Seven Weeks [1/1]
Title: Seven Weeks [1/1]
Author:
xxdance
Fandom(s): Fall Out Boy
Pairing: Pete/Patrick.
Summary: Forty-nine days he's been in some kind of relationship with Patrick Stump, and they've had sex exactly never.
Rating: R. [Sexual references, language]
Warnings: Sexual references, bad language, slash.
Author's Note: Fornextup_charlie about a billion years ago. And thanks to whatchamacall1t for betaing.
Seven weeks, Pete thinks, that's forty-nine days. That's forty-nine "almost"s, forty-nine "do not answer that fucking door"s, forty-nine "c'mon, if we do it quick nobody will be the wiser."
Forty-nine days he's been in some kind of relationship with Patrick Stump, and they've had sex exactly never.
It's not because Pete's a gentleman (sometimes, but not now), or because Patrick's a prude (because he isn't, really)--it's only because every time, every god damn time, they get anywhere close, someone interrupts.
And Pete was okay with the making out for the first week. By the second week, he was a little frustrated, but Patrick compensated by sticking his hand down the front of Pete's jeans for oh, roughly fifteen seconds because Joe opened the door despite the lack of response to his, "Soundcheck! Soundcheck! You're not missing soundcheck again, Pete, I don't care if you're back there with Aphrodite, get your ass out here!" and they sprang apart, drumsticks mysteriously appearing in Patrick's hands.
"Oh, sorry," Patrick had said, setting the drumsticks down neatly. "We were totally caught up in rehearsing--I was trying out some new--"
"Okay," Joe had said, assuaged by Patrick's 'don't be angry with me, I'm meek and virginal and I didn't have my hands down the bassist's pants, what are you thinking?' look. "But seriously, guys, if I'm fucking yelling my head off it won't kill you to answer."
Patrick followed him out of the room, casting Pete a look that had plainly said, "later."
But, of course, there was no later; they'd tumbled into separate beds, exhausted, barely managing to mumble out, "good night," before drifting off.
They hadn't even managed a hand job. Since the relationship started, they hadn't even seen each other naked. They were regressing, of all things; back when they traveled by van, they'd seen each other naked on a daily basis--now they had separate showers, separate rooms. Walking around naked was suddenly seen as bizarre.
Forty-nine days. Pete is going to get some if it kills him, he thinks.
---
Pete disappears one afternoon they have off, and nobody's surprised or concerned. What does concern them is that, when he returns to the hotel room, he's not clutching armloads of clothes or sundae fixings or the entire discography of Jeff Buckley--just a deck of cards.
"So," he says, with a grin that makes those who know him think, 'oh God, what now?' "Who's up for strip poker?"
"Nuh-uh," Andy says, shaking his head. "You cheat." He pulls his knees tighter to his chest and dives deeper into his book.
Joe rolls his eyes. "What's the point? We've all seen each other naked millions of times and at this point it's just 'oh hi, Pete's wang.' There's nothing impressive about it anymore."
Pete looks pleadingly to Patrick, who pulls off his noise-canceling headphones (fuck, Pete hates those things) and says, "Sorry, what?"
"Strip poker, motherfucker," Pete says, shaking the cards in his direction. "You know you want to play."
Patrick shrugs, headphones slipping down to his neck. "Well, okay, but if it's just you and me it's kind of a lame game."
Pete glares.
"Seriously. I mean, why make it a big thing? Why don't we just get naked?"
From behind his book, Andy raises an eyebrow.
Patrick makes a face. "Oh. I suppose this is a good time to tell you Pete and I are fuck--"
"--not fucking," Pete interrupts. Patrick shoots him a look, and Pete says, "Well, it's true--not once, not even after seven weeks."
Andy lowers the book. "And you haven't told us yet, why?"
Patrick shrugs. "Just did."
"It's not that we don't want to tell you," Pete stresses. "It's just that we don't ever get a moment to, without four hundred people around, and what's the point of telling you that all we do is make out? Do you want me to tell you about every single person I make out with?"
"I'm going to go out on a limb here," Joe says, frowning, "and say it's not just 'making out.' I mean, you argue like you're fucking married. So like, are you dating or what?"
Pete shrugs. "I guess you could say that."
Patrick shoots Pete a Look. "Um, and why wouldn't they?"
"Well, I mean," Pete says. "Are we?"
Pushing his headphones back up over his ears and leaning back, Patrick says, "Good luck with finding that poker partner."
---
No amount of begging would make Patrick take off his headphones. After explaining the whole situation to Joe and Andy, who find it somewhere between awkward and hilarious, Andy comes up with the brilliant idea that he and Joe go out in search of vegan ice cream.
"Hurley," Pete says, grinning. "I could kiss you right now."
"Save it for your new boyfriend," he says, but he's smiling. "And don't think I'm doing this entirely for you--I'm jonesing."
Pete nearly pushes them out the door, determined to make it up to Patrick.
---
Patrick, having taken off his headphones, fixes himself a sandwich and remarks, "Wouldn't this alone time be great if we were planning on having sex?"
"Oh, come on," Pete says. He thinks about getting on his knees and begging, but decides that Patrick might get the wrong idea. "You can't tell me you don't want to just as bad as I do."
Patrick shrugs, and walks back to the couch with his tofurkey and lettuce on rye. "Not everyone lives through their dick, you know."
"Yeah, but." Pete sits on Patrick's bed, putting a hand on his leg. "C'mon. Of course we're dating, I just wasn't sure if you--I mean, I didn't know if you wanted it to be like, a generally known thing."
"Are you shitting me?" Patrick asks, raising an eyebrow. "I'm dating Pete Wentz. Why the fuck would I not want people to know?"
"Okay, someone who talks about my ego like it's the eleventh fucking plague shouldn't do things to encourage it."
Patrick rolls his eyes. "I'm not even that mad at you," he says.
"Well, okay," Pete replies. "I'm not mad at you at all. Are we cool now?"
Patrick shrugs. "I guess. This is a stupid fight anyway."
Instead of replying, Pete tries to undo Patrick's zipper.
"Um, no," Patrick says, slapping Pete's hand away. "You fucked up. You're beating me at poker before you get in my pants."
Pete pouts at him, but Patrick's only response is to smile and hand pass him the deck of cards. "Your deal."
---
"Fuck it," Pete says, throwing his cards to the floor and pulling his shirt over his head. It looks like he's practiced--the gesture is smooth and graceful, inch by inch of tanned skin revealed as he tugs it up. "Ten high."
Patrick stares at his feet, as there is a whole lot of half-naked in the room, and, much as he'd like to taunt Pete with his ability to not get upset about the lack of intimacy in their relationship, he's just as--if not more--sexually frustrated. One of his socks is off and his jacket is in the pile of Pete's clothing in the middle of the floor, but other than that he's perfectly clothed. Apparently, he's good at poker, but all he knows is that the more you have of one card, the better, and apparently a 'royal flush' costs Pete his shirt and his pants, because he's never actually seen anybody get one before. Patrick thinks Pete just wants to get naked.
"What is this even called?" Patrick asks, holding out his cards.
"A straight flush," Pete replies, frowning. "This isn't fair. It doesn't work if only I'm naked."
"Yeah, well," says Patrick, looking haughty. "You'll just have to start winning then, won't you?"
--
A half hour later, Patrick's down to his t-shirt and boxers and Pete has long since lost. "What's the point, anymore?" he whines. "I've already lost."
Patrick leans back against an ottoman, closing his eyes. "I can see why people like poker so much. It feels really awesome when you win."
Pete raises an eyebrow, though of course Patrick can't see that. "What do you mean?"
"Oh," Patrick says, opening his eyes and leaning forward. He feigns innocence as he says, "Didn't I tell you? I've never played before."
Pete blinks. "What? You're not--I thought you were just really bad at it?"
Gesturing to the pile of Pete's clothes, Patrick says, "Obviously not."
"So you were just--"
"Stringing you along, yeah," Patrick says, leaning back again. "It's sheer beginner's luck that I'm still clothed."
"Patrick, you--"
"I believe the term you're looking for is 'card shark'."
"--Devious, conniving, deceitful little ass," Pete says, before he tackles Patrick in a way that's half playful frustration, half attempt to finally, finally get close to him.
Patrick resists for a moment, tries to bat him away, simply because having the upper hand on Pete is always a gratifying feeling. But he gives up, because a) it's exhausting, and b) Pete is doing lovely things with his hands, up and down Patrick's sides and then down to his boxers, and oh, after that, Patrick ceases to think anything coherent at all--
Until there's a knock at the door.
Pete groans, screws his eyes shut, and throws a shoe at the door.
There's a brief conversation outside, before Andy shouts, "Okay, another hour, but honestly you guys, you couldn't--"
Another shoe hits the door, and then there's the sound of retreating footsteps. Pete know's he's going to catch it later--Andy doesn't react well to being shushed in any way, shape, or form--but honestly, his mind is other places, like the dip beneath Patrick's ear, the curve of his back, the palm pressed firmly to Pete's chest.
After, when Pete's smirking, stretched out across the floor because he knows he looks good doing it, Patrick says, "You weren't the best," with a shrug.
Pete's smirk crumbles.
"You weren't the best," Patrick repeats, apparently having stolen Pete's smirk, "but you were pretty fucking spectacular, I'll give you that."
"You're an asshole," Pete says, but his confidence is restored. "Shit, seven weeks. I don't think I've been abstinent seven weeks since I was twelve."
"That's disgusting," Patrick says, wrinkling his nose. "Really, Pete. That's fucking gross."
"I'm not serious," Pete croons, and, okay, that thing he's doing? With his hands? Patrick's never experienced that before and really, he's never been more grateful for bass-playing hands. "But seriously. I'm going to make sure that this celibacy thing never happens again."
And Patrick desperately wants to make some smart-ass comment, because he's kind of on a roll and pissing Pete off is gratifying in all kinds of new ways, but all he says is, "Yeah, okay, yeah, Pete, could you--"
And Pete does.
Author:
xxdanceFandom(s): Fall Out Boy
Pairing: Pete/Patrick.
Summary: Forty-nine days he's been in some kind of relationship with Patrick Stump, and they've had sex exactly never.
Rating: R. [Sexual references, language]
Warnings: Sexual references, bad language, slash.
Author's Note: For
nextup_charlie about a billion years ago. And thanks to whatchamacall1t for betaing.Seven weeks, Pete thinks, that's forty-nine days. That's forty-nine "almost"s, forty-nine "do not answer that fucking door"s, forty-nine "c'mon, if we do it quick nobody will be the wiser."
Forty-nine days he's been in some kind of relationship with Patrick Stump, and they've had sex exactly never.
It's not because Pete's a gentleman (sometimes, but not now), or because Patrick's a prude (because he isn't, really)--it's only because every time, every god damn time, they get anywhere close, someone interrupts.
And Pete was okay with the making out for the first week. By the second week, he was a little frustrated, but Patrick compensated by sticking his hand down the front of Pete's jeans for oh, roughly fifteen seconds because Joe opened the door despite the lack of response to his, "Soundcheck! Soundcheck! You're not missing soundcheck again, Pete, I don't care if you're back there with Aphrodite, get your ass out here!" and they sprang apart, drumsticks mysteriously appearing in Patrick's hands.
"Oh, sorry," Patrick had said, setting the drumsticks down neatly. "We were totally caught up in rehearsing--I was trying out some new--"
"Okay," Joe had said, assuaged by Patrick's 'don't be angry with me, I'm meek and virginal and I didn't have my hands down the bassist's pants, what are you thinking?' look. "But seriously, guys, if I'm fucking yelling my head off it won't kill you to answer."
Patrick followed him out of the room, casting Pete a look that had plainly said, "later."
But, of course, there was no later; they'd tumbled into separate beds, exhausted, barely managing to mumble out, "good night," before drifting off.
They hadn't even managed a hand job. Since the relationship started, they hadn't even seen each other naked. They were regressing, of all things; back when they traveled by van, they'd seen each other naked on a daily basis--now they had separate showers, separate rooms. Walking around naked was suddenly seen as bizarre.
Forty-nine days. Pete is going to get some if it kills him, he thinks.
---
Pete disappears one afternoon they have off, and nobody's surprised or concerned. What does concern them is that, when he returns to the hotel room, he's not clutching armloads of clothes or sundae fixings or the entire discography of Jeff Buckley--just a deck of cards.
"So," he says, with a grin that makes those who know him think, 'oh God, what now?' "Who's up for strip poker?"
"Nuh-uh," Andy says, shaking his head. "You cheat." He pulls his knees tighter to his chest and dives deeper into his book.
Joe rolls his eyes. "What's the point? We've all seen each other naked millions of times and at this point it's just 'oh hi, Pete's wang.' There's nothing impressive about it anymore."
Pete looks pleadingly to Patrick, who pulls off his noise-canceling headphones (fuck, Pete hates those things) and says, "Sorry, what?"
"Strip poker, motherfucker," Pete says, shaking the cards in his direction. "You know you want to play."
Patrick shrugs, headphones slipping down to his neck. "Well, okay, but if it's just you and me it's kind of a lame game."
Pete glares.
"Seriously. I mean, why make it a big thing? Why don't we just get naked?"
From behind his book, Andy raises an eyebrow.
Patrick makes a face. "Oh. I suppose this is a good time to tell you Pete and I are fuck--"
"--not fucking," Pete interrupts. Patrick shoots him a look, and Pete says, "Well, it's true--not once, not even after seven weeks."
Andy lowers the book. "And you haven't told us yet, why?"
Patrick shrugs. "Just did."
"It's not that we don't want to tell you," Pete stresses. "It's just that we don't ever get a moment to, without four hundred people around, and what's the point of telling you that all we do is make out? Do you want me to tell you about every single person I make out with?"
"I'm going to go out on a limb here," Joe says, frowning, "and say it's not just 'making out.' I mean, you argue like you're fucking married. So like, are you dating or what?"
Pete shrugs. "I guess you could say that."
Patrick shoots Pete a Look. "Um, and why wouldn't they?"
"Well, I mean," Pete says. "Are we?"
Pushing his headphones back up over his ears and leaning back, Patrick says, "Good luck with finding that poker partner."
---
No amount of begging would make Patrick take off his headphones. After explaining the whole situation to Joe and Andy, who find it somewhere between awkward and hilarious, Andy comes up with the brilliant idea that he and Joe go out in search of vegan ice cream.
"Hurley," Pete says, grinning. "I could kiss you right now."
"Save it for your new boyfriend," he says, but he's smiling. "And don't think I'm doing this entirely for you--I'm jonesing."
Pete nearly pushes them out the door, determined to make it up to Patrick.
---
Patrick, having taken off his headphones, fixes himself a sandwich and remarks, "Wouldn't this alone time be great if we were planning on having sex?"
"Oh, come on," Pete says. He thinks about getting on his knees and begging, but decides that Patrick might get the wrong idea. "You can't tell me you don't want to just as bad as I do."
Patrick shrugs, and walks back to the couch with his tofurkey and lettuce on rye. "Not everyone lives through their dick, you know."
"Yeah, but." Pete sits on Patrick's bed, putting a hand on his leg. "C'mon. Of course we're dating, I just wasn't sure if you--I mean, I didn't know if you wanted it to be like, a generally known thing."
"Are you shitting me?" Patrick asks, raising an eyebrow. "I'm dating Pete Wentz. Why the fuck would I not want people to know?"
"Okay, someone who talks about my ego like it's the eleventh fucking plague shouldn't do things to encourage it."
Patrick rolls his eyes. "I'm not even that mad at you," he says.
"Well, okay," Pete replies. "I'm not mad at you at all. Are we cool now?"
Patrick shrugs. "I guess. This is a stupid fight anyway."
Instead of replying, Pete tries to undo Patrick's zipper.
"Um, no," Patrick says, slapping Pete's hand away. "You fucked up. You're beating me at poker before you get in my pants."
Pete pouts at him, but Patrick's only response is to smile and hand pass him the deck of cards. "Your deal."
---
"Fuck it," Pete says, throwing his cards to the floor and pulling his shirt over his head. It looks like he's practiced--the gesture is smooth and graceful, inch by inch of tanned skin revealed as he tugs it up. "Ten high."
Patrick stares at his feet, as there is a whole lot of half-naked in the room, and, much as he'd like to taunt Pete with his ability to not get upset about the lack of intimacy in their relationship, he's just as--if not more--sexually frustrated. One of his socks is off and his jacket is in the pile of Pete's clothing in the middle of the floor, but other than that he's perfectly clothed. Apparently, he's good at poker, but all he knows is that the more you have of one card, the better, and apparently a 'royal flush' costs Pete his shirt and his pants, because he's never actually seen anybody get one before. Patrick thinks Pete just wants to get naked.
"What is this even called?" Patrick asks, holding out his cards.
"A straight flush," Pete replies, frowning. "This isn't fair. It doesn't work if only I'm naked."
"Yeah, well," says Patrick, looking haughty. "You'll just have to start winning then, won't you?"
--
A half hour later, Patrick's down to his t-shirt and boxers and Pete has long since lost. "What's the point, anymore?" he whines. "I've already lost."
Patrick leans back against an ottoman, closing his eyes. "I can see why people like poker so much. It feels really awesome when you win."
Pete raises an eyebrow, though of course Patrick can't see that. "What do you mean?"
"Oh," Patrick says, opening his eyes and leaning forward. He feigns innocence as he says, "Didn't I tell you? I've never played before."
Pete blinks. "What? You're not--I thought you were just really bad at it?"
Gesturing to the pile of Pete's clothes, Patrick says, "Obviously not."
"So you were just--"
"Stringing you along, yeah," Patrick says, leaning back again. "It's sheer beginner's luck that I'm still clothed."
"Patrick, you--"
"I believe the term you're looking for is 'card shark'."
"--Devious, conniving, deceitful little ass," Pete says, before he tackles Patrick in a way that's half playful frustration, half attempt to finally, finally get close to him.
Patrick resists for a moment, tries to bat him away, simply because having the upper hand on Pete is always a gratifying feeling. But he gives up, because a) it's exhausting, and b) Pete is doing lovely things with his hands, up and down Patrick's sides and then down to his boxers, and oh, after that, Patrick ceases to think anything coherent at all--
Until there's a knock at the door.
Pete groans, screws his eyes shut, and throws a shoe at the door.
There's a brief conversation outside, before Andy shouts, "Okay, another hour, but honestly you guys, you couldn't--"
Another shoe hits the door, and then there's the sound of retreating footsteps. Pete know's he's going to catch it later--Andy doesn't react well to being shushed in any way, shape, or form--but honestly, his mind is other places, like the dip beneath Patrick's ear, the curve of his back, the palm pressed firmly to Pete's chest.
After, when Pete's smirking, stretched out across the floor because he knows he looks good doing it, Patrick says, "You weren't the best," with a shrug.
Pete's smirk crumbles.
"You weren't the best," Patrick repeats, apparently having stolen Pete's smirk, "but you were pretty fucking spectacular, I'll give you that."
"You're an asshole," Pete says, but his confidence is restored. "Shit, seven weeks. I don't think I've been abstinent seven weeks since I was twelve."
"That's disgusting," Patrick says, wrinkling his nose. "Really, Pete. That's fucking gross."
"I'm not serious," Pete croons, and, okay, that thing he's doing? With his hands? Patrick's never experienced that before and really, he's never been more grateful for bass-playing hands. "But seriously. I'm going to make sure that this celibacy thing never happens again."
And Patrick desperately wants to make some smart-ass comment, because he's kind of on a roll and pissing Pete off is gratifying in all kinds of new ways, but all he says is, "Yeah, okay, yeah, Pete, could you--"
And Pete does.