dig your own grave and save

just imagine spencer and larry having a conversation

heyginger — Wed, 27 May 2009 17:03:14 GMT

The complete lack of Criminal Minds/Numb3rs crossover fic has made the nail on my right pinkie finger turn blue and every day that there is no such fic the blue spreads a little bit and I can only infer that, if I never get Criminal Minds/Numb3rs fic, I will die from it. Which would be a shame since I'm doing so well at this life thing. :P

Okay, that was a lie. Still, I guess I am going to have to write it myself.

I was going to post about the following things:

1.) an old SNL Alec Baldwin skit where he plays an actor who plays a doctor,

2.) how I'm thinking about applying to library school when I graduate instead of/in addition to applying to linguistics grad programs,

3.) my stats TA who is exactly like Carleton Banks, except named Derek,

4.) the Pete/Patrick story about bathtubs that I just can't seem to finish,

but I have to go pick up live frogs from the FedEx warehouse right now, so I can't.

ETA: Also, this is on my desktop and I have a.) absolutely no memory of writing it and b.) no context whatsoever. Ha.

When he takes off his suit jacket, Patrick is wearing black suspenders and a black tie, which he's slowly unknotting. Pete reaches out to touch his right cuff link, worrying the silver square between his fingers, and Patrick's head thunks against the hotel room door. Pete wishes he'd move further into the room. All week, it's been like this, just Patrick and Pete breathing the same air, and it's been years since Pete felt like this, like there was nothing between them. Like if he reached out his arm he would touch Patrick and Patrick would be warm, and if he made a fist in Patrick's shirt and pulled Patrick would be moved.

"Pete," Patrick says, and the smile in his eyes doesn't match the soft, serious line of his mouth, "you should kiss me now." His tie is hanging crooked around his neck.

Pete shifts his weight from foot to foot, breathing out, cutting his eyes away. He catches sight of their reflection in the mirror on the far wall of the dark cave past the bathroom door, notices the tired line of Patrick's shoulders, the rumple of his shirttails. He thinks about saying Ashlee's name, something about the divorce, how it's been so long. He thinks about asking why. In the end he just says, "What if I don't want to kiss you?" He means for it to come out sassy, but it doesn't.

"Pete," Patrick should be looking away, down, but he isn't, he's meeting Pete's eyes. "You want to kiss me," he says, softly but sure, color blooming high on his cheeks, "and if--" he makes a vague gesture encompassing the space between them, "if, if this...you have to kiss me." Patrick leans his head back against the door and waits, like he did through the whole night at the banquet, through the whole week that the band's been reunited in LA. Pete knows the entire suite opens up behind him, he can retreat, he can walk away, and Patrick won't come further into the room if he does. Patrick will stand at the doorway until Pete pulls him in, just like he's stood in all of Pete's doorways. Or Patrick will leave--he won't push, not more than he already has.

Pete takes a moment and looks at Patrick, who is still meeting his eyes, still certain. Then he nods and steps forward. "Okay," he says. "I--" he clears his throat and tries again. "I'm going to kiss you. Patrick." The words hang in the air, and Pete thinks there should be a drumroll, a great swell of music, but instead it's quiet. There should be crashing waves, or fireworks, or someone should swoon, but instead he just stands there and hears the ice machine rumbling down the hall and looks at Patrick, who nods and presses his open palms to the door behind him.

Pete leaves his arms folded around his own abdomen when he moves to kiss Patrick, just leans his head in. Patrick's lips are soft and his chin is scratchy, and Pete feels like a balloon with no helium, barely touching the floor. He uncurls his arms so he can press his thumb backwards against Patrick's stubble and his other hand finds it's way to Patrick shoulder, collar slick between his fingers, nails skipping down the woven silk of his tie. Patrick's palms stay flat against the door. Pete kisses Patrick slowly and soft, long enough that there's sweat between the small of Patrick's back and the door when Pete presses his fingers there.

After they land on the bed, Pete gets the last few buttons of Patrick's shirt undone, Patrick propped up over him. When the last button slides free, the fabric hangs down on either side of Patrick's torso and Pete slides his hands up under the slick cotton to where he can't see them, rucking up Patrick's undershirt to press his fingers to Patrick' sides, slide his thumbs over Patrick's stomach.

"Patrick," Pete whispers, arching to press his cock into Patrick's hip, "Patrick, I'm going to fuck you." Patrick groans and slides his thigh between Pete's legs, bearing down to grind Pete's hips into the slick hotel comforter, and Pete laughs and groans at the same time. "Patrick, I'm going to fuck you."

Fic: In the Hall of the Mountain King (1/1)

heyginger — Mon, 16 Feb 2009 04:16:43 GMT

Title: In the Hall of the Mountain King
Author: heyginger
Prompt: Pete/Patrick, being spit on
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3500-ish
Summary: Pete never tells anyone, no one, never.

To be one's self is to slay one's self.

14.

There's this kid, Christian, he's one of the kids who's fucked in the head for real, more than Pete is, and he sleeps in the bunk bed across from Pete's, washes dishes while Pete dries, runs at Pete's shoulder when they do laps around the track. In the yard after dinners Christian bounces the basketball off of kids' heads, tackles boys, knees them in the stomach, spits on them. Pete sits under a tree, pretending to read City of Light, City of Dark, and watches.

On Pete's sixth night at boot camp, he wakes up because he's sweltering. Pushing the blanket down helps, even though the sheets still stick to his side and back. He flips his pillow to the cool side and rolls over and that's when his eyes meet Christian's. Christian's tongue is poking out between his teeth, and in his peripheral vision, Pete can see his hand moving under the sheet. He doesn't have to turn his head to know what he's doing.

Pete closes his eyes and tucks his chin down; he's going to go back to sleep, he is. But then he hears Christian laugh, quietly, once, and his eyes snap back open. Christian is looking at the ceiling now, smirking like it was a fucking dare. Like Pete failed.

For a moment, Pete doesn't do anything, just holds his breath and watches.

He should roll over and go back to sleep.

Instead, he shifts his legs carefully and the sheets rustle. It's silent for a moment, and then he moves again, picks up his shoulders and resettles them with a soft thump. Christian turns his head, making eye contact again, still smirking.

Pete smirks back.

He keeps his breathing even when he slides his hand between his legs, and he squeezes as steadily as he can manage. Just before he comes, when he can feel his lip start to curl, he tucks his head back into the shadow cast by the bunk above him.

The next afternoon, Christian trips him on the soccer field. He straddles Pete's waist and holds his arms down just long enough to spit-and-suck, letting his drool hang inches from Pete's cheek before slurping it back up again. He calls Pete a faggot, casually, while the other boys laugh, and knees him in the gut when he scrambles off. Pete doubles over and tries to get his air back.

Two days later, his mom comes to pick him up. She kisses his temple, his forehead, hugs him. In the parking lot, he throws his duffel into the back of her silver Infiniti, then opens the passenger door and looks up. Christian's standing at the side of the administration building, watching. When he sees Pete looking back, he flips him off. Pete gets in the car and closes the door, and through the window he sees Christian spit on the dirt and walk away.

---

In his head, Pete is unflinchingly honest. He collects self-truths like bugs--grotesque, chitinous things. He unfurls their wings, pins them down, studies them until the line between ugliness and beauty blurs.

He keeps them.

20.

Pete has two shots of cheap tequila, and it's rough. It burns all the way down his throat and into his belly and he waves away the lime. He looks around, and it's college kids everywhere, girls in black pants and tight tops and guys in white baseball caps.

He never picks up girls in bars like this; there would be no point.

Tonight the guy's name is Austin or Dallas or some other Texas city and he's very, very drunk. Pete thinks he's probably in a frat; he probably plays intramural Frisbee and fucks his girlfriend in her twin extra long dorm bed; he probably doesn't, in his right mind, in his sober mind, even know what he wants. He probably doesn't know that he's watching the gap between Pete's waistband and Pete's ass when Pete bends over the bar to hail the bartender, but Pete knows.

Pete has sympathy for bottled shame, he wants to touch every dark, raw thought this kid has made himself swallow, and so his hand is gentle when he catches the guy's wrist.

Out back, Pete tugs him onto the sidewalk and down a staircase to the unlit front stoop of a basement shoe-repair shop. The brick is cold against Pete's back and the air smells like wet leaves, and if Pete isn't hard, the frat boy is enough so for both of them, riding Pete's thigh, panting into his temple, drunken clumsy and groping.

When the condom is on and Pete is braced hands first on the the brick wall, Pete finally gets what he wants, what he came for. His arms are shaking and his bangs are in his eyes. "Fuck--use spit," he says, looking down his own body, watching his dick get hard. "I-I like it rough." It's a lie, it's Pete's usual lie, though the frat boy is too drunk and horny to need it, maybe too far gone to even hear it.

Pete closes his eyes and strains to hear him spit over the sounds of traffic above them. He definitely feels it, cooling quickly on his skin before the guy's dick skids over him, spreading it around. He bites his lip against the pain, but it's worth it for the wetness, for the knowledge. Frat boy is barely together enough to thrust, way too far gone to catch a rhythm, staccato clumsy jerks and open-mouthed grunts against Pete's neck. Pete wraps his hand around his own dick and concentrates on the slickness behind his balls.

When the frat boy drools on his shoulder he shoots on the brick wall.

---

It becomes one of a catalog of things he has told Patrick in tiny jigsaw puzzle pieces, but these specific pieces are buried in a box with the wrong picture on the cover and he can't tell if Patrick has put them together.

23.

Pete runs and Patrick finds him, although it's more that Patrick follows him, five yards behind, pushing past a few gawkers. The van is parked a block away in front of two expired meters, but the doors are locked, so Pete just stops there, looking in the tinted window, and listens as Patrick catches up to him.

"Go away, Patrick," he says, voice wet and nasal.

"Jesus," Patrick says. "Christ." He's hanging back somewhere over Pete's right shoulder. "Your nose broken?"

Pete shakes his head and he has to work to stop shaking it, has to work to keep his skin still because his insides are shivering, eyes shaking in his head, blood vibrating.

"Good," Patrick says, "stupid fucker," and Pete knows he means the douche bag who shoved Pete, punched him. Spit on him.

Pete's still hard in his jeans.

Patrick steps forward, two steps, and Pete presses his palms to the van's door panel. His fingers stay still and that's how knows he's okay to turn around, steady enough to look at Patrick. Patrick's eyes are big and solemn, and Pete presses his shoulder blades to the van where his hands had been and crosses his arms over his chest, scraping his bitten-down thumbnails over his own collarbone.

There are high, red blotches on Patrick's cheeks, probably from the damp, chilly air. His eyes are rapt on Pete's face.

"Jesus Christ, Pete," he says, and his voice is shaky. From the chill, Pete thinks, high and reedy even in his own head. It's chilly.

It was dark, in front of the club. Patrick didn't see anything. *Anything*.

Patrick studies Pete's swollen cheek, the blood smeared high on his upper lip. Pete clenches his teeth. "I'm fine," he tries.

"You've got--" Patrick makes an abortive gesture toward Pete's neck. "You--" He takes one careful step and swipes his hand below Pete's ear. His fingers are three points of ice on Pete's neck, and when he pulls them away, they're shiny. "Spit."

Pete closes his eyes because he has to, because it's his last line of defense.

"Hey," Patrick breathes, tentative, maybe exhilarated. "You sure you're okay?" He reaches out and wraps his fingers around Pete's wrist and his skin is damp over Pete's pulse point. Pete bites his lip, but he's afraid the sound makes it out anyway.

Patrick shifts even closer, so that Pete's hand is trapped between their bodies, Patrick's fingers still snug over his wrist bone. "Pete--" he says, and Pete shakes his head no, but before Patrick can continue, the van doors unlock under Pete's back and they both jump. Andy and Joe are two car-lengths away, carrying the last of their shit and the keys. Patrick bites his lip and looks back at Pete. He smiles a little and squeezes Pete's wrist, hard, before he pulls away, and Pete can't do anything but pant, can't do anything but climb in the van, limbs jerky and slow, can't do anything but curl up in the corner. Can't do anything but not look and not look and not look at Patrick.

---

He doesn't think about it too much when he's fucking, not too much, just a little, when it creeps in.

When he's jerking off, he tries to think about threesomes, about lesbians or Jessica Biel or handjobs in public places. It's always on the edges, though, inescapable, sharp and hot, waiting for him to close his eyes. Sometimes Patrick is there, too.

24.

Andy and Joe are in the front of the van playing some modified version of Circle of Death with a deck of NASCAR cards. 7's are Truth Or Dare and 2's are I Never and Pete lost track of the rest somewhere around New Buffalo. He's got headphones on but it's mostly for privacy; his playlist ended 20 minutes ago. Patrick is dozing on the opposite side of the bench, head lolling against the window.

Pete pops out an earbud when the conversation turns to kinky sex; whipped cream is not really kinky and he feels that it's his duty to back Andy up about that.

Five minutes later and the conversation is still going, mostly due to Joe, who's saying, "I can't imagine letting someone piss on me."

Pete snorts. "I've pissed on you, dude."

"Yeah, and it didn't turn me on."

"Well, that's good to know," Pete says, getting ready to start the music again, but then Andy's looking thoughtful, saying, "It might be interesting."

Joe wrinkles his nose. "That's totally your fetish, isn't it? You're all into golden showers."

Andy just rolls his eyes and says, "Nope. Diapers."

Joe starts laughing, almost the squeaky giggle they tease him about. Pete bites his lip, calculating.

"I kind of want to fuck a dog," Pete says, keeping his eyes on the tiny screen of his iPod.

Andy purses his lips against a smile and nods wisely. "I've always suspected you had some kind of traumatic formative psychosexual experience with your Pound Puppies," he says.

Joe giggles. "I thought maybe Teddy Ruxpin."

"No, really," Pete insists. "I want to put my dick in a real female dog. Maybe a German Shepherd." He loses the battle and laughter makes his next words shaky. "A pretty one."

Andy laughs and Joe starts choking on his Mountain Dew, shoulders shaking.

"Pete, dude," Andy says, reproving through the laughter, "you're gonna make Joe choke to death. Or spit soda all over me." He reaches over to thump Joe on the back soundly.

Without looking up, Pete can tell that Patrick's awake, watching him. Joe is giggling now, kind of coughing, and Pete smirks because he knows how to play to a crowd. Then he meets Patrick's eyes, and Patrick isn't laughing. Patrick's gaze is serious, deliberate. For a moment, Pete's mind is blank; he just meets Patrick's stare. Then, like the van hit a speed bump, everything in Pete's brain bounces and tumbles and lands different, clicks into place, and he thinks Patrick knows.

Pete's heart starts beating so hard he's sure it's jerking his shoulders in rhythm. It's the craziest fight or flight response he's ever had, a tsunami of adrenaline, like someone has reached inside him and yanked all the air out of his lungs and then kept yanking, wrenching his chest inside out, exposed, control gone.

He sits perfectly still, doesn't let himself inhale because he knows it will be a wet, shaky gasp. Patrick says nothing, eyes assessing.

Right as Pete's lungs start screaming, Patrick rolls his forehead back onto the window pane and closes his eyes.

Joe and Andy are talking about handcuffs in the front seat, have moved on, and some asshole honks at them and passes on the right.

Pete curls forward as casually as he can. He brings his hands to his mouth and sucks air desperately between his fingers.

---

Patrick doesn't mention it in Detroit and doesn't mention it in Toledo. His eyes are normal again--not knowing, not heavy.

After 11 days on pins and needles Pete convinces himself that Patrick doesn't know anything, never knew, it was a fluke, and he breathes and breathes until he's dizzy and finally sleeps.

26.

Pete never tells anyone, no one, never. He's never said the words and he can't imagine saying it, asking for it. Just the thought makes him tremble, flush, sick. Sometimes, lying in the dark, watching Jeanae sleep, he thinks about telling her. He practices in his head, "I want you to spit on me." But no, that's wrong, too easy, too plain. Not honest enough. "I want to be naked and I want you to spit on me. On my cock. On my...". Face, face face face his brain finishes, but it's a whisper even in his fantasy, he can't imagine saying it.

Face, he thinks, looking at Jeanae, on her stomach next to him. He edges one shaky hand under the back of her wife beater and her eyebrows twitch in her sleep.

Do it, please, on me.

She'd do it, he knows, probably even like it. He flattens his hand against the small of her back and feels her breathe.

He'll never ask her. Even the thought has him trembling and breathing quick, heat sliding down from his sick bitter stomach, halfway between hard and throwing up.

28.

Jeanae is gone and back and gone again, and when he's sure it's for real and for good, Pete asks Patrick to collect Hemingway in Chicago and bring him out to LA.

Patrick lets Pete lie on the couch watching Dog the Bounty Hunter for two days before he starts kicking Pete's ass, sympathy for this particular break-up exhausted long ago.

He bitches at Pete to clean up the dog shit in the laundry room and he bitches at Pete for leaving his dirty socks on the couch and when he bitches at Pete to do the damn dishes already, Pete gets up from the couch and goes into his kitchen and takes every dish out of every cupboard. He spreads them over every available inch of counter, and then he goes to the fridge and gets the Nesquik syrup and the mustard and starts systematically squirting them over each plate, glass, and spoon.

Patrick leans against the pocket door and watches, lips a tight line.

After that, for a week, they're fighting all the time, everywhere. Yelling in the studio, quiet hard words on the phone, bitchy smirks in the living room and in the bedroom and in the foyer until Wednesday when Patrick smiles coldly at Pete from across the kitchen and says, "So is this the part where I spit on you and call you a dirty whore?"

It's wrong, it's all wrong, but it's hot, too, excitement shaky and sick in Pete's stomach.

When Patrick leaves the room, Pete slides to the floor and shakes.

28.

Patrick grabs him by the jaw and turns his head until his cheek is against the carpet, holding him there, thumb up over Pete's chin. It's terrifying and exhilarating and Pete squeezes his eyes closed and breathes heavily through his nose. Patrick doesn't do anything, doesn't say anything, and as the silence grows Pete's panic expands until his heart is beating so hard that it hurts his chest. He finally opens his eyes and sees Patrick watching him and he can't do this. He has to rear back, trying to jerk his head up and out of Patrick's hand, but Patrick holds on. When Pete calms down, stops fighting, and Patrick has Pete's face pressed firmly to the carpet fibers again, he finally shifts forward.

Patrick bends down, purses his lips and drools. It's slow and steady and sure and Pete's limbs jerk when it hits his cheek. He tries to suppress the reaction, tries to press himself down into the floor, to hold still.

"That's right," Patrick says, "just take it."

In Pete's fantasies, when someone talks to him like this they always sound like a porn star, stupid and crooning. Patrick just says it, though, matter of fact and smiling, just take it, like he's handing Pete an apple or a birthday card.

It's incendiary. Pete realizes he's twitching, tiny electric shocks under his skin.

"Again?" Patrick asks, still in such a normal voice, shifting his ass over Pete's waist and leaning forward once more. He doesn't wait for a response. This time it's faster, more pressure, closer to Pete's jaw. He can feel it running down under his chin, onto Patrick's hand.

"God, you're a mess," Patrick rasps, and Pete's whole body jerks; he grunts. Patrick presses his fingers in, turning Pete's head, and when Pete opens his eyes there's a smile curling the edges of Patrick's mouth. "You like that," he says, leaning forward. Pete can't move his jaw, can't move his lips right because of the pressure of Patrick's fingers on his cheeks, so when Patrick kisses him it's sloppy.

"Filthy," Patrick whispers, sliding his thumb through the wetness on Pete's cheek, and Pete moans.

28.

"Roll over."

Pete climbs to his hands and knees and hangs his head. He's so exposed, it's all exposed now, and he tenses when Patrick shifts behind him, hard warm hands on his hips and sliding up his back.

Patrick's hands settle on Pete's ass and tug. Pete is panting--desperate, rattling panting, scared and aroused. He's hyper alert, too keyed up to be blissed out, but he can feel the bliss just past the edges of his panic.

"Ready?" Patrick asks, and Pete can't do anything, can't nod, can't speak. Patrick huffs out a sigh that's halfway to amused and the sound is so normal that for a second it's a shock, for a second it's sanity. The spell breaks and Pete sees them both, suddenly--himself (about to get fucked) and Patrick (knowing, Jesus, Patrick knows) and he can't bear it. But then, before Pete can act, Patrick spits.

It's too high, up toward his tailbone, and at first Pete thinks Patrick missed. Then he feels it sliding closer to his asshole, tickling the whole way, almost an itch. Red face pressed to the mattress, Pete holds his breath. Patrick opens him further, thumbs digging in, spreading, and when the spit hits his hole Pete just shakes silently.

"Breathe," Patrick says, reaching one hand up to the hair at Pete's nape, tugging on it lightly. "Come on, Pete, take a breath."

The air in Pete's lungs explodes out and he feels some of the tension leave, although the jitters are still there, creeping under his skin. He gulps a huge breath of air and right as he inhales Patrick spits again. This time it slides much faster, moving over the already wet skin, and Pete cries out. It tickles and his hips shimmy, but Patrick's hands on his ass don't hold him still, just open.

Patrick doesn't fuck him. Instead he holds him open and spits until Pete is fucking back into it, sharp snaps of his hips that make his dick slap against his belly. Pete's lost now, no rational thought left, only electrical impulses making his thighs shake and his cock jerk.

At a certain point he realizes he can't feel what Patrick's doing, even though he can still hear Patrick spitting. He pants at the ground in confusion for a moment before Patrick shifts forward, sliding his hand around Pete's hip to wrap tight around his cock. The hand is sloppy with spit, Pete looks down and sees it running out between Patrick's fingers at the same moment he feels Patrick's cock, hard in his pants, press into the back of his thigh. Patrick leans forward, presses his cheek to Pete's shoulder. "Next time," he says, and his voice is uneven, "next time you're going to tell me all about it, Pete." Pete shakes his head, pushing himself through Patrick's grip harder, and Patrick bites his shoulder, rocking his hips with Pete's. "Yeah," he breathes, "you're gonna tell me everything."

Pete watches the head of his cock poke through Patrick's fist, wet and red, and comes with his stomach clenching, twitching like a seizure, Patrick chuckling into his back.

the end.

AN: This story just about killed me, and probably would have if it wasn't for rosiedoes who read it and told me it was decent and also held my hand while I rewrote the same orgasm 12 13 times. <3

victoria's secret

heyginger — Fri, 31 Oct 2008 05:29:34 GMT

So, you probably shouldn't read this. Just saying. I make no claims about quality. I wrote and posted this anonymously more than a year ago as part of some bandom porn meme, and I'm only owning up to it and reposting it now (cleaned up, of course) for housekeeping reasons. It's, um. 850 words. Pete/Patrick. nc17. Ladies' underthings. At your own risk, etc.

Pete reached out and slid one finger under the elastic band and Patrick gasped. He could feel the burn of Pete’s skin and the slide of his nail, and then Pete pulled away, snapping the elastic back into Patrick’s hip. Patrick bit down on the moan that wanted to escape him, but he couldn’t control the shiver.

Pete said, “They’re very pretty,” and he brushed his fingers beneath Patrick’s navel, just above where the black satin ended. Patrick could feel goosebumps rising everywhere, on his arms and the back of his neck and especially under Pete’s fingers. He closed his eyes, certain he should pull away, get dressed. Run.

Instead, he held his breath and tried not to twitch into Pete's touch.

Pete ghosted his fingers down, touching Patrick’s stomach through the silky fabric, sliding it against his skin. Patrick could feel it catch on the hairs leading down toward his cock when Pete’s fingers swept over them. He could feel the fabric tug at his balls as Pete shifted it, could feel it stretch and pull, and he wanted more, wanted Pete’s hand on him. Pete stayed away, though, kept his fingers moving on Patrick’s stomach, catching a pinch of fabric and tugging it back and forth, drawing the fabric across Patrick’s dick but never touching it.

Patrick could feel himself getting harder. He knew Pete could see it--could see everything like this. Pete dropped the fabric, and Patrick squeezed his eyes closed tighter.

Then fingers were sliding into the crease at his thigh, playing along the ridge of elastic where it met flesh. They barely brushed against the side of Patrick's balls when Pete slid his hand low and Patrick couldn't hold in the way his hips twitched.

“Does it feel good?” Pete's voice was all air.

Patrick knew Pete could see what this was doing to him--could see his cock hardening, head pressing against the satin. He bit his lower lip and nodded anyway.

“How about this?” Pete slid his fingers up the underside of Patrick’s dick, and Patrick swallowed back the moan halfway through, held his breath.

“Look," Pete said, "Look. You’re getting them dirty,” and Patrick already knew, could feel himself, but he opened his eyes anyway. Pete’s fingers were trailing slowly up and down his cock, sliding the fabric over him, and there was a wet spot at the head where he was leaking into the panties. Pete glanced up, made sure Patrick was watching, and then pressed his thumb to the dark spot, smoothing the damp satin back and forth across the head of Patrick’s cock, working it in circles.

Patrick fisted his hands and groaned. He couldn’t stop his hips from rocking forward, tiny thrusts at first, then pushing harder into the slide of fabric.

Pete smiled.

“I want you to come in them for me,” he said and Patrick moaned again, humping up into the press of Pete's fingers, and he was going to do exactly what Pete asked, was going to come for Pete any second. Pete slid his hand down to cup Patrick’s balls, petting them through the cloth, and Patrick thumped his head back against the wall--so close.

When Pete tightened his hand, stretching the satin until his fist was hot around Patrick's cock, it was over. Patrick could feel the clench in his stomach spread out, riding over him in waves. He came with a stifled moan, biting at the palm of his hand and thrusting his hips forward, trying to get more friction against the damp satin, trying to--fuck--. He collapsed back into the wall as it petered out, leaving him panting and sweaty.

When Patrick opened his eyes, Pete was looking down at him, at the mess in the black panties, at the fold of pale flesh where the elastic pressed into his stomach. Patrick felt the sleepy content dissipate and something cold and hard settle in his chest.

“Pete,” he said, then stopped. What was there to say?

It didn’t matter anyway, because Pete looked up, and his eyes were huge and dark. He said “Fuck, Patrick…” and then he was tugging at his own fly, yanking his dick out, leaning forward to rub himself against the satin at Patrick’s hip, muttering, “Shit, shit. Oh.”

Patrick rested his forehead on Pete’s shoulder, grabbed at his hip. "Yeah, come on," he whispered, "fucking do it,” and he felt Pete exhale hard through his nose as he bucked, felt Pete's nails in his side as he shot onto Patrick’ hip.

Patrick let himself slide down the wall until he was sitting and Pete followed, landing in Patrick's lap. He tugged Pete’s head onto his shoulder and closed his eyes, and when Pete took a deep breath, Patrick couldn’t help but tense.

“That," Pete said, "was incredible."

Patrick peeked one eye open and looked up at him, but Pete was grinning. Patrick could feel his cheeks burning, but he didn't look away, watching as Pete bit his lip and blew out a shaky breath.

"Do you have any with lace?"

Fic: Do-Si-Do

heyginger — Wed, 08 Oct 2008 00:41:18 GMT

I just got one of those cooling lapdesks for my laptop, but now my keyboard is higher than I'm used to and it feels all different, so I keep typing Oatrick instead of Patrick.

More from the Google Docs archive! I wrote this back in...May, I think, in response to something azurejay said. I don't remember what I was responding to, but I know it was azurejay.

Title: Do-Si-Do
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~1900
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Summary: The round, bumpy, perforated oatmeal cookie top and bottom surrounds a peanut butter-flavored layer inside. AKA: Pete and Patrick help their daughter have fun, develop valuable life skills, and make the world a better place.

Patrick picks Lottie up from school on Tuesday and it's later than usual, almost 4, because Tuesdays are Brownie days; when she comes racing out, she's in her brown jumper and her vest is hanging out of her Hello Kitty backpack. She's clutching a shiny pamphlet in her hands, and when she's all buckled in she turns a solemn face to Patrick.

"It's cookie time," she says.

Patrick says, "Already?" and she nods. He sighs and pushes his glasses up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"Do we have to tell Dad?" Lottie asks, and Patrick looks down at his hands on the steering wheel. On the one hand, encouraging his daughter to keep things from Pete--from either of them--is...it's bad, he's pretty sure.

On the other hand, well. Pete is a nightmare about Girl Scout Cookies. He calls all their friends; he bullies and cajoles. Two years ago, he'd tried to convince everyone on the label to send Joe and Marie Thin Mints in lieu of wedding presents. The year before that, Lottie ended up crying when her troop got a formal reprimand from the Girl Scout Council because Pete was trying to sell cookies through Fall Out Boy's merch website.

Patrick bites his lip. "We won't tell him right away." Lottie pretends to lock her lips and throw away the key. Guilt makes him add, "Keeping things from your parents is not okay, though."

"Right." She nods firmly. "Unless you say so."

"No, no matter who tells you to do it. Just this one time, Lottie."

"Yes," she says, "just this one time. Because you said so."

Patrick sighs and puts the car in drive. On the way home, Lottie fiddles with her iPod interface in the dashboard ("I can do it myself, Daddy. I've been doing it since before I was four!") and then plays Cobra's cover of "Bananaphone" approximately 100 times ("Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring!"). Patrick spends the drive thinking about who he can help her call later, once Pete's safely at the studio. Grandparents are good for a dozen boxes together, probably, and Joe will buy at least five. Andy usually places a sizable order and then donates them to food drives, so that's another dozen. By the time they pull into the driveway he's got about fifty clandestine sales sketched out, and he takes the cookie order sheets and shoves them into the glove box.

His plan works really well right up until the red-headed girl from two blocks over knocks on their door a few Saturdays later. Patrick can't hear what she's saying from where he's sitting with his morning coffee, but when he sees that she's decked out in green, his stomach sinks. When Pete comes into the living room he's got his arms crossed in front of his chest.

"Patrick," he says, and there's a question in his voice.

"Pete." Patrick looks back at the newspaper in his hand and pretends he's reading.

"Patrick, do you know what time it is?"

"It's eleven o'clock, Pete." He pulls out the comics section and tosses it on the coffee table in Pete's direction. "Saved that for you."

"It's cookie time, Patrick. But you knew that, didn't you? It's cookie time, and you kept it from me, and now you expect me to be placated by Dilbert?"

Patrick finally lowers the paper. "Don't do this," he says.

Pete glares, and his eyebrows are doing crazy things all over his face. Patrick looks down at his lap where the knee of his pajama pants is fraying. He should mow the lawn before he showers; it always makes him sweaty. When he looks back up, Pete is still glaring but now his shoulders are hitched up. It's a classic Pete-signal that hurt is nosing past the anger, and Patrick is thinking that maybe his plan wasn't such a good idea. There are acceptable things to have your kids keep from your spouse. Surprise parties, Christmas gifts, and...Patrick can't think of anything else right now. Shit.

"Lottie," Pete calls. There's a thud and the scramble of feet and paws racing down the hall. When she skids into the room, Pete asks, "Are you ready to sell some cookies?"

Lottie shoots a betrayed look in Patrick's direction. He shrugs his shoulders. She pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs.

That night when Patrick crawls into bed, he moves a stack of papers out of the way with his knee and leans in to kiss Pete's bare shoulder. Pete smiles, and it's not the smile that can sell a million girl scout cookies, it's the smile Patrick used to see across Formica diner tables and through the glass in recording studios. It makes Patrick smile back, always has, and Patrick has to kiss Pete's shoulder again. He leaves his mouth there, head bent down. "I'm sorry."

Pete shrugs and Patrick's head bobs along with him. "Okay," Pete says, sliding his hand around the nape of Patrick's neck. He's silent for a while, just petting Patrick's neck while Patrick breathes damp against his skin. Then Pete turns and kisses the crown of Patrick's head. "Hey," Pete says, voice suddenly playful, "Hey--you wanna make it up to me?" He pushes a little bit, not hard enough to dislodge Patrick's head, but enough to indicate in which direction he wants it to move. "Because I've got some ideas about that."

Patrick laughs and looks up to meet Pete's leer with one of his own. "We can probably work something out, yeah." He kneels up to take off his T-shirt, but before he removes his glasses he gives Pete one last serious look. "No making her cry, Pete."

Pete sets the papers in his hand on the bedside table and slides down until he's lying on his side facing Patrick. "I promise," he says, reaching up and sketching an "X" on his chest. "I won't upset her at all."

Patrick leans over for a kiss and reaches out to switch off the bedside lamp at the same time.

The next day, Pete leaves on business--he's flying out to Butte, Montana to check out a band he might sign. And, really, Patrick should have ascertained the location of the cookie order form before Pete left, or he should have checked his suitcases or something. He didn't. It isn't until he's getting ready to take Lottie to her violin lesson with Mrs. Sandoval, who loves Samoas, that they realize the form is missing.

He calls Pete after he drops Lottie off.

"You can't make cookies part of their contract," he says.

"Well, hello, dearest. I miss you, too."

"I mean it, Pete. Do not blackmail No Refill."

"My flight was fine; we landed safe. Thanks for asking," Pete sounds overly cheerful, which always means he has no intention of listening to a word Patrick's saying.

"You promised you wouldn't make her cry!" It's kind of a low blow, but Patrick's reaching the end of his rope about the damn cookies.

"I'm not gonna make her cry, Patrick--shit," Pete goes from sounding cheerful to petulant in 2 seconds flat. "And I'm not blackmailing anyone. I just asked! I'm allowed to ask!"

"It's not just asking! You're famous, you have a label. You show up, act all interested in their band, talk about all the things you're gonna do for them. Then you bring up this one little favor they can do for you--it's cookie blackmail, Pete. Don't play dumb." Pete's always been the businessman--Patrick knows he knows exactly what he's doing.

Pete cracks. "Alright, fine! So I encouraged them to buy some damn cookies! They're just girl scout cookies, Patrick! I could be asking for blowjobs!"

Patrick hangs up on him.

When Pete's out of town, when either of them are, they call every night before Lottie's bedtime. That night Patrick's doing the dishes when he hears the phone ring. Blowjobs, he thinks, rolling his eyes as he drops some chicken on the floor for Pear, who's dancing around his feet, tail wagging. He scrapes the rest of the plate into the garbage disposal and turns to set it in the dishwasher. When he looks up, Lottie's standing in the doorway with her My Little Pony purse in one hand and Sally the elephant and Patrick's cell in the other.

"Dad wants to talk to you," she says, holding out the phone. "And me and Sally are going shopping for pajamas at your closet."

Patrick's more annoyed than angry, really, so he wipes his hands on a dishtowel and takes the phone.

"So they played me some of their new stuff and it's got a kind of Joan Jett meets Yo La Tenga vibe to it," Pete says. "I sent you some files. Tell me what you think." Pete sounds genuinely excited and Patrick's curiosity gets the best of him, so he closes the dishwasher and heads to his office.

The music is in his inbox waiting to be downloaded and discussed--Patrick thinks the melodies are a little ticky-tocky, but the potential's definitely there--and 20 minutes pass before Pete says, "I didn't solicit any blowjobs today. In case you were wondering."

"Pete..." Patrick says, and then sighs. "I never thought for a second that you did. That you would. Okay?"

"And yet you hung up on me."

"And yet I hung up on you." Patrick laughs and then adds, "Asshole."

Pete laughs, too--as long as there's no throwing involved, he thinks it's cute when Patrick swears at him. "Why am I an asshole?"

"Because it's pretty assholish to threaten to get blow--" Patrick looks up just in time to see Lottie standing in the doorway. She's wearing Pete's old "Who the Fuck Is Pete Wentz" T-shirt over her pajama pants, and Patrick kind of chokes and has just enough presence of mind to finish, "--holes. From other people."

Pete cracks up. "Lottie walked in?"

"Yeah," Patrick says, watching her curl up in the old armchair across from his desk. "You should see what she's wearing. We might be the worst parents ever."

"Give her a kiss goodnight for me?" It's the same thing Pete asks every night he's not at home, and Patrick pushes himself up from his chair.

"Of course," he says, walking over to her. "Hey, Miss Charlotte, ready for your goodnight kiss from dad?" Lottie makes a squinched up yucky face but she clambers eagerly to her knees so he can reach her better. He holds the phone up to her ear at the same time he gives her a big, loud kiss on the cheek and then a smaller one on her forehead for good measure. He can hear Pete talking to her. She nods and then leans up to kiss Patrick on the cheek, just as loudly as he'd kissed her.

"Thank you," he says, surprised.

"It's your goodnight kiss from Dad," Lottie says, handing the phone back to Patrick. He takes it and she wanders off.

"My goodnight kiss, huh?" Patrick asks.

"Yeah." Pete's voice is low. "I miss you." It's the other thing Pete says every night he's not home.

"I'm right here," Patrick says, just like always. Then, "I'd better go make sure she brushes her teeth."

"Okay. Oh, and Patrick?"

"Yeah?"

"The only blowhole I'm interested in is yours."

(...and then there are a few more fights about cookies and some kind of resolution.)

---

A/N: I can't believe I wrote more kidfic. Seriously.

short like my daddy

heyginger — Mon, 25 Aug 2008 23:26:55 GMT

Thanks for all the birthday wishes! I have to admit, I had an awesome birthday. Classes started today, which means that my birthday was on the Saturday before the Monday when classes started, which means that everyone was having parties. So instead of doing anything specifically for my birthday, I went to other people's parties and shouted, "It's my birthday!", and people brought me drinks. And then I'd leave and go to another party. It worked out well.

Here's what I did today--I started looking for something in my google docs, and then I started just reading everything in my google docs, and. You guys. I have a lot of random snippets of dialog with no accompanying story. And the totally awesome thing, of course, is that I had forgotten about most of them.

For example, I found this document called 'puppies', and I thought--what the hell is that? Puppies? But then--remember when Patrick first got Penny and there was all that Penny/Hemmy/Bandit myspace love triangle drama? I wrote a scene where Joe explains to Pete why Hemmy and Penny can never have babies. Because...it seemed funny at the time? It's not a complete story, because...there's no plot. But it's not really an incomplete story, because...there's just no plot. It's not a story at all. But here, anyway, have a snippet:

Title: Stayin Fluff and Fly
Rating: Um, PG-13, for bestiality jokes?
Word Count: 628
Pairing: Penny/Hemingway

It’s like the sixth time that Pete mentions it before anyone says anything. Joe is in the kitchen pouring a bowl of cereal, and Andy and Patrick are on the couch. Pete is checking Penny’s MySpace.

Joe gives Patrick a look, but when Patrick just rolls his eyes, Joe’s the one who says something.

“Pete, dude. You know that Penny and Hemmy aren’t going to have puppies.”

“Well, not now,” Pete says without looking up from the screen. “I don’t think Hemmy’s ready to start a family. He’s too wild and crazy.” Hemmy snorts and opens one eye when he hears his name. He’s got all four paws pressed against the back of the loveseat and last week’s Billboard is soggy with drool under his chin. He hasn’t moved in hours.

“Well, okay. Point.” Joe takes a bite of his Fruity Pebbles. You pretty much can’t argue with Pete’s ridiculous wish-fulfillment Hemmy-the-player fantasies. “But Hemmy’s youthful shenanigans aside…dude, they’re not going to have puppies.”

“Joe, they’re MFEO,” Pete articulates all the letters, “and when a little chick and a little dude love each other very much, they decide they want to start a family, and they share a special hug…”

“I don’t know if you can really call it a hug, with dogs. Maybe a special…game of leapfrog,” Andy cuts in.

Pete laughs and laughs. “When a little girl dog and a little boy dog love each other very much, they share a special piggyback ride,” he intones in his best serious voice.

Joe rolls his eyes. “Dude, his dick would kill her.”

“Joe!” Patrick snatches Penny out of the crook of Andy’s elbow and cuddles her to his chest, looking appalled.

“I’m just saying, dude. She’s like—under all that fur, her torso is the size of a Coke can. His dick would be way too big.”

“It would, like…pop her,” Andy laughs.

“Oh my god!” Patrick looks down at the ball of fluff in his arms. “You people are sick.”

“Well,” Pete says contemplatively, glancing over at Hemmy’s underside. He reaches down to grab his own crotch. “It is the Wentz curse.”

There’s a moment of silence before Joe, Patrick, and Andy burst out laughing.

“Fuckers,” Pete says, but he’s laughing, too.

“Well, your dick would definitely kill Penny, but I don’t think it's gonna mortally wound anyone else,” Andy says.

“Dude! Oh my god!” Patrick looks totally scandalized now, which prompts Pete to thrust his hips a few times in Penny’s direction. “Stay away from my dog!”

“No, seriously,” Joe says, because he had a point, okay. “Pete, man. Remember when Hemmy was just a little guy and Jeanae took him to the vet for his ‘special surgery’…?”

Pete just blinks at him.

“…And the vet ‘fixed’ him?” Joe continues, making finger quotes around the word fixed.

Pete crosses his arms over his chest. Petulance is starting to creep in around the blank look on his face.

“…And by ‘fixed him’, I mean cut his balls off,” Joe finishes, looking exasperated. “Hemmy is, like…barren.”

“Don’t say that in front of him!” Pete hisses. “He doesn’t know about the N-U-T-U-…the N-U-E-T-R…damn it, he doesn’t know about his N-U-T-S, okay? And he has a sensitive nature.”

“Okay, okay,” Joe says, holding one hand up in surrender. “Just so long as you know.”

“They could find a donor,” Andy says. “Or they could adopt.”

And Patrick, he doesn’t even mean to because he’s not, you know, crazy like Pete is, but he just kind of hears himself say, “Adoption would be nice. Like, maybe some disenfranchised…puppies.”

Pete catches his eye and nods, all earnest. “Like, poor orphan puppies. Or little handicapped ones. Or—oh! Crack puppies!” he says, grinning. Patrick rolls his eyes, but just like always, he’s grinning back.

</div>

Fic: BDSM (1/1)

heyginger — Sun, 02 Dec 2007 23:16:49 GMT

I totally need to be working on a school project that's due tomorrow, but instead I've been working on this.

Title: BDSM
Pairing: Patrick/Joe
Rating: R, which, despite the title, I think is probably overly cautious. We'll call it 'R' for adult themes.
Word Count: 2,505
Warning: Um, adult themes. Also, bad jokes.
Summary: The real problem is that, eventually, Pete and Andy start to notice the bruises.

So the problem is that Joe and Patrick are having sex.

Well, no, that's not the problem.

The problem is that they're not very good at it.

Well…that's not quite right, either. The sex is good, great even. Patrick has really good orgasms; Joe says he has really good orgasms. The sex is good.

The problem is that neither of them is exactly smooth in the bedroom. And together? Together they're downright clumsy. Put the two of them together in a room with the potential for naked-time and it's like a black hole of awkward opens up between them and sucks all the suave right out of the universe.

And even that, Patrick thinks, wouldn't be a problem. Because it's Joe. When Patrick accidentally knees him in the eye in the bunk, Joe just holds a frozen grape Uncrustable over the socket and gets on with blowing Patrick. And when that picture falls off the wall in that motel room in Baltimore and lands on Patrick's shoulder? Joe rides Patrick, and Patrick holds his bad arm close to his side so it doesn't get jostled.

They roll their eyes and they joke about upping their life insurance coverage, but they've known each other too long for things to get weird between them.

No, the real problem is that, eventually, Pete and Andy start to notice the bruises. Well, the problem part is Pete.

Because Pete, Pete just assumes that the bruises are because they're having kinky sex. And Patrick? Patrick is not going to correct him. Somehow, Pete thinking that they have kinky sex is much better than Pete knowing that they just can't coordinate a vanilla sexual encounter.

In Oklahoma, Joe trips over his pants, stumbles forward a few steps, and smacks his hand on the bedside table as he falls. The next day on the bus Patrick catches Pete smirking at the dark purple bruise that's blooming across the side of Joe's wrist, below his thumb.

Outside of Tacoma, Patrick tries to flip Joe onto his back, but he gets too much momentum going or something, because he rolls too far and ends up sliding right off the slippery hotel comforter and landing hard on his right hip. In the green room before the next show, Pete pokes at the bruise where it peeks out between Patrick's undershirt and his jeans.

"Get a little carried away?" Pete leers.

Patrick's face turns bright red. Joe laughs like a hyena on the couch.

It's shower sex that does them in in Detroit. Joe's foot slips and he skids his way down the wall until he lands hard on his ass. They figure he's bruised his tailbone or something, because he can't sit comfortably for a few days.

That's when Pete really becomes unbearable.

"So, did you spank him, or what?" he asks, plopping down next to Patrick in the front lounge of the bus.

Patrick closes his eyes. "Pete," he says in his most quelling voice. "No."

"Because, like, I don't know how naughty he was or anything…"

"Oh my god," Patrick moans. He can feel the blood rushing to his cheeks.

"But he needs to be able to play, dude. Like, he's hissing when he moves."

"I didn't spank him."

"Whip, crop--whatever, man. Just, you know, next time he needs to be punished, can't you just make him lick your shoes or something?" Pete can barely choke the last few words out around his laughter.

Patrick wants to die. "Fuck. You."

"I don't know, dude. I didn't bring my nipple clamps."

Patrick slams his MacBook closed and gets up off the couch, making a point to try and knee Pete in the balls as he slides past him.

"Hey, hey, shouldn't we talk about safe words before you start with the ball torture?" Pete calls after Patrick.

Pete starts trying to find what he calls "the treasure chest"—the place where Patrick and Joe keep their imaginary kinky sex supplies. He checks everywhere, all the obvious places and then all the ridiculous ones. It keeps him busy for a while, running around the bus saying things like, "I think I'll have cereal for breakfast," in a pointed voice while pulling a dusty, forgotten box from half behind the fridge. He smirks while he opens the flaps and upends the box with a flourish.

The look on his face when he ends up with stale Fruity Pebbles all over his feet is pretty priceless.

It drives Pete crazy; he figures they must be moving the stuff around from hiding spot to hiding spot or else he would have found it by now. At first it's entertaining, watching him get all worked up about something that doesn't even exist, but after a while it gets old. When Patrick gets back on the bus one day to find his bedding stripped from his bunk and a jagged slit cut down the middle of his thin mattress, stuffing spilling everywhere, he starts to get pissed.

He finds Pete in the venue with Joe.

"What the fuck, Pete?"

Pete has the decency to look a little chagrined, at least. "Yeah, sorry man. I thought for sure I had it figured out."

"I keep telling you, there's nothing to figure out. Jesus Christ! When will you drop this?"

"When you admit it or I find proof," Pete says, sounding snotty again and not at all sorry.

"It's none of your fucking business!" Patrick can feel the vein behind his left eye throbbing.

"I'm supposed to be your best friend!" Pete actually looks hurt, which is so ridiculous but at the same time so totally Pete, and for a second Patrick feels bad about that. "You and I always talk about sex, but suddenly you're in a relationship with Joe and, what, you don't want to talk to me anymore?"

Patrick sighs. This has just gotten totally out of hand. "So if I admit it, you'll drop it?"

Pete nods.

"You'll never, ever bring up kinky sex again?"

Pete nods even harder, hair flopping back and forth on his forehead.

Patrick looks at Joe over Pete's shoulder and raises his eyebrows. He'd like to just tell Pete the truth, that there is no kinky sex, that they're just clumsy, but Joe shakes his head. Patrick tilts his head. Joe frowns.

Patrick sighs. What the hell. So what if Pete thinks they're pervy freaks, right? At least he'll shut up about it. What can it hurt?

"Yes, okay. Yes. To everything."

Pete whoops and leaps in the air. "I knew it, I fucking knew it! Ha!"

Patrick nods. "You were right."

"BDSM?" Pete asks.

"Yes. All of it. BD. SM. DS. MD. SB. All the letters." Patrick rubs his eyes behind his glasses. "Now let's never talk about this again, okay?"

Pete nods again and goes running off down the hallway, calling for Andy.

Joe and Patrick are left standing together in the hall. Joe is laughing at him; Patrick can tell by the way he's biting his lip, even though he doesn't say anything. Joe starts to open his mouth, the corner of his lip is twitching up in a smirk, and Patrick shakes his head in warning. Joe just bites down on the laughter harder and opens his arms in invitation. Patrick steps forward and rests his head against Joe's shoulder.

"My kinky little dude," Joe says into the top of Patrick's head.

Patrick thumps him with the hand that's wrapped around Joe's lower back. "Hey, at least it's over."

And it is over, for a while. Pete still smirks at them, and one time when they pass through San Francisco, he works it out so they have a free afternoon, and he leaves an ad for Stormy Leather sitting conspicuously on the bus table, but he never directly mentions it.

In fact, he doesn't mention it again until he starts dating Ashlee.

"So…" Pete says one day, pouring himself a bowl of Count Chocula. "So. Ashlee wants me to, like, tie her up."

"Okay…?" Patrick doesn't look up from his copy of Alternative Press.

"And I thought, like…you could tell me how. Or whatever."

Patrick freezes. He doesn't lift up his head, just slides his eyes over to Joe without looking at Pete. Joe is playing Zelda, swinging the wiimote unconcernedly, using the clawshot to knock a dragon out of the sky. Patrick can tell from the way he's biting his lip that he's trying not to laugh. He doesn't pause his game.

"Um, what?" Patrick finally looks up. Pete looks disturbingly earnest.

"Well, we've done handcuffs, you know, but she wants something more…elaborate. Like, with rope. Fancy shit. And I figured you might be able to tell me where to start."

"Pete, I don't think—"

Joe butts in. "Oh, just teach him one knot, Patrick."

Patrick glares. "He can look it up on the internet."

Pete pouts. "Come on, Patrick. You know I'm bad at learning from pictures. Just one knot. How long can that take?"

It's going to take forever, Patrick thinks, since the only knot he knows is the one he uses to tie his shoes.

"Yeah, Patrick," Joe says, pursing his lips. "Teach him the, uh, the backwards dog knot. That one's quick."

Patrick narrows his eyes at Joe. Backwards dog. Jesus Christ. "Why don't you do it, babe?" he asks through clenched teeth. If Patrick had a clawshot right now, Joe wouldn't have a head.

"Oh, no. You're the expert." Joe bats his eyes. "You know I'd just mess it up. And then where would Ashlee be? All tied up with a bungled backwards dog."

Patrick closes his eyes. When he opens them, Pete is making puppy dog eyes. He sighs. "Okay, fine. Backwards dog. Let's do this quickly."

"Wait--let me find some paper so I can take notes." Pete gets up and starts digging around in the kitchenette drawers. "Hey," he says, shifting stuff out of the way, "isn't backwards dog, like, a yoga position or something?"

Patrick glares at Joe. "Uh, yeah, something…something like that. I think it's, like, based off the yoga position. Because the knot kind of…looks like it. From a certain angle."

"Based off it? Really?" Pete asks, uncapping his pen with his teeth.

"Oh yeah," Joe pipes up. "They can totally be based off of all kinds of stuff. Books. Sports. Movies. Patrick's favorite knot is called Dude, Where's My Car?." Joe clearly never, ever wants to have sex again.

"I…what? Really?" Pete looks doubtful.

"He's joking," Patrick says, forcing a laugh.

Joe opens his mouth, and Patrick barrels forward before he can say anything. "Okay, backwards dog. You start with your basic, uh, two-handed…thumb grip. Then it goes, um, up, left, back around…uh…" Pete is scribbling frantically. "Right, over, down, down, down…"

Under his breath, Joe sings, "Do the hokey pokey and you turn yourself around…"

Patrick clenches his teeth. "Loop-de-loop then, uh, figure eight. Through the hole, and…don't be late."

"…don't be late?" Pete echoes. "What does that even mean?"

Patrick shrugs. "I don't know, man. I didn't write it."

It sounds like Joe might be choking on something. Patrick doesn't look over.

"Huh, weird," Pete says.

Joe pipes up again. "Pete, man, it's totally heterosexist. It means, like, use a condom. You know, don't be late, for chicks. Like, her period."

Pete laughs. "Her period?"

Patrick looks over at Joe. "Joseph," he says, baring his teeth, "Stop. Helping."

As it turns out, Ashlee loves the backwards dog, and Pete buys a book on shibari off Amazon and stops asking embarrassing questions. But after that, Patrick figures they better learn a few basics so that they (meaning Patrick) never have to make shit up off the cuff like that again.

Patrick practices the knots on Joe, who's laying spread eagle on the bed in Patrick's LA guest room. He tugs to make sure the fisherman's loop is secure and sits back, straddling Joe's chest.

Joe's mouth is open and he's smiling, shifting his shoulders and testing the strength of the ropes. Patrick can see the muscles shifting in Joe's biceps and he reaches out to touch, sliding his fingers down into Joe's armpit to watch him try and jerk away. He can't go far. There's a flush spreading down Joe's neck and onto his chest, and Patrick thinks he can feel the skin heating up under his fingertips.

"You know," Patrick says, taking a shaky breath, "I kind of like this."

Joe's eyes are wide and Patrick can see goose bumps spreading down his arm and across his collarbone. Joe licks his bottom lip, and Patrick slides back so he can lean down and kiss him. "You look--" he says, keeping his fingers on Joe's arm while his lips move. "Joe--" he slides his tongue over Joe's bottom lip and slides his hand down the inside of Joe's forearm to his wrist, pressing hard against the rope there. Joe exhales hard against Patrick's cheek. His mouth opens.

After a minute Patrick pushes himself up on his arms. He can feel the blood pounding in his face, his glasses are crooked, he's gasping a little bit. "What do you say?"

Joe groans, "Yeah. Yes," and Patrick leans down and kisses him some more, sloppy.

After another long minute, Patrick pulls away and starts stripping off his shirt. "Hey," he says, as he yanks the fabric over his head, "do you think we need a safe word?"

"How about 'stop'?" Joe asks.

Patrick thinks for a moment. "I think having your safe word be 'stop' is kind of missing the point." He takes off his glasses and sets them on the nightstand.

"Well, yes, but," Joe breaks off with a moan as Patrick climbs back on the bed and settles on his knees between Joe's spread legs. "Yes, but if I say 'stop' I'll mean 'stop'."

Patrick runs his hands up Joe's calves. "Yes, but how will I know that?"

"Because I'm telling you. Patrick, please, come on," Joe groans again. Patrick's fingers are tracing his kneecaps, petting up the tops of his thighs.

Patrick fits his fingers over Joe's hipbones and leans forward, resting some of his weight on his hands, holding Joe's hips still. "I think you're missing the point of the safe word, Joe. What if you want to say stop, but you don't really want me to stop?"

Joe's breath is coming in little pants now. "But we're not going to be doing those kinds of—" Patrick leans forward and slides his tongue over the line of Joe's ribs and Joe's head jerks back, thumping against the matress. "Okay, you know what? 'Tulip'. My safe word is 'tulip'."

"There you go," Patrick says, smirking, and he finally stretches up, sliding his tongue into Joe's mouth and pressing his hips hard to Joe's hips.

With repeated testing, what they learn is this: the bondage thing actually works for them.

For one thing, when Joe is tied down, no one gets kneed in the eye or elbowed in the crotch.

Patrick still sometimes falls off the bed, though.

-------

the end

</div>
This all came about because of a very, very funny chat with icedmaple last night, wherein we discussed...pretty much exactly this. I ended up cackling to myself about it while I was trying to fall asleep last night and, lo, fic was born. I should probably say that this is maybe one of those things where no one is going to find it as funny as I find it. But I? Find it hilarious.

our lawyer made us

heyginger — Mon, 29 Oct 2007 22:04:03 GMT

So the problem is that I keep looking at the inside of Pete's wrist in the following picture:

...and then things happened. Things like a little bit more of the lawyer AU, not that interesting because it's after what would be the best part of the story, but it just wouldn't leave me alone.

So I think that what happens is this:

Pete kisses Patrick for the first time in the law library. It’s an old gothic building, and they’re behind the last stack, near a row of small stained glass windows that are throwing red and blue across Patrick’s face, and when Pete finally (finally) finishes kissing Patrick’s lips, he kisses over the colors, red along Patrick’s cheek and blue at the corner of his eye.

And Patrick can’t believe that this is Pete, Pete who’s older and smooth in a way Patrick never will be, who’s usually so together and polished. Only he’s not, now, he’s not together at all, he’s wearing a T-shirt and jeans with a hole in the knee, and his hair is flat. But it is Pete, it’s Pete’s warm eyes and the bridge of Pete’s nose nuzzling against Patrick’s cheekbone.

It’s Pete’s thumb brushing the corner of Patrick’s mouth.

Pete says, “I have a meeting. After lunch. I should go.”

And Patrick, he saw Julie from his Administrative Law class poke her head around the corner a minute ago, looking for him, presumably, and then duck back, blushing, so…he should go, too. He nods.

Pete says, “Have dinner with me?”

And Patrick says, “Yeah, yes. Should I come over?”

And Pete thinks of the things Patrick said, about his money and his apartment, and he says, “Maybe I should come to yours.”

Patrick laughs a little. “I can come to the penthouse, Pete. It’s fine. Besides, I have no food, just frozen burritos.”

And Pete says, “Okay, lets split the difference. I’ll come over to yours, but I’ll bring the food. How about that?”

Patrick nods, and Pete looks at his face, his eyes and his glasses and his blush, and he has to kiss him again. Has to prove that he’s allowed to kiss him again. And Patrick kisses him back, and it’s hot and slow and Pete can feel his lower lip dragging and catching against Patrick’s, and he shivers. Patrick says, “When you get off work tonight. Come right over,” but he says it into Pete’s mouth, against his lips, and Pete moans and nods.

Patrick pulls back. “Okay. Okay. I have to go.”

Later, when Pete gets to Patrick’s apartment, he’ll come inside. Patrick will say, “Kick off your shoes, relax.” And Pete will slide out of his suit coat. He won’t be sure if he’s allowed to touch Patrick, if he’s allowed to kiss him, but Patrick will get up and walk across the room, where he’ll reach out and unknot Pete’s tie. Patrick’s fingers will work at the silk fabric, and his thumbs will brush against Pete’s throat every so often, and Pete’s skin will feel too tight and too hot across the back of his neck. When the tie is hanging limp, Patrick will reach out and carefully undo the top button of Pete’s dress shirt, and now his knuckles will brush against the underside of Pete’s jaw, and Pete will exhale, slowly, shakily, trying not to give away how affected he is.

When the button is undone, Patrick will grab one of Pete’s wrists. He’ll hold it up in one hand, and with the other he’ll carefully unfasten the cufflink, reaching over to set the small piece of silver on the kitchen counter. When that’s done, he’ll fold back Pete’s sleeve, then fold it again, exposing his wrist and forearm. When the sleeve is folded, he’ll pull Pete’s arm up to his mouth and kiss the knob of Pete’s wrist bone, then slide his lips around to the inside of Pete’s wrist. Pete will feel Patrick’s breath on his skin, the warmth spreading up his arm, and Patrick will stay there, with his mouth hovering over Pete’s forearm, sliding his lips back and forth, just a tug against the skin.

When Pete can’t stand it anymore, can’t stand it, he’ll say, “Patrick,” and his voice will be rough and soft and shaky, and Patrick will exhale hard against the inside of Pete’s wrist, and Pete will shiver.

Patrick will drop Pete’s arm and meet his eyes, and they’ll both be breathing hard-- for a moment they’ll just stare at each other. Then Patrick will reach out and pick up Pete’s other hand, and he’ll repeat the process.</div>
This was totally off the cuff (ha! get it!), so if you spot any glaring mistakes, please feel free to call me an idiot.

dude, i don't know either

heyginger — Sat, 27 Oct 2007 06:53:50 GMT

Okay, I'm just going to throw this out there, it's probably been discussed to death already, but...

Pete Wentz wanted to be a lawyer.

Some of you would know better than me, I've never seen him mention career plans other than being in a band, but I'm not up on all the interviews. But I think he was thinking 'law school'.

His dad's a lawyer and he was a PoliSci major. You know what PoliSci majors do? They go to law school. Seriously, everyone I've ever know who was in PoliSci was pre-law. Then tonight I read this interview where he talks about doing volunteer legal work. IDK, you guys. I'd bet money that at some point in his college career, he was envisioning "Pete Wentz, Esq.".

It makes me want fic where Pete's a lawyer and Patrick is his brilliant young intern.

And Patrick works late all the time helping Pete write briefs and shit, and there's a courtroom scene, and Pete's a jackass who flashes his money around and drives a Benz, and Patrick's *serious about the law* and he kind of hates Pete (right up until he looooves him). But then Patrick finds out Pete spends his free time doing interesting pro bono work (because Pete totally would) with, like, immigrants seeking asylum in the US. And they totally start to trust each other.

BUT! But then, Patrick hears about this case where this illegal immigrant was being treated horribly by the mega-corporation that she worked for, and when she fought for minimum wage and, like, a lunch break, they reported her to immigration. And he begs Pete to take her case. But Pete can't take the case because the evil mega-corporation is one of his firm's biggest clients, and it would be a conflict of interest. Huge fight! Tons of angst! Patrick yells a lot and he calls Pete despicable, with his money and his stupid cars and his expensive suits, and Pete says that Patrick is naive and foolish. And Patrick packs up the tiny closet office where they stick the interns, and he goes home to his miserable little student apartment.

And Pete goes back to his huge penthouse apartment and he looks at his walk-in closet that's bigger than Patrick's studio apartment, and he remembers helping Patrick carry books and file boxes up to that little apartment, and how Patrick had, like, Indian tapestries up on the walls for decoration but also to keep the drafts out, and how he had books everywhere and the only seating that would fit were beanbag chairs that he could store in the closet and his tiny futon that doubles as his bed. And Pete remembers how in college he had "Free Mumia" posters up, and he has a really expensive dinner delivered from a swanky restaurant, but all he wants is to be sitting on Patrick's futon eating frozen dinners off of tv trays.

And Patrick lies on the futon that night and looks out the window that faces the fire escape of the building next door, and he remembers the last pro bono case he'd worked with Pete, this woman who took her kids and fled an abusive husband in Bangladesh, and how Pete let the little girl teach him this weird version of jacks and how he taught the little boy how to make fart noises under his armpit in between depositions.

And of course the next day Pete shows up ~~at Patrick's apartment~~ on campus, he tracks Patrick down in the law library, and he pulls him out of his study group and he says. He says "I quit the firm."

And Patrick says, kind of exasperated, but fond, too "No, you didn't."

Pete is sheepish. "No, I didn't, but I will. I can go work for, like, the American Immigration Law Foundation or something. Patrick..." and he kind of trails off. "Patrick," pleadingly.

Patrick says "You can't quit. Not because of me. Not--you do a lot Pete. You do a lot of good already, and I shouldn't have made you feel like--like you aren't good enough. All those people that you've helped, you make a difference to them." And Patrick looks down and he crosses his arms in front of his chest. "You've made a difference to me," he says softly.

And Pete says "I will, though. Quit. If you want. I'll burn my suits, we can have a bonfire, I'll--I'll sell the Benz. Just, Patrick--" and he'll touch Patrick's wrist, grab his hand and pull it towards his chest. "You make a difference to me, too."

And Patrick says "You *can* sell the Benz, that thing is fucking tacky," but his voice is shaky. And Pete laughs and says "Okay. Okay." And he pulls Patrick forward, and the hand that isn't holding Patrick's hand goes to Patrick's shoulder, his neck, and then he's kissing Patrick.

Patrick says "Pete," against his mouth, and he touches Pete's face with one hand, sliding his hand from Pete's cheek to the little wrinkles at the corner of his eye, and he can feel it when Pete smiles into the kiss, against his lips and under his fingers.

The end? Um, possibly I got a little but carried away there, but...you get the picture.</div>

Devil's In the House

heyginger — Mon, 24 Sep 2007 06:00:56 GMT

I have mental problems. Seriously.

I have just written 2,000 words of the most ridiculous crackfic ever. Ever. And it's all 1001cranes's fault. Well, maybe not all, but... I was definitely egged on.

The worst part? I have more. Oh yes. In my brain there is another chapter. I wrote down two paragraphs, and then I made myself stop. Because seriously. Seriously. I don't even want to post it communities. It's that ridiculous.

So I'm just posting this, it's not a WIP, because I'm not sure I'll ever write another word of it. So. Let's just leave it here.

Oh, yeah, this is unbetaed, so if you spot any mistakes, please don't hesitate to give me a shout.

Title: Devil's In the House
Author: Ginger
Rating: PG-13 for language
Pairing: Pete/Patrick pre-slash, I guess
Summary: Pete pouted. "Dude, I am totally Satan, and I'm here to steal your soul. You should be terrified right now."

Pete didn't think it was going well. I mean, maybe not his worst work ever, but definitely in the bottom 10.

"I guess you look like the devil…" the kid said, and Pete perked up a little bit.

"Because I am! So listen-"

"I mean, the devil as dreamed up by a 14 year old girl. Who reads Laurell Hamilton books. And watches, like, too much Buffy." The kid looked pointedly at the bright red streaks in Pete's bangs.

Okay, maybe bottom 5.

Pete pouted. "Dude, I am totally Satan, and I'm here to steal your soul. You should be terrified right now."

"Let me get this straight: I'm speaking to the devil right now."

"Right."

"He's named 'Pete'."

"Yes."

"He just called me 'dude'."

"Well, yes, but-"

"He's wearing eyeliner and a T-shirt that says 'Dirty Saves'."

"See, it would be funny if you knew who Dirty was-"

"Yeah, no. Sorry. I don't know what made you think I was stupid. But. I'm not. So you can go try this little game on someone else, ok?" The kid went back to picking at his guitar strings. Pete had obviously been dismissed.

Pete sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Okay, um…let's see. I know all about you. Patrick Martin Stumph. Birthdate April 27^th, 1984."

"That just proves you're a stalker. It doesn't prove you're Satan. Sorry."

"Well how can I prove it to you?" He was starting to feel like an idiot, staring at the top of Patrick's baseball cap, trying to get this thing going. What did a guy have to do to be taken seriously around here?

"Damn someone."

"What?"

"You say you're the devil. So… damn someone. That guy." Patrick didn't even really look up, just pointed over toward a game of touch frizbee taking place across the diag.

"I am not going to damn that guy!"

"See…because you're not the devil."

"No, because there are rules! There's an order to these sorts of things. I just can't go off damning people willy-nilly! I have to follow the steps."

Patrick set his guitar aside, he was getting interested despite himself, Pete could tell. He wasn't sure if it was because he was starting to take Pete seriously, or if he was just starting to think that Pete was maybe seriously nuts.

"And what is the proper way of stealing someone's soul?"

"It's what I'm trying to do with you, if you'd just get with the program. First, I appear before them." Pete held out his arms and gestured to his body.

"You didn't appear before me. You assaulted me."

"I appeared before you, fucker. You were just too busy plucking away at your banjo to notice."

"It's a guitar. What next?"

"It's a guitar." Pete mimicked. "I know it's a guitar. Then I tell the person in question who I am. Which I did; I clearly identified myself."

"As the devil."

"Yes. Exactly. Then I challenge the person to some sort of competition. In your case, I'll bet you that I can play the guitar better than you. And lastly, I win the bet, and obtain possession of your eternal soul. That's how it works. I can't just damn random college students."

Patrick looked up at Pete with a truly obnoxious smirk on his face. "You can't play the guitar better than me."

"How do you know?"

"You called it a banjo."

"I was being sarcastic, genius. I'll bet you I can too play better than you. I've got wicked guitar skills."

"I'll bet you can't."

Finally.

"Finally!" Pete said, jumping to his feet. "Jesus Christ, that was like pulling teeth."

Patrick raised one eyebrow. He made no move to get up.

"Well, come on. Let's go." Pete rubbed his hands together.

"Uh, what?"

"You accepted my bet," Pete spoke slowly, as though to a small child. "Now, we face off, and after I kick your ass, I get to keep your soul."

"Yeah, you're forgetting something." Patrick said, standing up and brushing off the back of his jeans. "You. Are not. Satan."

Pete smirked.

Then he snapped his fingers and flickered out of existence.

When he reappeared 15 seconds later, Patrick's face was considerably paler. Sometimes, at this point in the proceedings, Pete got tears. Sometimes he got fainting—he definitely wouldn't mind seeing this kid fall over.

Patrick bitch slapped him instead.

"Ow! What the hell!" Pete rubbed the back of his head and squinted at Patrick. There might be tears in Patrick's eyes. If he looked really closely he could see a little moisture. Maybe.

He was definitely pale, anyway.

"Why didn't you do that earlier? When you asked how you could prove it to me?" Patrick's voice was definitely higher than normal. Almost shrill, Pete thought. He was probably crying on the inside.

Pete grinned a little bit and leaned in. "If I had, you would have believed me. And if you had believed me, you never would have made the bet." He wiggled his eyebrows. "I'm crafty."

"You're an asshat, you mean. Jesus." Patrick stomped his foot.

Pete just grinned at him. "Hey, it's not my fault you're a skeptical little shit."

Patrick crossed his arms over his chest and pouted. He looked ridiculous, pissed off and sulky and, God, shorter than Pete. Ridiculous and adorable.

For a moment, Pete was almost sorry. He said "Look, I have a quota to meet, okay? It's not personal."

"I'd say my soul is pretty fucking personal, douchebag." After a moment, he dropped his arms and sighed.

Pete waited.

Patrick adjusted his cap and squinted up at the sky, sighing again.

Pete patted him on the shoulder in what was supposed to be a reassuring manner.

Patrick glared. "Okay. What happens next?"

"You can play first."

Instead of answering, Patrick picked up the guitar and settled back down on the grass. Pete sat across from him, knees almost touching, and watched as Patrick took a deep breath.

Damn, the kid could fucking play.

He'd been plucking out Green Day or something when Pete approached him, but this…this was lyrical and stunning and Pete was enthralled.

He knew he should be thinking about his quota, or about his own approaching turn with the guitar, but Pete found himself stuck staring at Patrick's fingers where they moved over the fretboard.

When Patrick finished, his eyes were closed and his fingers were shaking a bit. He kept his head down, and he looked like he was awaiting execution.

Pete stared at him, at the red mark where he'd bitten his lip the whole time he'd played, and at the damp hair that curled out from under his hat behind his ears. Then Pete started to smile.

"That was awesome!" Pete was almost whispering.

Patrick jerked his head up and shot Pete a startled look.

"How long have you been playing?"

Patrick smiled, but this time it was almost shy. "My whole life, pretty much."

"Wow, man. It shows. You're…you're really good." Now Patrick was grinning, and there was a hint of red on his cheeks.

"Thanks." He smiled down at the grass for a minute, then looked back up. "Here. Your turn." He handed over the guitar.

"Okay." Pete looped the guitar strap over his head. "Okay, this is going to be awesome, dude. Brace yourself." He strummed a few times.

Pete started playing. As far as he could remember, "Horse With No Name" had two chords. E minor and that other one. He started tapping his foot to keep the beat. E minor. That other one. E minor. Other one.

He was about 1 minute into the song when Patrick reached over and put a hand on the strings, stopping Pete's playing.

Pete looked up. "What? What's wrong?"

Patrick was biting his lip, kind of like he wanted to keep from laughing. "Um, you're not very good, dude."

Pete thought about being offended, but Patrick looked really adorable, trying not to laugh in Pete's face.

Also, he really wasn't very good.

Pete laughed sheepishly. "I know, I suck. It's just…it's hard to find someone willing to give you lessons when you're Satan, you know?"

"Just don't tell them, then. I mean you obviously don't look like—" Pete felt Patrick's eyes on him. "You're not, you know—" Patrick blushed and looked away sharply. He took a deep breath. "I would never have known, from looking at you. Is all I meant."

"I have to, like, tell people, before I can enter into any kind of contractual arrangement with them. It's in the rules. And since agreeing to give someone lessons at a pre-determined date and time is pretty much a verbal contract…" Pete trailed off, eyes on the ground in what he hoped was a forlorn manner.

He sneaked a peek at Patrick.

Patrick had his lips pursed slightly and was nodding. He looked thoughtful, but not especially sympathetic.

Pete sighed an extra big sigh. "And now I don't even get your immortal soul." He pouted a little bit and looked up at Patrick from under his eyelashes in what he hoped was a beguiling manner.

Patrick laughed. "Well, I can't say I'm sorry." He made grabby hands at the guitar, and Pete took the strap off and handed it over. He sensed his window of opportunity was closing, here.

"I know!" he said, grabbing Patrick's wrist and bouncing a little bit. "You could make it up to me by giving me guitar lessons!"

"Make it up to you."

"Yeah."

"Make it up to you that I beat you fair and square. At the competition that you tricked me into."

"Uh-huh."

"Make it up to you because you didn't win my eternal soul."

"Exactly!" Pete smiled winningly.

Patrick shook his head and laughed. "You are something else."

Pete pouted again, even bigger, and batted his eyelashes.

Patrick just laughed harder. "Wait, wait, I've heard about this. My minister told me. 'Satan will try to lure you to the dark side,' he said."

Pete kicked at him.

"But I always figured it would be drugs, or premarital sex," Patrick scooted back, moving his shins out of kicking reach, so Pete followed him. "Somebody alert the church! They've got it all wrong! He just wants guitar lessons!"

Pete started laughing, too, he couldn't help it. Patrick's eyes were squinty beneath his glasses, and his whole body shook with the force of his laughter, and it was contagious.

"It's not so much to ask, is it?"

Patrick took his glasses off to wipe at his eyes, shoulders still shaking. "What do I get in return?"

"Well, I could pay you."

"No. No, I think," Patrick's face got serious all of a sudden, "I think you should stop tricking people into giving you their souls." Patrick pauses. "Or, you know, stop trying to trick them. Which, I'm skeptical that that ever works."

"Hey! It totally works!"

"It just doesn't really seem like you've got game, is all I'm saying."

Pete pressed one hand over his heart. "Everyone's a motherfucking critic."

Patrick just met his eyes with a steady gaze.

Pete rubbed his forehead and did some mental calculations. Finally he looked back at Patrick and nodded.

"Yeah, I could probably stop. For a while, at least, while you give me a few lessons."

Patrick bit his bottom lip and didn't say anything. He looked indecisive.

"Come on, dude. You can't back out on me now. I'm willing to give up on meeting my quota, here."

"Okay." After taking a deep breath, Patrick smiled at him.

"Okay! We have a deal. This is gonna be awesome!" Pete extended his hand.

Patrick just stared at it. "No offense, dude, but I'm not shaking hands over anything with you."

---

</div>

shut up, I love Peggy Lee

heyginger — Sat, 22 Sep 2007 07:39:28 GMT

It's the middle of the night, and I am still awake. I'll tell you why, too. It's because my brain apparently decided that I had to write down this ridiculously fluffy, tiny short piece of Pete/Patrick that's pretty much gen (although not so much in my head. In my head, immediately after this ends they go have slow, comfortable midmorning sex and then spend another hour sprawled out on the bed naked inserting Hemmy's name into the lyrics of as many R. Kelly songs as they can think of).

Title: If You Come To Me Sickly, You Know I'm Gonna Make You Well
Author: Ginger
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Not real, etc.

When Pete gets to the house, he's ready to collapse. The DJ had been obnoxiously flirty, the questions routine, and the traffic hell. The A/C in his SUV is stuck on arctic, so he's lost all feeling in the exposed skin of his arms, neck, and face, and his head hurts. God, does his head hurt, on the left side behind the temple, like someone hammered nails into it.

He really wants to be alone.

Patrick is staying with him, though, and Pete feels bad for thinking it, because it's Patrick, but he really wishes he could kick the kid out and shut all the blinds and lie on the couch in blissful silence, just for one day. But he can't, and he wouldn't, so.

So he gets out of his freezing car and steps into his overly-bright foyer and rubs his very sore temple.

Patrick is no where to be seen, but Pete thinks he hears a faint melody coming from the kitchen.

He slides off his shoes and walks down the hallway to pop his head through the swinging door.

Patrick is making toast, apparently. In tie-dye boxers, with a red corduroy pageboy cap settled too far back over his bedhead. And Patrick is singing. "You had plenty money 1922."

He points his jam-covered knife at Hemingway, who's on crumb-patrol directly beneath Patrick's feet.

"You let other puppies make a fool of you."

Pete laughs, and Patrick looks up, grinning and unembarrassed.

"Why don't you do right? Like some other dogs do?" Here Patrick throws in a little grapevine-slide combo, which brings him close enough to stuff a piece of sticky toast into Pete's open mouth. His voice is shaking with laughter.

"Oh Hemingway, get me some money, too." Hemmy tilts his head when he hears his name, watching Patrick dance back over to the toaster.

Pete pours himself some OJ and thinks about digging out the Tylenol. Instead he says "Hey, do something else now."

Patrick swallows his bite and sings "He can wash out 44 pairs of socks and have em hanging out on the line."

By the time he's changing the chorus to "Hemmy's a woman. W-O-M-A-N," Patrick has lost his hat, Pete is singing along, and they've got a little tandem shuffle worked out that has Hemmy skittering around the ceramic tile in circles between them, just starting to woof under his breath in excitement.

Pete decides he doesn't really need the Tylenol. He's got Patrick Stump in his kitchen singing Peggy Lee to his dog.

It might just be enough to keep him feeling good for the rest of his life.

---

*Came about because I got to thinking about how, even though Joe and Pete are mostly the ones who talk about Hemmy, you just know Patrick sings to that dog when no one else is around.</div>

Fic: "Fake Empire" (1/1)

heyginger — Tue, 28 Aug 2007 04:50:04 GMT

Title: Fake Empire
Author: heyginger
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: PG-13 for language
Summary: And that’s how Patrick ends up in the backseat of Pete’s car on his way to some haunted house in Wood Dale at 8:00 on a school night.
Author's Notes: Set in the early years, probably not 100% accurate in terms of timeline.
Disclaimer: Definitely not 100% accurate in terms of actually having happened. Not even 1% accurate in that respect.

When Pete calls, Patrick is upstairs in his bedroom pretending to do homework. His Aunt Terry stopped by after dinner; he can hear her voice, dry and cheerfully resigned, echoing up the stairs. He can smell the General Foods International Coffee and hear his mom laughing, then his aunt laughing, and he knows that they’re talking about Aunt Terry’s coworkers at the bank again. Part of him wants to go downstairs and lean against the counter because Aunt Terry is funny, and she's his godmother, and she once pushed his hair back from his forehead and told him that the day he was born was the most exciting day of her life. But he's 16 and it's Thursday night and he doesn't have a curfew so he should be out. Except he doesn't have anyone to go out with, really--sometimes he catches a movie with Joe, and every once in a while Pete will ask him to do something, but Joe has a new girlfriend, and Pete has friends coming out of the walls.

It’s October and just after dark, but still pretty early, and for the first time this year Patrick can see fog forming on the window in front of the desk in his bedroom, cupped in the corners because of the cold. Their house isn’t very big, but tonight, with the cold outside and the coffee smell, it feels even smaller. It feels close.

The phone rings and Patrick can hear his mom answer it downstairs. He doesn't know what Pete says but by the time his mom is knocking on his door, holding the handset out to him, she’s already nodding her permission to Patrick. And that’s how Patrick ends up in the backseat of Pete’s car on his way to some haunted house in Wood Dale at 8:00 on a school night.

Pete’s driving and some guy named Trent was already in the passenger seat when Patrick scrambled into the back at the curb in front of his house. He’s pretty sure Aunt Terry was peeking out through the curtains when they pulled away, with his mom pointing and whispering over her shoulder. Patrick’s mom likes Pete, basically, although he knows she thinks he’s vaguely troubled.

Patrick thinks she isn’t wrong. Patrick thinks he likes Pete, but the way he likes Pete makes Pete shimmer in his vision like a mirage, like the way gas from a barbecue grill makes everything normal in your backyard ripple and shudder until you feel dizzy from looking. Patrick doesn’t know what that means.

Pete and Trent are already talking about something, some movie, maybe Eyes Wide Shut.

“Did you see it, Patrick?” Pete asks.

“Um, no. I don’t, I don’t think so.” Patrick looks up from where he's poking at the orange foam bursting out around the duct tape from a split in the vinyl seat under him. "Wait, what movie?"

Pete laughs and says, "Blair Witch, man," but Patrick can see his eyes crinkle at the corners and the little glances Pete keeps flicking up to the rear view mirror are ridiculously fond, so Patrick knows it's okay. "Ground control, to Major Stumph," Pete laughs again, a warm little chuckle that makes Patrick unclench the fist he's got tucked in the small of his own back.

Then Trent says, "More like Ziggy Stardust," at the same moment Patrick says, "I haven't seen it, then," and this time when Pete laughs there's nothing warm in it. Patrick can feel his face flush and he can’t really think of what to say next, isn’t comfortable with one of Pete’s friends in the car, with Pete maybe kind of laughing at him, so he just. Stops.

The car is silent for one long, weird moment.

Patrick thinks he sees Trent shoot Pete a little look, raising his eyebrow, and Patrick’s mind fills in the unspoken who is this kid?, so Patrick does what he always does in these situations—he looks out the window and widens his eyes a bit and tells himself over and over that he knows he’s being awkward and aloof and he just doesn’t care. He pretends that this is who he is. Unaffected.

When he doesn’t say anything, Pete and Trent go back to talking about horror movies. Patrick isn’t exactly more comfortable, so he just pretends about that, too. It’s 45 minutes of Patrick being rigid and aloof in the backseat before they even get there, and he’s already exhausted and wondering a little bit why he even came.

They drive past the line for the haunted house several times before Pete just parks in a dark funeral home parking lot two blocks away. Pete’s is the only car in the lot and he takes up one and a half parking spots with his crappy parking. Pete and Trent walk in front of Patrick and Pete trips and Trent hoots out a loud laugh, and then they’re shoving each other. Patrick shuffles along after them, and he’s not not having fun, exactly, but he thinks that this will be one of those things that you tell your friends at school the next day and it sounds way more awesome than it actually was. Then Pete looks over his shoulder and says, “Hey, Stumph, light a fire, baby,” and Patrick hurries to catch up. Pete wraps one arm around Patrick’s shoulders then shoves Trent one more time, hard, pulling Patrick along with him and into his body at the same time, and Patrick smiles and shoves Pete, just a little bit. So maybe he is having fun.

The line is fucking long, curling down the middle of a barricaded street. Within 15 minutes Patrick’s toes are frozen solid. Pete and Trent are talking about some girl named Kristy now, and Patrick listens sometimes and looks around sometimes and mostly doesn’t say much. There’s a man in a Superman costume in front of them sitting on a big blue cooler full of beer. He has a huge gut, looks kind of like the guy who sold Patrick’s dad the sub pump for their basement, and he eyes Pete’s tattoos and black nail polish with disgust.

Within 10 minutes Pete’s talked Superman into sharing his beer. Patrick says no thanks.

When Trent wanders off to go find a bathroom, Pete throws his arm around Patrick like he had earlier, when they left the car. He says, "This is supposed to be scary shit, man--it should be fun."

Patrick says, "Hmm."

"Not that into Halloween?"

Patrick thinks about it while he tucks his fingers into his jacket sleeves. "No, it's not that. Well, I mean, it's kind of that. I just...don't really like having to pretend to be someone else." Actually Patrick doesn't like any of it. Not wearing stupid wolf-ear headbands or face paint or plastic chains around his neck, and especially not having everyone looking at him, evaluating his costume.

Pete's nodding. "Yeah, every year I always think it's gonna be so awesome, like, shedding my skin or something, but. I don't know, it's never that great." And privately Patrick thinks that Pete is the kind of guy other guys wish they could be for a day. But. He'll never say that.

Instead he says, "And even if it were awesome, it would be gone the next day. It doesn't change anything."

"Exactly! I’m just…stuck being me, and I know it going into Halloween, and I know it coming out, too." Pete says, and he has the same warm look in his eyes that was there earlier, like Patrick is the only person in the whole world he could have this conversation with, but this time he's not smiling. This time his mouth is soft and a little bit open, and Patrick's stomach kind of tightens up, and his pulse might be just a little, tiny bit fast. He looks down at the ground.

After a moment, Pete says, “You’re freezing, Stumph.” And Patrick says, “Undeniable. It’s fucking cold.”

“Let me warm you up,” and Pete has Patrick’s face smashed into his armpit before Patrick even knows what happened. Patrick shouts a little bit and pushes Pete away as hard as he can manage with one arm, but not before he smells smoke and sweat and burning leaves. He’s laughing and scrunching up his face, and he says, “Vile, man…” before he feels Pete’s beery mouth graze his cheekbone and he trails off after that. Pete’s lips are hot and suddenly Patrick’s face isn’t freezing anymore at all. His whole body is coiled tight against Pete’s side and he doesn’t really know what to do next, or where to look.

Pete grabs his elbow tight, tight, and says, “Patrick, you’re perfect,” in this voice that kind of cracks in the middle, and all the feelings Patrick ever had about Pete, all the vague worry and all the awkwardness, it just folds over itself and wraps around like origami until suddenly it takes the shape of something else entirely and Patrick...kind of wants to throw up, but not in a bad way.

Then Trent comes back, and Pete lets go, and Patrick still just stands there, looking at the ground with his face on fire; thank god for the dark.

When Patrick looks back up, Pete's whole face has changed. He's smiling again but his eyes are distant. He says, “Trent, man, where’d you find the toilet?” and Trent directs him to a McDonald's around the block.

Patrick stands there with Trent, hardly breathing, and tries to think of something to say. He asks if Trent’s in school and then Trent pretty much runs with the conversation, talking about his band, and his younger sister who's autistic, and his girlfriend's new Dachshund. Patrick spends the whole time staring over Trent’s shoulder, watching for Pete to come around the corner, cheek burning where Pete’s breath had condensed.

After 10 minutes, Trent runs out of stuff to say and Patrick runs out of questions to prompt new stuff to say, so they just shift back and forth in silence.

After 15 minutes, Patrick wonders if Pete really had to piss, or if he just. Wanted to leave.

After 19 minutes, Pete turns the corner. He has his arm around a girl’s shoulders. She’s blond and small and cute, with freckles and dark eyeliner that’s smeared a little bit down her cheeks. Pete says, “Guys, this is Jenny.”

“Jessie!” the girl corrects, but she’s giggling.

“Jessie,” Pete says, with a smirk. He looks at Trent, who’s smirking right back at him. “We’ll be in that alley over there. Just send Patrick to get me when you get to the front of line.”

Trent says, “Sure, dude,” and gives Pete five down by his hip, out of the girls line of sight, as they pass. Pete says, “Don’t miss me too much, Stumph,” and he leans over and licks Patrick’s face, right in that same spot, big and dramatic and wet, making a joke out of it. The girl laughs and tugs Pete’s hand, and Pete laughs, too, and looks at Patrick with eyes that are wide and happy and it’s maybe a little bit forced, but Patrick can’t tell, not for sure.

Pete walks off and suddenly that spot on Patrick’s face is freezing, saliva evaporating away in the cold fall night. Patrick’s whole body is freezing from that spot out.

Patrick stands in the line next to Trent, who’s looking a little awed by Pete’s conquest. Patrick stands there, and looks at the man in the Superman suit, and the hoodrats shouting vulgarities at each other under the next streetlight. He listens to the high school jocks try to impress their girlfriends behind him. He looks at the locked up storefronts and the litter overflowing from trashcans under streetlights and he thinks about the smell of Café Vienna coffee, and he really wishes he were still at home.

And in the car on the way back, Pete teases Patrick about how he shrieked a little bit and jumped when the zombies popped out of the wall like he doesn't think Patrick can see the hickey just below his Adam’s apple. And Patrick sits in the back seat and pretends he’s aloof. Because that’s what he always does. He pretends that this is who he is. Unaffected.

the end
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* I listened to Fake Empire by The National and Citrus by The Hold Steady on repeat while writing this. Not betaed, sorry. Thanks for reading.