Kinky Like That (Or, This is Just the Happiest Place On Earth)

Pete was in what people called a fucking bad mood. He was glowering. It takes energy to glower in the furnace-like heat that was Orlando's shimmering summer, but he was doing it, alright, and doing it good. It was really Patrick's fault. After the show last night, when they were sleeping (well, he didn't get to sleep) Patrick had kicked him mercilessly; stolen all the covers (and one of his pillows); and had the AC turned to arctic levels.

So while Patrick was darting from the one gaudy Disney attraction to another, smiling widely and literally glowing with sweat, Pete was stuck wiping his forehead every four seconds and letting out long-suffering sighs. Patrick refused to go on the high-screaming rides, like Space Mountain, but he had actually groped Pete in the whirling teacups. The other passengers were squealing too much to notice.

Pete was actually surprised that such a few people recognised them. Apparently, in the crush of the crowd, people did not seem to know who he was, dressed in normal-fitting jeans (Patrick had laughed his head off. Where are your painted-on pants?) no eyeliner, and a trucker hat. What really gave him away to a few girls were the tattoos, and he had taken a few pictures near the Swiss Family Treehouse, while Patrick had been roaming in it. Speaking of Patrick, he was even more unrecognisable, his trademark glasses left at the hotel in favour of the contacts. When he had come out of the treehouse, he had whispered to Pete as he lugged him off in the direction of the Haunted Mansion, that a teenaged girl smiling with her family had said, "Anybody ever told you that you look just like the singer of Fall Out Boy? Only I think he's taller."

Patrick thought it was a riot. Pete did too, but he was trying to glower.

When they finally emerged out of the Mansion (Patrick, still in his supreme good mood, fueled by solid rest, had yelled throughout the entire thing, laughing with a little kid who was sitting in another buggy). Pete wanted to take a leak, and when he asked one of the park workers, a skinny college kid smiling tiredly, he had pointed past the Mansion into the brush behind it. Pete peered, frowning.

"I dont see anything," he said to the attendant, who laughed and responded that, yeah, one of those little bathrooms was right there, but it was hidden in the carefully arranged fringe of trees. Patrick chuckled and took him by the arm, and dragged him over and Pete was silently cursing the landscape designer for putting so much fucking trees here. He felt he was chopping his way through a jungle, like Indiana Jones, and was just trying to imagine Patrick in a beat-up brown fedora when they seemed to happen upon the little bathroom house.

Patrick raised his eyebrows.

"Wow. So secluded," he commented as they went in. "People might get up to real kinky stuff up in here."

Pete gave him a long look.

"Okay," he replied slowly. "I just want to take a piss, alright, Patrick? No funny stuff."

But Patrick was jokingly standing much too close to him as he took a stance at the urinal and he was hissing at him to back off, you know I can't do it with you so close, fuck, and Patrick gave an amused huff of breath and went to lean back at the sink counter, right next to that little hand-dryer machine.
Pete shook off, tucked everything back in nice and neat, and went to wash his hands beside him. He was scrubbing off fairly diligently (Pete followed the fifteen-second rule when soaping up), when Patrick leaned into him, rested his chin on Pete's shoulder, and spoke up.

"Hey. Hey, you. What would you say if I told you I want you to fuck me in here?"

Pete froze, letting the water run merrily over his hands. Okay, alright, usually Pete was the slightly crazy individual, but it was the odd person who discovered that Patrick was really the one with the kinky tendencies. He even liked spanking a lot, and people would never believe that shit, because, awww, check out the sweet little face.

Pete shook his head a little, trying to ride it out as a joke (good job there) and trying to ignore Patrick's hot breath on his sweaty neck (not so good, mission failed). He turned, putting his hands around Patrick to punch the hand-dryer, and Patrick didn't back off at all, so Pete ended up turning into his mouth. Patrick started to kiss him, hard and deep, Pete's own hat getting knocked off in the little battle of the tongue. Pete did not know the secret of keeping his hat on...but whoa. So Patrick was serious.

Pete dried his hands absently as Patrick was kissing him, feeling himself and Patrick growing hard against each other, and wow, ok wow, he was very serious. He pulled back slowly out of the kiss, Patrick coming forward a little, their mouths making a small pop as they parted and Pete stared down into his heated gaze.

"What?" Pete questioned lamely, because right now his brain could manage only one syllable at a time. Two, if he made an effort.

Patrick smiled darkly at him. "Here. Right in here."

Pete's bad mood was clearing up exponentially. The more Patrick backed him up towards a stall, kissing him with a sort of rabid want, the better he felt. For real. Whatever Patrick was doing (and this involved slipping his hands under the hem of Pete's shirt and rubbing his rough thumbpads over the sensitive skin of Pete's sweaty stomach), Pete was thinking that there had to be a way to bottle this shit and sell it, and he'd be on easy street. The Feel-Good Fuck Factor, oh yeah.

As Patrick shoved him in the stall nearest to the outside wall, he murmured harshly, "Fuck me. Here. You know you want to." Pete's brain was currently going into a melt-down process, maybe like the way the Wicked Witch of the West had melted, shrieking, only he was very positive that she hadn't had such a fine time.

"How do we-?" Pete managed to let out as Patrick continued to assault him in the cramped space, his hands reaching down into Pete's jeans and grasping onto his leaking cock, pumping his hand slowly. Pete groaned and bucked a bit, and Patrick still had that little smile.

"I'm gonna ride you. Hard. Maybe until you scream."

Pete was ready to scream now, but Patrick merely unbuckled Pete's jeans, pushed them midway down his thighs and made him sit on the closed toilet-seat cover. His brain flitted through the thought ewwww toilet-seat before it was severly overridden by Patrick leaning down and holding onto his dick again. Pete's mouth fell open as Patrick, damn him, slid his hand up and down, using some of the precum to slip down the straining shaft, and Pete was in full moan-mode.

How hot was this? My word. Anyone could come in right now, because as secluded as it was, someone could question the attendant just like they did and stroll in. They wouldn't be able to see beneath the stall-door, which was a full one that went down to the the ground, but it would be closed, which means they would tell someone was in there. He was busy trying to hold onto that thought and the sensation it produced, when Patrick took up one of his hands, and led two of his fingers in that warm mouth, coating them with saliva. Pete was close to fainting. But he held on, such a trooper.

Patrick released him, still with Pete's fingers in his mouth, and with one hand pulled at his own jeans and drew them down a little with his boxers. He released Pete's fingers and kissed him, now bent forward. He led Pete's hand between his legs, palm upward and brushing against his balls and moaned as Pete got the idea and pressed his fingers into Patrick's entrance, pushing and parting, urging the tight ring of muscles to relax a little.

Patrick took his hand out and Pete was still trying to figure out just how they were going to do this, when Patrick sort of stepped right forward and over him, his legs spread on either side of Pete's upper thighs sitting on the toilet, right into that little space where the seat curved back to the tank. His warm stomach and crotch was right up in Pete's face and Pete had to lean his head back a little, pondering if he should take him in his mouth; but Patrick pulled down his pants just a bit more and began to hunker down, and Pete just had to hold his cock upright (oh my god) and watch Patrick settle down right on top of him, inching down his length slowly, past the hard round knob, and gasping shallowly as Pete's cock slipped up inside, stretching. Pete could feel Patrick clenching and relaxing around him and he whimpered, trying to beg without words, because Patrick was killing him.

Patrick was finally sitting in his lap, legs open around Pete's waist, chest to chest, and Pete could feel his heart racing as fast as his own. There was a restricted feeling because of their jeans but Patrick, the kinky genius, simply began to rock back and forth against him. Back and forth.

And even though the range of movement was limited, Pete was making small pained sounds with every tiny thrust, because he was almost always in Patrick, being clenched. Patrick was now bouncing a little faster and harder, and he started to talk in a low, harsh voice.

"Pete. How does it feel?" Patrick said, and Pete's beleaguered mind was going huh?huh?what? "Your cock deep inside me." Patrick gasped out between moans, and Pete rested his forehead in the crook of Patrick's sweaty neck, and then moved his head and pressed his mouth against the slick skin there, because he was going to scream, he really was.

Suddenly Patrick stopped sharply and Pete actually jerked up in surprise. Patrick bit his lip, the both of them trying to breathe low and steady, as someone walked in, whistling Its A Small World After All cheerily, and they could hear the guy at the urinal. Patrick seemed to throw off the paralysis that had gripped them, moved his arms that had been wrapped tightly around Pete's neck, and braced his foreams quietly against the stall walls. And he began to rock his pelvis again, his back arching a little, pressing his whole lower torso against Pete's, and he was grinning and mouthing fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, and Pete grabbed onto his waist as the guy washed his hands.

Why the fuck was that guy taking so long? What was he following, the sixty-second rule?

But Patrick's mouth was suddenly hissing at his ear.

"You want them to hear. I know you do."

Pete bucked up as far as he possibly could and bit back a groan. Patrick continued to whisper and the guy's whistling outside faltered a bit, probably noticing Pete's hat out there; and probably hearing Patrick's low murmurs.

"You're so nasty. You're inside here fucking me, and you want them to know, Pete."

Pete could hear the person leave quickly, not even drying their hands, and Pete decided that this was war. His gripped tightened around Patrick's waist and he began to writhe his own hips in deep circles, grinding inside Patrick, and Patrick came right back at him. He planted his feet even more firmly and began to bounce even harder, his open mouth gasping into Pete's, and Patrick was asking, nay, ordering him to grab me, touch my cock, and Pete had no problem with commands like that. He pushed his hand between them to where Patrick's stiff length was actually up his shirt and squeezed it through the thin cotton fabric.

"Oh, fuck," Patrick moaned, and inhaled and exhaled very sharply, over and over, his eyes now squeezed shut, and Pete, in that deep haze of lust, managed to recall that this was a sign of Patrick coming, and they had this timed almost to perfection by now, because Pete was making his own strangled noises, low screaming pants, and he could feel Patrick spill onto his chest and stomach, moments before he released inside him, gasping and bucking, the sweaty cheeks of his ass sliding against the seat-cover.

Patrick pushed at his chest and struggled off him, moving gingerly back to rest against the door. He stood there for some moments, shaking a little and breathing hard as Pete stared back at him, trembling himself. He motioned for Pete to hand him some tissue, and without even looking at what he was doing, still looking in Pete's face, used it to carefully wipe away Pete's cum from where it was dribbling between his pale thighs.

Pete felt weak.

And then felt slightly offended by Patrick suddenly pointing at his shirt and giggling a little. He dropped his gaze and groaned at the sight of his shirt sticking to his chest with Patrick's little gift as the glue. Shit. Patrick was laughing harder, buttoning his jeans as Pete stood up and did up himself, and peeled off his shirt. Patrick collapsed out the door, Pete grumbling his way over to the sink and while he tried to rub out the spot, Patrick was literally laughing fit to split and using a paper-towel to clean off his chest.

Patrick didn't even allow him to stick his shirt under the dryer. Instead he dragged him back outside into the blinding sunshine and Pete began to complain.

"Patrick, I don't want to go on any more rides."

Patrick turned to look at him as they picked their way through the trees.

"No?" His eyes were wide and blue and so very innocent. "So you don't want to take a shower with me back in the hotel room? Maybe even a nice blowjob?"

"Oh, that," Pete muttered, now grasping onto him and practically running ahead. "Didn't I tell you? That's my most favourite ride."