Band: Happy with the Consequence (NC-17) Pete/Patrick

Happy with the Consequence
Pete/Patrick; ~2600 words; NC-17

Sex pollen-ish fic for adellyna on the occasion of her birthday. Thanks to ericaplease for betaing and to foxxcub and iamtheenemy for hand-holding.

Title from Work by Jimmy Eat World.

Happy with the Consequence

Usually, when they come off-stage, it’s Pete attaching himself to Patrick, arm around his shoulders, face pushed into his neck. But tonight Pete doesn’t even have a chance to reach his hand out before Patrick is on him. Patrick drapes himself against Pete’s side, wiggles in under his arm and pushes his hand into the back pocket of Pete’s jeans.

It’s not unwelcome, because, hello, it’s Patrick, but. It’s weird. Patrick is clinging and totally ignoring that chick from the venue who’s been staring at him since soundcheck. Which, okay, it’s not like Patrick makes a habit of picking up random people, but this girl is hot, and Pete totally saw the way she was flirting with Patrick before the show. He didn’t know that handing someone a water bottle could be turned into that much of a come-on.

It was impressive. Pete should ask for tips.

But, anyway, it apparently had no effect at all on Patrick because he doesn’t even look at the girl when they pass her now. Instead, he burrows closer to Pete and pushes his free hand under the front of Pete’s shirt, making a tiny happy noise against Pete’s shoulder when he touches skin.

Pete frowns at the side of Patrick’s head. “Dude? Are you okay?”

“Hm?” Patrick tips his head up and blinks at Pete. He looks a little dazed. “Yeah, just. Kinda dizzy.”

Pete frowns harder and tightens his arm around Patrick. “Hey, we’ll be at the hotel in a few minutes, okay? Just hold on, man.”

“M’kay,” Patrick mumbles. They get in a van to go to the hotel and Patrick barely lets go long enough for them to climb inside before he’s back at Pete’s side, practically in his lap.

“Is he okay?” Joe asks, leaning over the back of the seat to touch Patrick’s shoulder. Patrick shivers a little and curls closer, away from Joe’s hand.

“Dehydrated, I think,” Pete says distractedly. He fucking hopes that’s all it is. Patrick is not allowed to get sick. Pete hates it when Patrick gets sick, and not just because it makes him a pissy bitch. Well, that’s most of it, but also because Pete doesn’t like to think about Patrick being gone. And you never know when stomach flu could turn deadly. It happens all the time, Pete saw it on the internet.

“Here.” Pete shoves another bottle of water into Patrick’s hands, replacing the one he got when they came off stage, and watches Patrick drink it. “You’re not allowed to die.”

“I’m not dying,” Patrick mutters. But his fingers twist tighter into the sleeve of Pete’s hoodie. “Just need to sleep or something.”

Pete gets Patrick up to his room and tucked into bed and leaves about three bottles of water on the nightstand. Then he pulls off his shirt and jeans and climbs in next to him. Because, seriously, Patrick is acting fucking weird and Pete doesn’t really want to leave him alone.

“Sleep,” he tells Patrick. He even uses his stern voice. The one Hemmy ignores every time, without fail.

Patrick is no better. “I’m hot,” he grumbles, shifting restlessly, kicking at the blankets until they fall half off the bed.

He’s sweating, Pete can see tiny beads gathering along his hairline. Pete reaches out to touch Patrick’s forehead, and isn’t prepared at all for the way Patrick reacts. Pete presses the back of his hand against Patrick’s skin and Patrick gasps—a harsh, ragged sound—and shudders.

The next thing Pete knows, Patrick has his hand on Pete’s neck and is pulling him down. Their mouths meet and it’s awkward and too hard, but Patrick groans into it, pulling Pete closer. And, fuck, it’s Patrick and his mouth is hot, hot, hot and Pete has no fucking clue what’s going on, but he can’t help kissing Patrick back, tilting his head until the angle works.

Patrick pushes Pete over onto his back and crawls on top of him, knees pressed in close on either side of Pete’s hips. He drags his lips down Pete’s neck and Pete wants to ask what the fuck is going on and did Patrick take something and if so, what? But Patrick catches his mouth again, kisses him deep and wet, and Pete loses himself in tongues and teeth and Patrick until he can’t breathe.

“I want,” Patrick says, against Pete’s lips, into his mouth. “I need.” He pushes at Pete’s boxers, sliding elastic down over Pete’s hips, and fuck, Pete is so hard already. He’s so hard and Patrick’s palm is as hot as the rest of his skin when it wraps around Pete’s dick. Pete vaguely thinks that this isn’t right. Patrick isn’t acting like himself and Pete should probably stop this before it goes too far. But Pete’s self-control is shaky even in his best moments, and this is far, far from his best moment.

“Anything,” Pete says. Because, yeah, Pete would do anything and everything for Patrick. Any time Patrick needed him. “Whatever you want—need.”

Patrick’s wearing a worn out t-shirt and sweatpants—the first things Pete pulled out of his suitcase. He doesn’t stop to take either of them off before balancing his free hand on Pete’s hip and sliding down the bed, his mouth grazing along Pete’s bare skin as he goes.

Apparently what Patrick needs is Pete’s dick in his mouth. He licks a hot line from the top of his hand to the tip and Pete barely has time to think holy shit before Patrick swallows him down. “Holy shit.”

Seriously, Patrick’s mouth. It’s not like Pete’s never thought about this, because he has. He so has. Patrick’s mouth has, like, the starring role in at least half of Pete’s jerk-off material. It’s the good half, too, the half he uses when he really has time to make it good, you know? Not just quicky shower material. Patrick’s mouth is too good to be wasted like that.

It’s just. He didn’t really ever expect it to happen. But now he has Patrick’s tongue doing quick, clever things to the head of his cock and he has Patrick’s hand on his hip, holding him against the bed, and, oh, look, he has one hand on the back of Patrick’s neck, his fingers curling into Patrick’s hair. Pete doesn’t even remember putting it there.

Pete says, “Fuck, Patrick,” and tugs at his hair, tries to pull Patrick back and off his dick. If Patrick keeps doing what he’s doing – especially the part where he deep throats, and Christ, where the fuck did he learn to do that? – then this is about to be really embarrassing.

Patrick just makes an unhappy sound in the back of his throat and refuses to move.

And, yes, okay. Fine. Pete’s dick is totally happy with that plan. It turns out that Patrick’s unhappy noises feel really fucking good when he has your cock down his throat, so. Besides, ignoring all cracks to the contrary, Pete is not that old. He can totally go again after this.

Which is a really good thing because Patrick pulls back enough to look up at Pete through his sweep of red-gold eyelashes and Pete is fucking done for. He comes in Patrick’s mouth, against his tongue. Watching Patrick’s throat work as he swallows is more than Pete can take.

He twists his fingers tighter into Patrick’s hair and tugs until Patrick crawls back on the bed. His pupils are huge, black ringed in a tiny sliver of color, and his mouth looks raw and used and fucking obscene. There should be laws against it, Pete thinks. Except then he wouldn’t get to look at it and that would just be sad. Sad and wrong. On so many levels.

Patrick kisses him and Pete’s inner monologue pretty much comes to a screeching halt. He can taste himself in Patrick’s mouth and he vaguely thinks it should maybe be gross, but wow. So not gross. Really fucking hot, actually. Also hot? The sounds Patrick makes when Pete tugs at his hair again and the way Patrick’s hips are moving, pushing his dick against Pete’s hip.

Pete makes a valiant attempt to get Patrick’s clothes off, but Patrick is mouthing at Pete’s neck and stroking his fingers over Pete’s ribs like they’re an instrument he wants to learn to play. Added to the slide of Patrick’s cock against Pete’s skin, hot and hard through the nubby material of his sweatpants, it’s really fucking distracting. So it’s not so much Pete’s fault that he only manages to get Patrick’s shirt half off and doesn’t even manage to get his pants down at all before Patrick is gasping and biting down on Pete’s shoulder and coming thick and wet between them.

Pete says, “Fuck,” and Patrick buries his face in Pete’s neck, his tongue lapping at the spot where he bit down. His hips jerk and Jesus, he’s still hard.

Pete feels more than hears Patrick say his name. The word is pressed into Pete’s throat and he feels the letters vibrate out. Pete touches Patrick’s back, trying to be soothing, but Patrick just shudders and says Pete’s name again, louder this time, pleading.

“Okay.” Pete rolls off the bed, pulls Patrick up behind him and strips Patrick’s clothes off. “Okay, dude. The shower looked really awesome. We’re gonna go check it out now.”

Patrick says, “And then you’re gonna fuck me,” and Pete mutters something that probably doesn’t even have any vowels in response. Not that it really matters, because Patrick is leading him towards the bathroom and the tile is cold under his feet and Patrick is still so, so hot.

Twenty minutes and three orgasms later – two for Patrick, one for Pete – they’re back on the bed.

Patrick’s hair is damp and dark against the pillowcase when Pete urges him over onto his hands and knees. Pete is a little worn out for the moment—and wow, he always forgets how difficult sex in the shower actually is—but Patrick’s dick is still pressed hard and thick against his stomach and his skin is flushed pink from the shower, and even clean he looks fucking wrecked.

Pete runs his hand down Patrick’s back to palm his hip. Patrick spreads his thighs willingly, wantonly, and Pete’s dick twitches tiredly. It’s fucking hot. Christ.

When Pete drops a kiss to Patrick’s other hip, then one right at the base of his spine, Patrick moans. He says, “Please,” and it sounds sticky, like he can barely get the word out.

“Yeah.” Pete presses one last kiss to soap-scented skin, then spreads Patrick open with his thumbs and drops his head. He presses his tongue behind Patrick’s balls and licks up, a long, wet swipe of his tongue. Patrick’s whole body jerks under Pete’s hands. Pete just holds on tighter and settles harder onto his knees, pulling Patrick closer to him. One more long drag and then he narrows his focus to tracing circles with the tip of his tongue and pressing with the flat of it until Patrick is wet and open and begging for more.

Patrick has his face mashed into the pillow, but Pete can hear his own name and “fuck” and “please” and “yes” in various combinations. Pete moves one hand from Patrick’s hip to push two fingers into Patrick. They slide in easy, slick against spit, and Patrick’s hips twitch. He can’t go anywhere; Pete is still holding him firmly in place with his other hand, and he’s too high off the mattress to get any friction, but he’s clearly trying for something, anything.

Pete tightens his grip, digs his fingertips into Patrick’s skin, and Patrick makes a high, sharp sound and goes still, save for the fine trembling of the muscles in his thighs. Jesus. Pete doesn’t even know what to do with that, it’s so fucking hot. So he just twists his fingers in and up, listens to Patrick moan when Pete works his tongue between them and licks in as deep as he can.

Pete’s dick seems to have found some extra reserve of strength and blood flow somewhere, because he’s hard again. He doesn’t even realize it until he shifts closer, trying to get a better angle, and his dick brushes the back of Patrick’s thigh. Pete hisses through his teeth and Patrick groans and pushes back onto Pete’s fingers, against Pete’s cock.

“You said,” Patrick pants. “You said you were gonna fuck me.”

Pete did say that. And he has every fucking intention of following through on it. He slides his fingers out and practically falls off the bed and trips over himself trying to get to his bag to dig out condoms and lube. When he gets back to the bed, Patrick has rolled over and propped himself on his elbows.

“Like this,” he says. Pete more or less falls on the bed and Patrick reaches for him with one hand, pulling him in close until Pete is between his legs. He kisses Pete deep and wet and dirty, his tongue pushing into Pete’s mouth. Pete fumbles between them, gets the condom on and his dick slicked up.

“Patrick.” He breathes the word in Patrick’s mouth as he presses into him, into tight heat and friction. Patrick arches, his breath hitching and his voice breaking as he lets Pete in, until Pete is tight against him. Pete drops his head to Patrick’s shoulder and just tries to breathe against the tightness of his chest and the need burning in the pit of his stomach.

Patrick lifts his hips and Pete thrusts against him. It’s choppy, uneven, nothing like a steady rhythm, but he’s fucking Patrick deep and hard, and holy shit. He’s fucking Patrick. And Patrick is making noises again, needy sounds that are almost whimpers as he wraps his legs against Pete’s waist and tilts his head back.

Pete snaps his hips forward and licks at Patrick’s collarbone, worries his teeth against the thin skin over the bone. He hopes he leaves marks. He wants to look at Patrick in the morning and know this happened.

When Pete comes, it’s a sharp spike of pleasure so intense it almost hurts. He twists his fingers through Patrick’s and squeezes as he shudders against him. Patrick is still hard under him when he pulls out and drops the condom between the bed and the wall.

“Ew,” Patrick mutters. Pete rolls his eyes. That would be the thing Patrick chooses to focus on. Luckily, Pete is awesome at distracting people from the gross shit he does. He slips his mouth over the head of Patrick’s dick and pushes his fingers up into Patrick’s body. He manages to catch a steady motion this time, moving his mouth along with the twist and thrust of his fingers.

He swallows when Patrick comes and slides his mouth off slowly, licking at the head of Patrick’s dick. Patrick still isn’t going soft, but he’s not as hard as he was before, and it seems less urgent now. His eyes are clearer, pupils smaller.

Pete moves them both around until he can strip the comforter off the bed, leaving the relatively clean blanket and sheets underneath. It’ll do. Patrick watches him with wide eyes and when Pete climbs back on the bed next to him, he says, “Pete,” and then, “I’m sorry. I don’t. I don’t know what this is.”

“Do you think you can sleep?” Pete asks. He touches Patrick’s face. “It’s okay, dude. We can. Tomorrow, we can talk.”

Pete is exhausted. Enough to sleep, even. He presses in close to Patrick, throws his leg over Patrick’s thigh and his arm across Patrick’s chest. “We’ll figure it out tomorrow,” he says again. It feels slightly weird, he can’t count the number of times Patrick has said the exact same thing to him, trying to get Pete to turn his brain off and sleep.

Patrick sighs, a soft whoosh of air against Pete’s forehead. ‘Tomorrow?”

Pete kisses Patrick’s neck. “Tomorrow.

---

A/N: I couldn’t really figure out how to work it in more explicitly, but the girl at the venue at the beginning is the one that sex-pollened Patrick up. She slipped something into his water bottle and, yes, Pete will be kicking her ass later.