Watching Patrick get ruffled is always funny at first. He’s just such a born straight man (and doesn’t Pete wish this straightness was only in comedic capacity), any lack of composure on his part is intrinsically hilarious.
The second, though, not so much. Then Pete’s empathy usually kicks in, and Patrick’s embarrassment or fear or disgust gets to him, and then he gets ambivalent (because it’s still fucking funny, what can he do).
The third time, Pete gets angry.
So the third time Patrick gets back from Gym Class Heros’ bus all flushed and defensive, Pete’s ready to kick ass and take names. “Who defiled your honor,” he tells Patrick, completely fucking serious. “Do I need to shove my foot up Travie’s ass for you?”
"No. And ew." Patrick wrinkles his nose. It’s still pink, and the result is too fucking adorable for Pete to deal with on top of everything.
So Pete plants a kiss on the tip of Patrick’s nose, not even thinking about it. He’s about to go shower wrath on GCH when he realizes the kiss makes Patrick blush even more and shiver a little bit.
He holds Patrick at arm’s length, shaking him a tiny bit. “Patty,” he says, “did mean ol’ Travie tease you?”
Patrick rolls his eyes. “Yeah, and he took my Tonka truck, too.”
"That’s very mean of him indeed," Pete says. "I’ll go punch him in the balls till he gives it back."
"Pete!" Patrick throws up his hands in exasperation. "For fuck’s sake, he didn’t do anything. I just, um, overreacted."
Pete pulls Patrick into a hug. “We’ve had this discussion, honeybunch. You never overreact, people just under-cause.”
"Yeah?" Patrick grumbles but allows the hug. "Was that the same discussion where I told you not to call me by breakfast cereal names?" He actually relaxes into the hug a little bit. Pete squeezes him, wishing to encourage this behavior.
Also, the squeezing makes Patrick squeak, which is never not adorable.
Then Patrick sighs and says, ruefully, “It’s not Travie’s fault that I haven’t gotten laid for fucking ever.”
"Tease," Pete says, even as wheels turn in his head. "At least he can put out if he’s gonna drape himself all over everyone."
Patrick laughs, which is the reaction Pete was aiming for. He says, “Yeah, so rude of him to be straight,” and he seems to actually mean it.
That, Pete is less in favor of. He withdraws a little. Patrick’s still pink around the ears, his hat knocked off by Pete’s enthusiastic hug, smiling a dorky smile, and something clicks in Pete’s head.
He pulls Patrick close again, kissing him on the mouth. Patrick allows this, too, still smiling, broken in by years of Pete being Pete. It’s not what Pete wants, though, not by a long shot. He pulls back, just a couple short inches, then goes back to kiss Patrick properly.
Judging by the muffled noises he’s making, Patrick has Opinions about this. Pete doesn’t care. Patrick’s mouth is soft and lush and fucking perfect. Only an idiot wouldn’t want to kiss it. Travie is an idiot and doesn’t deserve Patrick getting all flustered over him.
"Pete," Patrick says when Pete stops for breath. "We shouldn’t."
Breathing was a terrible idea. Pete knew it. “What,” he says, voice lower than normal, hips edging forward against Patrick’s. “Travie can rub all over you but I can’t?”
"Travie doesn’t mean anything by it!"
"And I do," Pete says, kissing a trail from under Patrick’s ear and down his jaw. "So I’m totally better than him and you should let me."
Patrick’s still yelling but he’s not shoving Pete away, which is the important part. Pete knows Patrick’s anything but shy about enforcing his personal boundaries. If he really didn’t want Pete here, doing what he’s doing, Pete would be rolling on the floor clutching his busted balls.
He can hear it, too, the way Patrick’s voice wavers around “bad idea” and “should probably stop”. Probably isn’t definitely, and right now the only definite thing is how much Pete wants to put his mouth on Patrick’s skin.
In one breath he curses all those fucking layers Patrick wears. On the next, though, it occurs to him that they’re a blessing. He shoves Patrick’s shirts up, goes down on one knee like he’s proposing. (He’s not, although there’s a thought.)
"What," Patrick says when Pete starts nuzzling his stomach. He sounds more confused than outraged. Pete’s going to take it as a positive sign.
He rubs his nose under Patrick’s belly button, letting Patrick’s almost-invisible happy trail brush his lips. Follows it with his tongue, down, and pauses right above Patrick’s fly.
Patrick, Pete notes, isn’t protesting anymore. He’s standing very, very still, like he’s scared Pete will disappear or eat his dick or something if he moves the wrong way.
Well. He’s not entirely wrong, for certain values of eating.
Before he gets there, though, Pete has plans. He seals his lips on Patrick’s lower belly, feeling pale soft skin pliant against his teeth, and bites.
Some deep, dark instinct of Pete’s wants to clench hard, enough to make Patrick bleed, to mark him permanently. Pete’s not that far gone, though. He bites lightly, carefully. To make up for it, he sucks as hard as he can.
Patrick makes a garbled sound, his hands clutching at Pete’s shoulders. Pete hums happily and sucks harder yet. He’s crowding in next to Patrick, close enough to feel Patrick’s half-hard dick chubbing up against his throat. The sensation is deeply satisfying in a way Pete can’t quite explain.
He opens his mouth, letting go of Patrick with a wet smack. Pete’s dick gives a little leap when he sees the mark he left, brilliant red against Patrick’s white belly, below it short reddish-blond hairs peeking above the hem of Patrick’s pants. Pete wants to drag said pants off with his teeth.
That would probably be awkward and not that pleasant, though. He uses his fingers instead.
Patrick is apparently past protesting. He stares at Pete with big eyes, so hard his dick leaps out of his underwear when Pete pulls them down. It’s a nice dick, thick and hefty and happy to see Pete. Friendly. Pete gets friendly right back. He gives it sloppy little licks until Patrick’s breath hitches and he says, “I thought you weren’t going to tease.”
Patrick’s voice is hoarse and deep and fucking beautiful, with low undertones that Pete feels in his bones. There’s probably some subliminal commands there or something, some caveman instinct that makes Pete swallow down Patrick’s cock when he hears those words in that voice.
As Pete opens his mouth wide to take Patrick in, as he feels the frantic beat of Patrick’s heart pulsing through his dick, he knows Patrick won’t take long to come.
Might as well enjoy it, he thinks, flicking his own fly open, whipping his own dick out. He rubs it dry as he sucks Patrick. His mouth is much gentler than he was with the poor skin on Patrick’s belly, his hand much rougher. He kinda wishes he had a third hand to play with his pierced nipple.
Because Patrick is a mind reader, he reaches down to do it for him. He’s not tentative about it like some people Pete’s fucked, goes right down and twists until Pete yells. The feeling’s halfway between pleasure and pain, Pete’s favorite place to be.
Patrick’s other hand clenches over Pete’s shoulder, his hips rolling to get his dick in and out of Pete’s mouth. Pete wonders when he lost control of this, if he was ever in control to begin with, when Patrick’s thighs stutter and stop. His come shoots hot and salty on Pete's tongue.
As revenge, as soon as he settles, Pete stands up and kisses the taste right back into Patrick’s mouth. Patrick takes it, though, holds Pete close and lets him rub off against Patrick’s soft, marked stomach. Lets Pete get his jizz all over it when he’s done.
When Pete can open his eyes again - which isn’t easy; Patrick’s petting the nape of his neck, and for once it feels like he could just drift off to sleep standing up - Patrick’s mouth is curled up in a smug little smile.
It’s not just Patrick’s default orgasm face. Pete knows that much. “Did you plan this?” he says, poking Patrick in the chest.
"Not really?" Patrick says. Pete feels him shrug. "I don’t know, maybe I just wanted to see if you’d do something about all the indecent proposals you’ve made over the years."
"Damn," Pete says, wondering. "I just got played by Patrick mothafuckin’ Stump."
"You got better people to be played by?" Patrick demands.
"Nope." Pete nuzzles into Patrick’s shoulders. He doesn’t even care whether Patrick means the euphemistic sense of play, or if there is one. If he has Patrick, there’s no one better. Period.