Title: soft boy hours

Pairing: Paultryck

Tags: massage, frottage, just some sexy fluff / fluffy foreplay. Post-canon. Trans male Patryck and cis male Paul.

x-x-x

"How are you feeling, love?" Patryck kisses into the flesh of Paul's inner thigh, rubbing more lotion into him in long, lazy strokes.

Paul gives a goofy, lackadaisical smile as he relaxes into the sensations: cool, lightly calloused hands rubbing rose-scented lotion into his chaffed skin, tracing circles on the spots that make Paul's stomach tighten; Patryck whispering love into his kisses, his lips broken and bruised and so perfect Paul can't help but stare.

The thought of them wrapped around his cock makes it twitch. It's only half-hard, but that should change soon enough - he (hopes, prays too for good measure) is pretty sure he knows where this is going.

Paul thrums in response. "Good."

Patryck, meanwhile, finishes massaging the lotion into Paul's right thigh, planting a kiss on the side of the knee currently resting on his shoulder, another behind the cap as he gently sets Paul's leg down on the bed. The lotion rests clamped between Pat's own thighs, two pumps as he raises up the other leg and leaves a long smear from hip to knee, fingers trailing almost close enough to touch Paul's balls before pulling back.

A small whine of protest, which Patryck ignores, sans the small smile Paul can feel grow against him.

Honestly, though, Paul is a little surprised how much he's enjoying this. The thought of massaging each other had often crossed their minds, but mostly had actualized as rubbing fist-sized knots out of shoulders after a long day of Army duties.

And admittedly, Paul had quietly given up on keeping his skin soft once his voice cracked and he started sprouting hair along what seemed like every square inch of his body. But this aspect seems only to excite Patryck further as he runs his hands over Paul - long strokes on his leg, circles in the divot of his pelvic bone, an outspread hand along his soft belly. Even in the dimmed lighting, Paul can see the goosebumps along Patryck's arms, his brown skin kissed with a gentle sheen of red by their new lamp.

Such a shame that his legs are closed.

Paul shivers to recall the first time he'd taken Pat to bed, amazed at the contrast between Patryck's bony frame and the fact that his thighs felt like fucking silk. Paul had shaved his face just to be able to better appreciate them.

He's well more than half-hard now.

"You're so beautiful, Paul," Patryck sighs, hand now waving over his stomach, bumping into the cock resting atop it as though it were merely debris in the way.

Paul waits for the punchline.

Then he blinks. "Oh, you're serious."

Patryck rolls his eyes, gives Paul a slap on the thigh. "Of course I was being serious. I don't joke, remember?"

"Oh, you're right, I forgot." Paul pushes himself up from the mountain of pillows, purring deep in his throat as he takes the lotion bottle from between Patryck's legs and sets it aside on the nightstand. "Do you still not have fun either?" Paul asks as he finds the agreement in Patryck's eyes and cautiously dips two fingers between his thighs.

Electricity shoots up his spine.

Patryck moans at Paul's touch, already hard enough that Paul has no trouble taking Pat between his fingers and gently pumping him, causing Patryck's hips to shutter and his breath catch.

That is one thing Paul enjoys: the fact that Patryck has more for him to play with, easier to find. (But it sounds weird, doesn't it?, and kinda chaser-y to say aloud, so Paul keeps it to himself.)

Patryck sighs and grinds his hips into Paul's hand, leaning forward so Paul can catch his next moan in his own mouth. Patryck runs his hands through Paul's hair as he undulates into Paul's hand, catching small breathes between kisses, running his hands down Paul's body and laughing as he gives Paul's ass a firm squeeze. Paul squeaks, bucks away from the action, and they accidentally knock their foreheads together.

"Ow." Patryck's hand on the offended area.

"Don't grab me, then," Paul says, tempted to try and tickle Patryck in response, but even the threat of it has always made Patryck snarl and jerk in his grasp like a wild dog, so he goes without.

Patryck looks at him from under his bangs. Then he smacks Paul in the nose.

Paul slaps Patryck's ass.

So it goes.

After having beaten Paul into the fetal position with a pillow, Patryck, flushed and breathless, relents and reaches for Paul's wilted cock. Paul jerks away, laughing as he cups himself with one hand, the other outstretched for mercy.

"Relax, I'm not gonna cut your dick off."

"Yet."

Patryck pretends to inspect his nails. "Well, maybe if you appreciated yours a little more –"

"But I jerk off every day!" A desperate protestation.

Patryck's face twists, lips thinning into a harsh line as he tries to hold his reaction in. "I love you so much, Paul," he says slowly, hands pressed in prayer. "But the Lord surely put you on this earth to test me."

Paul smiles, sitting up and resting his chin in his hands. "How am I doing?"

"Let's not think about that." After all, who's to say what the test is even for?

Paul's laughter bellows. Patryck allows himself to be pulled into Paul's embrace, kissed sloppily along his cheek, taking the opportunity to snake his hand down between them and grab Paul's cock. Paul moans, shifting Pat back along his lap to give him more room. The touch springs Paul's cock back to life, so Patryck encircles it in a firm grip, maneuvering to slap the head against Paul's belly with a soft smack.

And again, and again, and again.

Paul pulls out of the kiss. "Are you having fun there?"

Patryck smiles, biting back laughter as he watches the way the impact sends ripples up Paul's belly, the way he's clearly getting more erect despite himself, a red dot of pre-cum briefly glistening on his tip. "I don't know what you're talking about."

But he doesn't stop, because despite himself there's something very carnally amusing about this. Maybe all the wrestling Paul makes him watch is truly rotting his brain.

At least the world's finally calm enough to let Paul rot his brain. He'll take it over the Red Army any day.

Paul rolls his eyes and yanks Pat closer, his cock dragging up through Patryck's sex. They both groan at the sight, Patryck nearly jumping out of his skin, contact electric.

Paul's lips catch his, and Patryck wraps his arms around Paul's neck, melting into the embrace. Paul grabs his cock and gently swirls the tip into the wetness between Patryck's legs, tortuously slow, earning a whimper.

"What do you want?" Paul asks, pulling back only a centimeter. Patryck takes a moment to silently relish the way their breathes mingle together, the intoxicating, calming warmth of Paul's skin, the heartbeat he can feel under his hands as he slides them up to cup Paul's face.

Patryck rubs their noses together, both of thrumming at the motion. Kisses down from Paul's mouth to his jaw to his neck, muttering, "We haven't sword-fought in a while."

A chuckle. "No, I guess we haven't."

A small voice in the back of Patryck's head tells him frottage belongs to teenagers, trapped in tight hand-me-down cars and tighter morals, but if that voice had its way he probably wouldn't have even seen Paul's dick until the war was halfway over.

Let's be young for a while.

Patryck kisses the place that makes Paul's neck instantly cave, but he's ready, a firm hand in Paul's hair to keep his head in place. "Do you still want me to fuck you?" He licks along Paul's throat in a circle, feeling the ropes of muscles bunch and his cock obscenely twitch as Paul gasps, fingers digging into Patryck's sides.

Patryck runs his nails across Paul's back. Right shoulder to left side, just to feel the width of him.

Paul groans. "Yes, please."

"Please what?"

"Please, Sir."

Patryck squeezes Paul closer, nuzzling into his neck and rolling his hips along Paul's cock in a way that makes them both gasp.

So, so beautiful.

Something in his chest opens, arousal like sparks from his heart down into his arms and stomach.

Paul nuzzles back into Patryck's hair, breathing in the scent of dark cherries. "I've been thinking about you all day."

As opposed to every day, as we were assigned never-ending rotations away from each other for sometimes months at a time, never getting in more than a brief anxious fuck in the shower after everyone else had cleared out for bed.

Patryck releases his grip on Paul's hair, tousling it with a light kiss on his shoulder. "I love you."

"Oh, I love you too!" And Paul crushes him in another strong embrace.

Patryck melts into it, letting Paul run his hands down the indents of his ribs, cheek resting atop Paul's shoulder. Paul sighs languidly as he explores, moving up to kiss Patryck again, hot and firm and full of tongue, breathing him in deep.

Patryck cracks open his eyes during the kiss, catching a brief sight of their fun-house selves in the lamp's red glass.

"I love you so much," Paul says a little breathlessly when he pulls away.

Patryck smiles. "I love you more."

Paul returns it, giving the response Patryck has always given him: "Shut up, cunt." And they both laugh, kiss again, tongues and teeth and hands in hair or slithered around neck.

Patryck flicks off the Red Nation eye no doubt staring unfazed at their display, before he closes his own and forgets.