amisophe: a colorful glowy pattern made on weavesilk. (Default)
[personal profile] amisophe
and now, of course, the really interesting stuff:
here is a fic-type thing i wrote not too long ago!
this is patrick/gerard, genderswapped (maybe also sexswapped? i still haven't decided if these versions of the characters are cisgirls, so feel free to make them whatever you desire in your head!) and it's set early in both their careers, probably 2003-ish. so they're pretty young, and i've used some characterizations that i've developed in conversation with a friend—patrick is wee and dom and very polite, but nursing a potential to be quite vicious, and gerard is also wee and eager and generally less self-conscious about her desires (read: raging sub, in a dramatic kind of way). and a giant nerd.
content notes: contains bdsm elements and some implications of fantasized noncon/consent play (assumed to be consensual).
summary: patrick jerks off, at some point. 1490 words.

the world's not waiting

One of the things about being on tour that Patrick is still, despite everything, not used to, is the fact that she’s never home. You’d think that was obvious, but it gets to you. You’re constantly racketing around in a rickety old van, hoping whoever’s driving thought not to smoke weed in the past hour, let alone right now (she’s not naming names or anything), and the truth is, living off cereal cups and fake milk made from seven-eleven coffee creamer gets old fast.

Patrick’s not stupid; she knows the band life isn’t really glamorous, but it had to be at least a little cool, right?

But right now, she just wants a goddamn actual bed with a warm blanket and maybe even some indoor heating. That would be great. She wants a room to herself and some reliable wifi. She wants to be able to walk out of the room (that she has to herself) and open a fridge to see the groceries she bought and make some pasta with actual pasta sauce. She doesn’t care if that makes her old and unadventurous at the age of nineteen.

And once she’s got a mug of hot chocolate—in her actual mug! with her name on it, that Pete bought for her!—she wants to huddle in her bed with her blanket and her laptop and jerk off. To herself. Or, not to herself, but for herself—whatever.

This is getting to her.

So today, since everyone is finally conveniently away, Patrick’s taking some luxurious time off in this rickety shack to lock the doors, close the blinds, and go for a ride.

She flops over the edge of the lower bunk—this is Pete’s bunk, she knows, but she can’t bring herself to care—and presses her hand in between her legs, smushed between her stomach and the weeks-old musty blankets. It’s soft, and warm, and she wriggles into Pete’s fluffy old muddy-blue comforter to get cozy. She sticks her hand down the front of her jeans and swipes her thumb idly back and forth over her bellybutton—she doesn’t really pay attention to this part of her body anytime else, but her skin is smooth and warm and she closes her eyes, casting about for something comfortably distracting.

Someone knocks on the door. Goddamn.

Patrick breathes through her teeth, kicks off the blankets, buttons her jeans, and opens the door, tugging her shirt down in the back with her other hand.

Gerard Way looks back at her, following the motion of Patrick’s hand with the corner of her eye. Patrick blinks away the urge to shake her and raises her eyebrows. “Yes?”

“I, uh, I thought I would come check if Mikey left my copy of Doom Patrol issue twenty here,” Gerard says, sounding distracted. She looks back up at Patrick’s face, and raises a hand to push the stringy black hair out of her eyes and look as earnest as fucking possible. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t sure if anyone would even be here, but I can’t find Mikey either and it was worth a try.”

Patrick waves a hand impatiently in the direction of the cluttered entrance hall, if you could call it that. “Yeah, yeah, you can check around if you want, but I haven’t seen it. Sorry,” she adds, her usual manners coming back.

“No problem!” Gerard bounces in—seriously?—and looks around, taking in the mess before she steps around the stained table to sit on the probably-stained sofa. Patrick closes the door behind her and surreptitiously checks the lock.

“Why’s it so dark in here, anyway? I mean, I’m not very into the whole light thing myself, but I can’t see anything—oh!” Gerard stands up and reaches across the sofa to pull on the lamp string, the old-fashioned lamp string for the old-fashioned lamp they’d stolen from Pete’s fancy-ass house in the Wilmette suburbs. The room flickers into brightness and Gerard gets on her knees to look under the table.

Patrick stands at the door and watches.

Gerard sticks out the tip of her tongue and presses it to her lips, concentrating, and ducks her head to look under the sofa. She sits up again in two seconds, coughing, and Patrick belatedly says, “Don’t—”

Gerard looks up at her through watering eyes. Jesus.

Patrick sighs and steps over a few guitar magazines, pulling the table out on its creaky wooden legs to give Gerard some room, and sits down on the sofa. Gerard looks at her, bright-eyed, and says “Thanks!”

Patrick nods. “No problem.” Then, in an effort to be social, she says, “I don’t think the underside of that sofa’s seen the light since Pete’s mom got married.”

Gerard snorts and wipes her forehead. “Yeah, this is gonna be a futile endeavor,” she says. “I should really just ask Mikey what happened to it. Or Pete, I guess.”

Patrick nods again. Maybe Gerard’s leaving? “Yeah, that’s probably the best idea,” she says, encouragingly.

“Yeah, okay,” Gerard says, and stands up. “Thanks for letting me look, anyway!” She steps over Guitar World and tries the door, which is locked. She unlocks it and steps out. “I’ll see you around!” She waves, and closes the door.

Patrick stares at the covered window for a few seconds before she gets up and locks the door. “Yeah,” she answers, to nobody.

Patrick bends over, picks up a copy of Rolling Stone and a copy of Kerrang!, and tosses them on the table. She crosses back over to the bunks and resituates herself in Pete’s blankets, kicking her feet to get them under the comforter. Once the sheets are reassuringly heavy on top of her, she closes her eyes, sticks her hand between her legs, and presses her hand up on her clit.

Jesus, she’s actually turned on. Figures.

She feels a little bad, but the first image to come to mind now is Gerard on her knees, looking up at her with eyes her brain tells her are red-rimmed and crying. Dream-Patrick cups her face in her hand, forcing her chin up a little, and swipes under her eye with her thumb. Gerard’s eyes fall shut a little.

Patrick digs her fingers into the underside of Gerard’s chin, startling her eyes open. She grabs her hair with her other hand, pulls her head back, and slaps her across the face. It makes a satisfying clappy sound. Gerard tries to wrench her head away, but it pulls on Patrick’s grip in her hair and she gasps, hands falling to her sides. She doesn’t look up.

Patrick starts to bend down to look at her, but then she pulls Gerard up by the hair instead, one hand helpfully under her armpit. She’s so small—on stage, she whirls around larger than life and screams like she’s calling an entire city to arms, but here, it’s easy for Patrick to throw her on the bed and cover her with her own body. It’s easy to grasp both her wrists in one hand and hold them down over her head, keep them out of the way so Patrick can run her other hand down Gerard’s side and curl her fingers around Gerard’s pointy hipbone. Gerard tilts her head back and kicks her feet, twisting to the side, and Patrick slams her hips back down on the bed. Gerard goes limp and pants under her, staring up. Looking scared.

Patrick grabs onto the blanket she’s lying on and twists it in her hand, giving herself something more to grind down on. She imagines dragging her dick over Gerard’s thigh, holding her down and immobile by her hips, threatening. She imagines Gerard crying out, feet scrabbling against the mattress, wide-eyed and pleading no. She imagines letting go of Gerard’s hips only for Gerard to push up against her hand, against her dick, squeezing her eyes shut helplessly. She imagines grabbing Gerard by the waist, pulling her down on her cock, pulling her to the side by her hair and biting hard, thrusting up—

Patrick bares her teeth and pants. Her vision is blurred, full of Gerard with come on the inside of her thighs, Gerard begging for her scratch marks with her naked hips, Gerard on her knees with her throat bared to Patrick’s knife, Gerard waiting, frozen, when Patrick tells her not to fucking move before she hits her, Gerard with her obscene mouth choking on Patrick’s dick—

Patrick breathes hard, pushes the heel of her hand between her legs, and bites down on her own arm.

If she falls asleep on Pete’s bed, he’ll probably know something was up, but she really really doesn’t want to move. It’s not like she doesn’t know when he jerks off, anyway. The lights are on out front, the doors are locked, and she’ll see the others when they get back. Maybe she’ll see Gerard, too. She’ll find her copy of Doom Patrol for her. That’ll be a great excuse.


amisophe: a colorful glowy pattern made on weavesilk. (Default)

August 2015

23456 78

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags