|Better Ideas (Pete/Joe)
||[Dec. 31st, 2009|03:55 pm]
Bandom Story Swap
Title: Better Ideas
Band: Fall Out Boy
Summary: “We’re in a rut.”
The bus was moving when Joe fell asleep, but it’s stopped now. In the contextless dark of his bunk, he has no idea whether he’s slept for three hours or thirteen. He fumbles under his pillow for his phone. It’s shifted, wedged between the mattress and the wall, and the screen is blinking a text message alert to him.
He checks the clock, relieved to see it’s cycled back around to PM. Joe stretches and yawns, scratches blunt nails against his scalp.
“Pete?” he says, but there’s no answer. The bus is actually a little too quiet. The kind of quiet that means that Pete’s probably up to something and waiting for Joe to come join. He sets the phone on the pillow next to his ear and thumbs the call button. He hears the ring come through the static on the speaker a second before he hears Pete’s ring tone loud and clear from two feet directly above him.
“Hello?” Pete says, voice doubled and still scratchy with sleep.
“You wanted me to call you?” Joe’s learned to give Pete’s whims a few minutes before questioning them. Unless they’re the kind of whim likely to end up with bloodshed, hospital visits, or tattoo guns.
“Mmmm, I did. Whatcha wearing?” Pete says, and Joe can hear him rolling over, the rustle of sheets.
“Uh… I don’t actually know.” Joe says. “Whatever I was wearing when Charlie poured me into bed last night.” He wiggles his toes. “I think I’m still wearing my shoes.”
Hearing Pete’s exasperated sighs twice over makes it at least four times more annoying, and Joe wonders how that math works out exactly. “You suck at phone sex, Trohman. Come on. Make it sexy for me.”
“You’re no fun at all. You’re ruining the mood here.” Pete says. “Here, you ask me what I’m wearing, and I’ll show you.”
“Pete,” Joe says.
“Yes, Joe,” Pete answers, the words dragging out in lowered tones.
“Where’s everyone else?” It’s not that Joe’s actually considering having close proximity phone sex with Pete, but if he were considering it, he’d like to at least know that Patrick and Andy and Dirty and Charlie aren’t lurking. Though lurking sounds maybe a little more sinister than required considering it’s their bus too. Plus, it’s not like the bus actually has lots of places for lurking, he thinks.
“…looking for waffles,” Pete says. “So.”
“Wait, what?” Joe says.
“They’re gone.” Pete says. “And I want to have phone sex.”
“Wouldn’t you rather just have sex sex?” Joe asks. “With the touching and the friction and… you know, sex?”
“We’re in a rut.” Pete answers.
“We’re not in a rut,” Joe says. Sure it’s been a little predictable, maybe not as exciting as it used to be, but Joe’s generally happy and happy in his pants in particular. “We’re on tour.”
“The two aren’t mutually exclusive. We can be both, you know. Now ask me what I’m wearing.”
“What are you wearing, Pete?” Joe says, rolling his eyes and stretching. The soles of his sneakers press against the foot of the bunk, and he can feel the subtle ache in his neck that means he’s going to have to tone it down on stage tonight.
“I’m wearing boxers and your Smiths t-shirt. The black one with the hole at the collar. It soft and smells good. Like you… and like me now, too.”
“You stole my shirt,” Joe says. He rest his hand against his chest, his fingers rubbing slow over the warn cotton of his own t-shirt.
“I borrowed,” Pete says. “If you want it back so badly…”
Joe hears Pete moving above him, the thud and sharp hiss that means Pete’s banged his elbow against the wall again and the rattle of his curtain pulling back, and Pete’s hand is reaching into Joe’s bunk, shirt bunched in his hand.
“Um. Thanks.” Joe takes the shirt. His fingers brush against Pete’s and he holds on for just a second.
“No touching,” Pete says. “That’s not what we’re doing.”
“Right,” Joe says, releasing Pete’s hand. “Sorry.”
“Not wearing your shirt anymore.” Pete says.
“No,” Joe says, twisting his fingers in the shirt. He can still feel the heat of Pete’s body seeping out of the fabric.
“Joe?” Pete asks. “What are you doing?”
“Thinking,” Joe says.
“About what?” Pete’s voice is soft enough that Joe’s not sure he’d be able to hear at all if it weren’t for the phone… and that’s so strange. Knowing Pete’s right there. Practically in arms reach, but he can’t. Can’t touch. He reaches up and touches the top of his bunk, the bottom of Pete’s.
“You,” Joe says. “What you probably look like right now.” He doesn’t need to think about it. He knows. It’s a sight he’s grown familiar with. Pete lying flat on his back, arms stretched up over his head, palms pressed against the wall above his head and drawing out the line of his body.
“What do you think I look like?” Pete asks, and Joe closes his eyes listening to the slow fricative slide of skin against fabric.
“Hot,” Joe murmurs. His hand feels heavy against his stomach, heavy and warm.
“You really think this can get us out of the rut?”
“I… yeah.” Pete says, and Joe waits. If this – something different, unpredictable – is what Pete wants, Joe’s going to set the terms.
“Are you hard yet, Pete?” Joe asks, he presses his own hand against his cock, sensations dulled by layers, the thick denim of his jeans.
“What do you think?” Pete asks, half laughing.
“I want you to tell me. Are you? You’re not chickening out now, are you, Pete?” Joe knows it’s a dirty trick, the one button he knows he can push that Pete can’t resist reacting to.
“Fuck, Joe.” Pete says. “Yeah. I’m hard.”
“Good,” Joe says.
“You getting ideas?” It takes Pete an extra second to get the question out, breathy and whiny.
“Oh, I’ve had ideas.” Joe says, and it strikes him suddenly just how true it is. He’s got ideas and plans and designs and none of them are actually new.
“Like what?” Pete says.
“I want to make you hold still,” Joe says. He stretches his fingers, his pinky slipping down past the hem of his shirt and under the waist band of his pants, ghosting against the coarse hair. “Take my time. You’re always in such a fucking hurry, Pete.”
“Am not,” Pete says, arguing. Whining.
“Yeah, you are.” Joe pops the button on his jeans. Pete’s breath is coming fast and loud against his ear. “Probably got your hand wrapped around your dick already.” Joe gives him time, but Pete doesn’t deny it. “You said everybody’s gone. They coming back soon?”
“No.” Pete says. “Not for at least an hour. I made Patrick promise.”
“So what’s the rush?” Joe asks. He doesn’t actually mind the hurry most of the time. If he’s honest, it’s pretty cool that Pete can’t keep his hands to himself when they get even ten minutes of guaranteed privacy. But sometimes. Sometimes, when they’ve got a hotel for a whole night, or even more when they’re home and don’t have anywhere for be for days, even weeks, it would be nice to drag things out a little bit.
“I like fucking you,” Pete says, light and easy, and Joe knows he’s grinning, mouth stretched wide and on the edge of laughter. “And getting fucked by you. Why would I want to put it off?”
“Yeah, well maybe I wanna take a nice long time to suck your cock. Or just touch.” Joe says. He tugs at his zipper, feeling and hearing the agonizingly slow tick-tick-tick of each tooth freeing. “Can you hear that?”
“Yeah,” Pete sighs.
“My zipper. You’re already naked and jerking, and I’m just working my pants open. Which one of us was a teen-ager three years ago?” What Joe doesn’t say is how his cock is hard and arcing up, pressed tight where the zipper has yet to part.
“You’ve never complained before,” Pete says. Joe can hear the slide of flesh-against-flesh. Pete’s hand working steady on his cock.
“I’m not complaining now,” Joe says. Reassurance and the truth. He knew what he was getting into. Knew Pete for so long already that it was no surprise when Pete finally came at him the same way he approached everything and everyone else, fast and furious and full-speed-ahead. Hand down Joe’s pants before they were even kissing, and it’s just the way Pete is. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to spread you out on a big bed and make you squirm until you’re begging for it.”
“Fuck, Joe,” Pete grunts.
“Don’t you dare,” Joe warns, lifting his him to shove his jeans down finally, pressing the heel of his hand firm against the line of his cock. “I swear to god, Pete, if you come now…”
“What?” Pete says. “If I come now, what?”
“Next time I get you alone, I’ll tie you don’t so you can’t touch at all,” Joe says.
And Pete makes a sound, needy and desperate and like nothing Joe’s managed to pull from him before, and he has to grit his teeth not to echo it right back.
“And then what?” Pete asks. “What’ll you do?”
“Whatever I want, Pete.” Joe says. He can feel his pulse everywhere. His finger tips, his throat, his cock. Faster than a minute ago. “Kiss you. Slow. Just kissing for a while.”
Pete’s hand speeds up, and his breath is ragged in Joe’s ear, broken and fast. Joe pushes his hand into his shorts, hand wrapping loosely around his cock, the first experimental stroke enough to send sparks skittering through his veins.
“Touch you everywhere.” Joe can picture it so easily. Pete spread out, the knots snug against his wrists and ankles. The taut muscles as Pete tests them, always testing the limits. “Taste every inch of your skin. Figure out what you really like best. Bet you don’t even know.”
“What then?” Pete says. Joe can hear it, the bow-string tension of the words, spit through clenched teeth.
“Use my tongue on you, my mouth. Suck your cock deep.” Joe licks his lips, almost feeling it. The heavy weight of Pete’s cock sliding across his bottom lip as he teases. The taste, the feel. The way Pete’s body tightens under him, amplified by his immobility. He brushes his thumb over the head of his cock, almost surprised to find himself slick. “Keep you right on edge… maybe for hours, sweating, begging, but I won’t let you come until I’m fucking you.”
“Gonna… can’t hold back, Joe,” Pete whimpers. “Sorry… I just… I need to…”
“Pete,” Joe groans, “Yeah, come on, Pete. Come.”
And Pete does.
Joe listens to it all, through the speaker the bunk. Strokes himself through it all, no where near coming until…
“Promise?” Pete says..