Stop Slugs In Rabbit Hutch

I'll kiss your lips (…again)

Title: I'll kiss your lips (again ...) Author:



p_will



Beta:
... boh? : ° D

Characters / pairings: Pete / Patrick Rating: PG

Warnings: fluff , shameless fluff
parle Count:
488 (FDP)

Disclaimer: The real Pete Wentz is not so monomaniac it is more
. Notes: I had started writing random porn, but 'These two did not agree (I am surprised as you). The title is lameness, but if you keep your soul do not post more dannarmici \\ o /
Dedication: Happy birthday nessie_sun ! \u0026lt;3
Summary: Patrick's mouth, god,
Patrick's mouth.

Patrick's mouth, god,
Patrick's mouth. It is strange that there Pete has even written a song - a dozen songs, a dozen album - because it's really something portentous, the kind of thing that upset him deeply and can not say if in a good way or ... not bad, nothing that has to do with Patrick could be bad, but in a way so intense that sometimes scares him.
probably not made up because nothing is too possessive, and doing so would mean the mouth of Patrick share with the world. That's a pretty stupid thing, as the mouth of Patrick right there, halfway between the chin and nose, there is always more or less twenty-four, but then Pete has never been linear reasoning. It's already so much that he has not locked up in a bell jar years ago - after seeing him for the first time, after having heard him sing for the first time in the damp basement of someone who does not remember - for keep it away from the eyes of the world, all by itself, the world should be thankful that Pete will deign to let him hear the voice of Patrick.
Her voice is extraordinary. What people think of Pete do you think of Patrick's voice? Underestimated. Patrick's voice is full and thick, like honey or chocolate or something altrettando addictive, is vibrant, gets under your skin, bones, warming everything and even vibrating every fiber, every cell. And this is only
his voice, there are her lips. I'm really always there, while Patrick sings about eating smiles breathes, while worried about bites or severe stretch in a line before the last of a genius group. Pete would not ever make any vulgar joke about Patrick (not sober ... okay, not in his presence), but for Christ's sake, those lips. Patrick does not help that the front is always, always there to hold a straw between his teeth, the flattened plastic near the center of the lower lip, pink skin taut and shiny white teeth against, or to sing, pressed against the microphone so that every breath is amplified, the noise of air blown at intervals against the metal just confused the wet pants, or simply to sleep with his head resting on the shoulders of Pete and his mouth slightly open, the sweet breath of RedBull that tickles the chin Pete pace slow and steady. Pete always wants to kiss him. And it does: put her arm behind her back, fingers pressed to the base of the spine above the belt, just makes him turn his head with a nudge of the nose to the front and puts his lips to hers. Patrick sleepy mumbles something instinctively closer to Pete, and Pete feels the taste of her voice. She smiles, so Patrick can feel the taste of a forever.