back to bed to faceplant. He'll let Pete curl up around him, although Pete probably won't be sleeping much, and in the morning they'll do it all over again. They'll probably finish three songs and a video treatment before Pete has to leave.
It's a system they've got. Pete calls it Dealing With the Diva.
Whereby Diva he means, First Love of My Life.
Except when he means, That Fucking Asshole Patrick, Motherfucker Tried to Kill Me Again.
He goes for Patrick's zipper, and Patrick lets him. Pete kind of wants to blow him, but he also kind of wants to kiss him, keep working on his neck maybe. Nothing wrong with a good handjob, he decides, and he leans back, brings his hand up to Patrick's mouth, says, "Lick."
Patrick slits his eyes open, gives Pete a turned-on version of the death glare, and bites.
"That is not punishment," Pete says, wiggling a little, trying to get some room in his pants. "C'mon, I want to jerk you off."
Patrick considers that, still glaring at Pete, and then he licks a broad, wet stripe across Pete's palm, the tip of his tongue dipping between Pete's fingers, and fuck, Pete loves him. A couple more stripes, Pete watching avidly and Patrick watching him right back, and they're both ready. Pete wraps his hand around Patrick's dick, thumbs just beneath the already slick head, and Patrick's head rolls back against the arm Pete still has wrapped behind him; his eyes close, his lips part.
Pete has to kiss him then because fuck, but he's pretty, and when polygamy is legal, Pete's marrying him for that mouth. And for the heavy, gorgeous dick sliding in Pete's palm, and the thighs between his knees, and the heart pounding away in Patrick's broad chest.
"Fast," he says, breaking the kiss for a second, shifting back so he can get a better angle. "I want it now -- how fast can you come?"
Patrick groans, bites his lip, his hips trying to arch under Pete's weight. "Faster if you'd just shut up and kiss me," he says, and since Pete is a man who knows a good idea when he hears one, he leans up and kisses Patrick again. He tries to figure out a rhythm between his hand and his mouth that'll get Patrick off so fast and so hard he has music notes dancing around his head, like a cartoon character who just got an anvil dropped on him.
And it works; it works really well. Patrick's squirming, pushing up, hands scrabbling at Pete's side before settling on his ass, fingertips digging in just right. His mouth is fierce, demanding, stale from working too long but sweet anyway. It doesn't take much more at all before he twists and freezes and gasps. Pete can feel him coming, a hard, fast 1-2-3, wet across his hand and probably all over both of their clothes; naked is good, but Pete has to admit he loves a good come stain too.
He slows his hand to ease Patrick through it, shifts his grip so it's just his fingers lightly cupping the head, his thumb rubbing gentle circles underneath it. He kisses Patrick's temple, slick with sweat. Patrick's neck is sweaty too, pressed against his arm, but that's okay, that's all right; Pete's never been one to complain about that. Not when it comes along with Patrick all limp and wrung-out and relaxed, finally, easy and trusting under his hands.
After a long, slow while, Patrick coughs a little, clears his throat. "You can have your chord progression," he says, languid and husky, and they really could sell a million records of him reading the phone book, if he'd do it like that.
Pete smiles against his skin, kisses his neck again for the hell of it. "I know," he says. "This wasn't about getting a chord progression, I was totally getting my chord progression. I just kind of also wanted to get laid."
Patrick laughs at him, a tired little huff of sound, and murmurs, "Asshole," but Pete knows him, knows this. Patrick's too tired and content and in fucking love with him to mean it, if he ever does; he may not have quarter notes bobbing around his head, but he might as well have cartoon hearts coming out of his eyes, just like Pete's.
"I'm your favorite," he says smugly, and settles against Patrick's chest as Patrick agrees himself to sleep, pale lashes on flushed cheeks and pink mouth slack. Patrick'll wake up again soon, and then Pete will see what else he can get from him; man, he fucking loves recording.
Scratch that. He fucking loves his life.
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