Patricksitting (Call It A Love Song) (Peterick) [by adellyna]

Saturday

Patrick is probably never going to get over the fact that he lost his virginity to half a bottle of strawberry flavored lube. Okay, so not technically to the bottle, but there's so much of it dripping off of Pete's hand that Patrick knows (has an errant thought) that he's going to have to change the sheets, or else roll around in slippery strawberry all night.

They start slow; just one finger, so slick that beads of lube drip, rolling down Patrick's skin, itchy, uncomfortable, but he still gasps and tenses when Pete pushes in, bites his lip and says, "It's too much." He gets a soft kiss to his stomach and Pete's finger twisting in more, carefully, slow slow slow in response.

"It's okay," Pete says, mumbled into Patrick's stomach. "Just relax."

He can't. He can't possibly relax, because it's weird, so weird, but Pete keeps twisting, pressing up, dropping kisses along the seam of Patrick's thigh and then it's--less weird. And then even less weird, and then, "Oh, God."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Just. Can you-"

Pete does it again, twists and presses and there's something, and it's right there, almost there and then there, yes, just like that. Good, intensely good, and still weird, but really, really good. Patrick closes his eyes; there's tension draining out of his thighs and his shoulders, but it's migrating somewhere around his bellybutton, thick and hot. Pete just keeps doing that thing, slick finger sliding in and up and out and then back in until Patrick whines at the loss of it every time. He tries to arch down into Pete's hand, but Pete is careful, slow, and it's. It's just.

"It's not enough," Patrick complains, gusting the word out on an exhale, trying to twist against Pete's hands. "It's not. Pete, please."

"Shhh," is all he gets, vibrating against his hip, Pete's finger still moving slow, like, agonizingly slow. He doesn't relent until Patrick bucks up hard. He feels Pete's knuckles pressed against him, and there's a burn at the tip of his finger that reminds Patrick oh yeah, ten minutes ago, I remember that, but it disappears fast enough, lost in Pete laughing into his skin. He presses the second finger next to the first, and it's pressure, too much, then in, and it burns, but not as badly as the first. Or maybe it does, but it's different, and he knows if he can just ease up, let Pete twist and stroke he'll-

"Fuck." Yeah, just like that. Every inch is like new ground again, uncomfortable but with this edge of yes yes yes, and this time Pete knows right where to go, twisting his knuckles up and raking them against whatever it is that makes heat spike out, flush through to Patrick's fingertips, his ears. He's impossibly hot, sweat prickling the crease on his neck, and he doesn't realize he's gripping the comforter until his nails press so hard through the fabric that his palms sting.

Pete just keeps on, steady, pressing in and out, in and out, in and up and out and it's slow and careful; he's dark, narrow eyes trained on Patrick's face, he's stubble he hadn't bothered to shave rubbing Patrick's hip raw, he's bitten lips and quick breath, and Patrick wants him so bad it hurts, actually hurts, aches in a place he didn't even know he had.

Patrick whimpers, arches, and says, "Pete," desperate, wanting something he doesn't even really know how to ask for. "Please."

"Soon." Pete kisses him again, another half-nibbling trip across Patrick's stomach. "You're not ready."

"There's no such thing as more ready than this," Patrick manages. It's a struggle, making actual words in actual order, even though telling Pete he's wrong usually comes so easily.

Pete moves, slippery fingers fumbling at a foil packet, at the cap of the lube, pouring too much of it into his hands and slicking it over latex. He climbs up, presses one hand in the mattress next to Patrick's head, and the sharp, alcohol-strawberry wash of smell makes Patrick's head spin.