My Home Is Where...
Title : My Home Is Where...
Summary : Familiar fleecy blankets in foreign hotel rooms.
Author :
robotic_monkey
Rating : PG
Author's Notes : using the prompt for Feb 13th in
we_are_cities. God, I love that place.
It was a cave. It was a fortress. It was a safe haven from the rest of the world. Hidden under blankets and bed sheets, Pete felt safe, alone, protected. Himself. A rare moment at 4am, huddled beneath the thin fabric of his favourite fleecy blanket, fingers curled around the pages of a book, wrinkled, yellow pages reflecting white flashlight glow. This was home. Warm from his breath, the air hot and humid (but not stale, this was never stale, Pete would never tire of this). His head was quiet for once, as quiet as the still night outside his hotel room window. He breathed in, out, turned the page, a quiet, papery whisper, slicing through the grave silence of the room.
Pete froze under his cotton coffin as he heard Patrick stir. Legs shuffling slowly underneath crisp white linen, starchy and stiff, cool, unyielding, and strangely comforting after a night sweating under hot lights and deafening screams. Pete could almost hear Patrick’s eyelids fluttering, his muscles uncurling, stretching and bending. Joints folding out as he rose from his slumber. Pete shut off his flashlight, and the fuzzy glow that was slightly lighting the room cut out with a snap. Then Patrick’s voice, closer than Pete had expected, in his ear, warm whispering and a hand on his hip. Pete's hand moved back to turn the light back on, but
"Leave it off.", a breathless whisper, sending shivers down his spine.
Goosebumps in a warm room, Patrick’s hand still gripping his hip... Sliding down, down his thigh, on his knee now, and up, back up, still over the blankets. Another involuntary shiver, light pleading
"Patrick, please..."
"Peter, please what?", warm breath in his ear, then ghosting down his neck, light lips on skin. Shudder, shiver, shake.
Pete’s hands gave up their grip on both book and flashlight, although unable to see them hit the floor, he heard them, so loud in the still silence of the room. Thud, thunk. Echoing the noises his heart made in his chest. Patrick’s hand was under the blankets, his boxers, Pete’s skin now. Eyes closed against the darkness, Pete was seeing stars. And suddenly, Patrick’s full weight was on him, pressing down, deliciously heavy and solid and there (oh, just there, yes). Lips and legs parted, eyes closed, Pete’s face in Patrick’s neck, Patrick’s scent (his scent, goddamn it) everywhere, filling Pete up, heart and body and soul. Running hands along hips, fingers through hair, soft moans slipping from hungry mouths. Skin on skin, clothes were shed, lips on lips, clashing teeth, clumsy, sloppy, filled with need. Sweaty and slick, Pete and Patrick. Side by side, satiated and satisfied, hand in hand with identical, sleepy smiles.
When the sun rose, there were two warm bodies breathing under a faded, fleecy blanket in a foreign hotel room. Except it really felt more like home.
cross posted towe_are_cities
Summary : Familiar fleecy blankets in foreign hotel rooms.
Author :
robotic_monkeyRating : PG
Author's Notes : using the prompt for Feb 13th in
we_are_cities. God, I love that place.It was a cave. It was a fortress. It was a safe haven from the rest of the world. Hidden under blankets and bed sheets, Pete felt safe, alone, protected. Himself. A rare moment at 4am, huddled beneath the thin fabric of his favourite fleecy blanket, fingers curled around the pages of a book, wrinkled, yellow pages reflecting white flashlight glow. This was home. Warm from his breath, the air hot and humid (but not stale, this was never stale, Pete would never tire of this). His head was quiet for once, as quiet as the still night outside his hotel room window. He breathed in, out, turned the page, a quiet, papery whisper, slicing through the grave silence of the room.
Pete froze under his cotton coffin as he heard Patrick stir. Legs shuffling slowly underneath crisp white linen, starchy and stiff, cool, unyielding, and strangely comforting after a night sweating under hot lights and deafening screams. Pete could almost hear Patrick’s eyelids fluttering, his muscles uncurling, stretching and bending. Joints folding out as he rose from his slumber. Pete shut off his flashlight, and the fuzzy glow that was slightly lighting the room cut out with a snap. Then Patrick’s voice, closer than Pete had expected, in his ear, warm whispering and a hand on his hip. Pete's hand moved back to turn the light back on, but
"Leave it off.", a breathless whisper, sending shivers down his spine.
Goosebumps in a warm room, Patrick’s hand still gripping his hip... Sliding down, down his thigh, on his knee now, and up, back up, still over the blankets. Another involuntary shiver, light pleading
"Patrick, please..."
"Peter, please what?", warm breath in his ear, then ghosting down his neck, light lips on skin. Shudder, shiver, shake.
Pete’s hands gave up their grip on both book and flashlight, although unable to see them hit the floor, he heard them, so loud in the still silence of the room. Thud, thunk. Echoing the noises his heart made in his chest. Patrick’s hand was under the blankets, his boxers, Pete’s skin now. Eyes closed against the darkness, Pete was seeing stars. And suddenly, Patrick’s full weight was on him, pressing down, deliciously heavy and solid and there (oh, just there, yes). Lips and legs parted, eyes closed, Pete’s face in Patrick’s neck, Patrick’s scent (his scent, goddamn it) everywhere, filling Pete up, heart and body and soul. Running hands along hips, fingers through hair, soft moans slipping from hungry mouths. Skin on skin, clothes were shed, lips on lips, clashing teeth, clumsy, sloppy, filled with need. Sweaty and slick, Pete and Patrick. Side by side, satiated and satisfied, hand in hand with identical, sleepy smiles.
When the sun rose, there were two warm bodies breathing under a faded, fleecy blanket in a foreign hotel room. Except it really felt more like home.
cross posted to
we_are_cities