word count/type: ~1300/standalone
disclaimer: if anyone found this by googling their parents, hit back now.
summary: Patrick knows exactly how to be whatever Pete doesn't know he needs.
Patrick is leaning back against the headboard and reading a book, but he sets it on the bed stand without marking the page when Pete comes in, shoulders taut and breathing tight in his throat. "Come here," he says, holding his arms out, and they are immediately full of Pete.
Pete, curling himself into a ball against Patrick's side to hide himself there, pressing his face to the other boy's neck and just breathing. He doesn't want to cry. He wants to disappear.
Patrick's fingers gently stroke his hair, the other hand rubbing small circles into Pete's back. He starts to sing, quietly, slow songs. He begins to feel the tangled strings pulling Pete's body loosen, start to straighten themselves out. His breathing is less like crying and his fingers aren't gripping Patrick's shirt quite so tight.
Finally he's sleeping and being tucked in under the blanket and Patrick just watches him sleep for awhile before he picks his book back up and reads the same page over and over.
Patrick pushes Pete onto the bed when they get back to the hotel room. "You just stay there until I figure out what to do with you," he growls before stomping into the bathroom and slamming the door behind him. He's not at all surprised when he comes back out and Pete is standing in the middle of the room, not doing anything except not listening.
Patrick hits him, open handed, across the face. Pete moans and then they're on the bed and Patrick is pushing Pete's face into the pillow while he struggles to undo the squirming boy's jeans underneath his body weight.
"Fucking hold still," Patrick snaps and his grip twists so his fingernails are digging into Pete's skin and he's still moaning but his hips stop bucking. Then the jeans are off and Patrick is slicking his fingers and then Pete is screaming into the pillow that his arms are wrapped around.
Two fingers, no warning and Patrick adds a third before Pete thinks he would be ready, but then the fingers are curving and Patrick is touching his cock and he's already coming, hard and fast like everything else.
Patrick covers Pete with a blanket before he goes to shower and slides underneath it when he's done, watching Pete sleep until he feels his eyelids start to close.
Pete's eyes are red but Patrick can't tell if it's from crying or something else. It's after 3 and Pete's behind the hotel, sitting on the table part of a picnic bench. His hands are in his hoodie pockets and he's looking up at the moon or the stars or something else.
"Hey," Patrick says quietly. Pete doesn't reply but he knows he's been heard. "You need some sleep. We have to leave in five hours." Pete still doesn't say anything but he takes one hand from his pocket and holds it out; Patrick moves closer and takes it in both of his. "Just five minutes."
Pete sighs, heavy, and Patrick can see the lines of anxiety along the curves of his bones, even through the hoodie. He hops up behind Pete on the picnic table, one leg on either side of the other boy, and drapes his arms loosely over Pete's shoulders. "You should leave a note if you're going to leave. I worry about you."
"I don't want you to worry," Pete says automatically, the first words he's said since telling Patrick good night.
"That's not really an option." One of Patrick's hands is playing with the zipper on Pete's hoodie, pulling it up and down a few inches. "Just help me worry less."
Pete nods and his hand comes up to rest on Patrick's. They can both feel his heartbeat and Pete hopes he's feeling Patrick's through the back of his hoodie, but he can't be sure. "Will you watch a movie with me tomorrow?"
Patrick kisses the back of his shoulder. "If you come in and lay down."
"Whatever you want, Pete."
Pete is moaning and arching back and there are tears in his eyes from needing to come. "'Trick, pleeeease ... Want you," he pleads. He hears the leather moving through the air before he feels the impact on the skin of his ass in the same exact place it had last time. He yelps when Patrick grabs him by the hair and pulls back hard, straining the muscles in his neck.
"This isn't about what you want," that voice growls in his ear, with the low bite reserved only for him. Pete hears the whistle and feels the impact again, next to the other mark, fresh sting. He's moaning and grinding against the mattress. "I should just make you get yourself off," the voice says, unamused, "since you're so intent on doing it anyway."
A frustrated whine tears itself from Pete's throat and Patrick feels his body go limp. "Please," Pete chokes out. "Please." Patrick lets go of his hair and Pete's face falls forward in the pillow and he doesn't move, not even when Patrick's fingers start sliding up the inside of his thighs, lightly, torturing him.
He lets out some sort of broken choked sob when Patrick finally presses a slicked finger deep inside him, quickly and without warning. And then there's two fingers and three and then Patrick pressing into him and Pete's moans are louder now, but muffled by the pillow.
Patrick's hands are clasped over his, holding Pete to the bed as he starts a rhythm with no mercy, dipping his head forward to let his teeth bite Pete's shoulder (right where the curve meets his neck), licking the taste of salt from his lips afterward. The sound that comes from the dark haired boy's lips goes straight to Patrick's cock, like a surge of electricity.
Patrick's pulling on Pete's hair again so he can hear the noises he's making, uses his free hand to reach underneath and finally touch Pete's cock. The head is already slick with precome and Patrick rubs his thumb across the tip before holding it up to Pete's mouth for him to lick clean, which he does greedily. He's rewarded with a sharp thrust and Patrick's hand threading tighter in his hair. "Fucking dirty slut."
Pete moans. He's close and he presses back, trying to angle his hips, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. And then he's there and he's screaming, swearing, yelling Patrick's name and spilling over his hand, fingers twisting in the pillow and thrusting back harder, letting himself be fucked through the blur.
And then Patrick is pulling out and Pete feels the warm stickiness on his back, mixing with the sweat. And Patrick is collapsing next to him, just as exhausted. He raises a tired hand to stroke the hair out of Pete's eyes and they fall asleep like that, naked and exposed and utterly alone in the hotel room.
Pete is sitting up, cross legged in front of the tv in the basement. There's a beer next to him, but he's only had a few swallows from it. There's a notebook open in front him, but the pages are blank. He looks up at Patrick with sad eyes when he hears the footsteps on the stairs.
"I had a bad dream," he whispers before the other boy has a chance to say anything. So Patrick sits down next to him and Pete pushes the notebook to the floor so he can lay down, head on Patrick's lap. He feels gentle hands stroking his hair and he tries not to cry, curling his fingers around the material of the other boy's sweatpants. "Please?" he whispers, so Patrick starts to sing to him.
Eventually Patrick lays down on the couch and pulls Pete into his arms, kissing his forehead and rubbing his back while he continues to sing, voice gradually getting softer and more indistinct until he's just holding Pete, lips against his forehead.
"Don't leave me," Pete whispers.
"Never," Patrick promises, lips tickling his skin.