Disclaimer: I don't own "The Rain" or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: I recently got into "The Rain" and fell in love. This was mostly inspired by Martin and Patrick's scenes over the first season and how Patrick, despite all his bluster, is really and truly trying to belong in this new found little family and I feel like because he doesn't know where he fits into it...naturally he need some…direction. Essentially, Martin figures out what Patrick really needs.
Warnings: mild sexual content, dom & sub undertones, submission, headspace, references to oral sex and face fucking.
Indsendelse
Martin was going to get him killed.
He'd figured that much out pretty quick.
Constantly be on guard, not only for himself, but to make sure he had Martin's back covered as the stupid asshole took risk after risk. Apparently fine with bringing him along for the ride.
'A pussy with a gun,' a dark voice whispered. 'Army boy talked a big game, but he never really liked pulling that trigger.'
It wasn't until later, after Lea, Beatrice and Jean latched onto their coat-tails and clung like the world's hungriest tick - determined to suck them dry - that he realized there might be some things worth the risk after all.
But this was before all that.
He kicked out angrily. Sending an empty can skittering. Its lid ragged and bent only half-way open. Like whoever it was had been too hungry to open it properly before they'd stuffed their face.
"Fuck!" he snarled, hunger throbbing like a gnawing hole deep in his belly. "It's the third place in two days, man!"
Somewhere close outside the abandoned corner store, thunder rolled. Just another sign they'd be trapped here in this shithole overnight. Hackles prickling as the pitter-pat-pat-pat-pat of rain started falling in the tin roof.
"At least we have these," Martin offered. Waving the half pack of cigarettes he'd found rolled up in a sleeping bag behind the register. Like someone had set down their shit, then had to leave in a hurry without it.
"Fat lot of good that does an empty stomach," he growled, snatching the pack and pulling out a stick before tossing it back into the man's chest. Jamming his fingers deliberately into the spaces between Martin's ribs as the little bones twinged warningly. Spoiling for a fight as he lit his cig and didn't offer him a light.
Fuck 'im.
He inhaled greedily, exhaling a wreath of chemical-rich nicotine as the humidity in the air seemed to ratchet up a couple notches. Rubbing at the skin below his eyes before pulling at his collar. Hating the tight feeling that was creeping across his skin. Threatening to swell up and suffocate or just add to his anxiety as a flashback of thrashing limbs and frothing mouths made him flinch away from the front window.
It wasn't a memory he wanted to keep.
So, naturally, his brain never let him forget it.
He might have slept through the first rain fall, but he'd been wide awake for the second. Watching through the windshield with horror-wide eyes as a pretty chick in a pink skirt tore at her throat. Purple nails etching blunt red furrows as the gape of her throat swelled visibly. Competing with at least a half-dozen others all flailing in the street as she howled out a last, painful sounding note and collapsed in heap across the pavement. One hand stretched out towards him, limp and twitching.
That was when he knew.
There was something in the rain.
He coughed. Lungs making a fuss about the poison as his mother's ghost whispered from the darkest corner of the room. Taking shape in the spider-webs and husks of dead insects that held court on the musty looking computer chair by the far window.
"You smoke too much, Patrick."
He bared his teeth.
"You gonna give me a light or what?" Martin issued, frowning at him as he whirled around. Hands clenched into fists by his sides. Feeling like he was about to yell or explode or-
"What do you think?" he growled. Fighting the part of him that urged caution. That reminded him he actually liked Martin. That he needed Martin. That Martin was the one with the gun and at least eighty percent of the reason why leaving the hearse behind at that gas station had been anywhere close to easy.
"I think you're being a shit," Martin answered calmly. "I'm hungry too. But there's no food, so we have to deal with it. Remember, you're the one who finished the last of the MREs."
"You said you didn't want it," he flung back, pointing his finger accusingly. Ankle rotating off centre as he paced up and down the sticky-stained tiles.
"I lied," Martin returned flatly, spreading his legs a bit wider from his perch on the checkout counter. "You needed it more than I did anyway."
But that just pissed him off more.
"I don't need a bloody nurse maid," he hissed. So angry he didn't know what to do with his bones as his muscles twitched- then abandoned a hundred different actions before any of them could follow through.
"Then stop acting like a fucking-"
He walked away. Tossing the man the finger over his shoulder. Getting three steps before something broke and he found himself whirling back around.
"You got something to say to me? Huh? Then fucking say it!"
But Martin just watched him with dark eyes. Quiet and dangerous with his lids slung low. Looking at him like he was figuring something out in real time.
The small hairs on the back of his neck prickled as he opened his mouth again. Sensing danger in the oldest of ways.
But Martin cut him off, pushing off the counter and angling towards him with an expression that nearly shut off his brain.
"Quiet."
He froze.
He couldn't help it.
It was like it was coded into him.
Instead, he watched Martin kill the space between them. Apprehensive and almost trembling. Wondering if it was possible to want to lash out and be held all at the same time.
"Be still."
The hand on the back of his neck startled him. Making him bare it instinctively. Rolling his neck to the side, as far as Martin would let him, as the stink of sweat and stale air mingled between them.
His cock twitched when Martin's lips grazed the shell of his ear. It was so unexpected that for a long moment he didn't know how to internalize it, let alone know what to do about it.
What the fuck?
"Enough," Martin breathed, squeezing gently. Turning the grip into some else or maybe just the same as when this'd all started as he came around to face him. Not once letting go of his neck as he ducked his head. Trying half-heartedly to shrug away despite every inch of him screaming to stay.
"I used to know people like you," Martin told him. Voice low and rumbly- like worn, bitten off gravel. "Mouthy and cocky. Angry all the time. Pushing and pushing all because they wanted someone to push them back. To put them in their place."
His knees wobbled. Threatening to give out for absolutely no reason. Betraying him as Martin's nails dug in lightly. Not to hurt, but to remind him he was there. Waiting.
"Is that what you want? Hmm? Is it? Do you want me to push you, Patrick?"
He shivered.
He'd never heard a word that so clearly stood for something else. Something obvious and wreathed in a promise as his tongue peeked out. Gliding across the rough of his lower lip as Martin's eyes followed it.
And he'd never.
He wasn't.
But he was painfully hard anyway.
"Give it up," Martin coaxed. Rubbing his thumb across the short hairs at the base of his scalp. "I've got you."
The sudden drop to his knees was only painful after the fact. Wincing as his kneecaps popped warningly against the dirty tiles.
"Hey," Martin chided. Tipping his head up so he had no where else to look but his face. Expression gentle and indulgent as his thumb dragged down the seam of his lips. "None of that."
He made a sound. Something between a whine and a whimper when the man's finger dipped inside. Unable to stop himself from curling his tongue around the sweat-salt callouses as Martin quickly added another. Tugging meaningfully at the stretch of his lips before smiling down at him.
"So needy," Martin hummed, palming the back of his neck with his free hand as he quivered there. Aware on some level that his dick was pressing angrily against the dirty slack of his jeans. Desperate to be touched. He could touch himself, if he wanted. But Martin hadn't told him to, so somehow he couldn't. He wouldn't dare.
His head was quietly loud. Empty of everything but this. Empty in the best way possible as all that energy that'd been burning under his skin condensed under Martin's hands and got channeled in an entirely new direction.
"That tongue of yours is a weapon, Patrick. What do you say we put it to better use?"
The rasp of the man's zipper pulling down was the sweetest fucking sound he'd ever heard in entire his god damned life. Making everything suddenly make sense in a way he'd never considered until right then. Trying desperately not to make a sound as his cock blurted pre-cum against the seam of his shorts.
He chewed on the inside of his cheek as Martin pulled himself out. Letting him get a good, long look as he jacked himself lazily. Crown red and thick as it peeked wetly between his fingers. Cheeks flushed with color as he let the slick from the head rub down his face Dragging his fucking cock around the wet circle of his mouth until he opened it. Tongue flicking out find his taste until Martin got tired of teasing and cocked his head.
"Well?"
He came back to himself sometime later with his face buried in the v of Martin's legs. Slumped into him as the soft of the man's cock nudged against the hollow of his throat. Trying to get his breath back as a string of split and cum clung to his chin.
He hadn't been able to swallow all of it.
It'd been too much.
But he wanted too.
He'd get better.
He just needed practice.
He didn't know he'd said it all aloud until Martin ran his hands through his hair. Bringing him back slowly - with wordless, encouraging sounds - as he rubbed his face into the musky black hairs that framed the man's sex.
The world might be shit, but this?
This he could hold on to.
He closed his eyes. Lashes fluttering as they ghosted across Martin's inner thigh every other exhale. Aware on some level he wasn't ready to deal with that he'd come in his slacks, untouched. Every part of him heavy, sated and full in a way that had nothing to do with his empty stomach.
Self awareness was a slow burn.
"You good?" Martin rasped, voice a little bit wrecked. Making him look up just to see- realizing that Martin was looking down at him with red-bitten lips and blown pupils. Like it hadn't been one sided after all.
And yeah-
Holy shit.
He didn't say anything.
He didn't think he could.
But apparently Martin didn't need him to.
Because that hand found its way to the back of his neck again and squeezed with gentle affirmation.
"Yeah, you are. Good boy."
If it was possible to get hard again after all that, he would have been ready to pound nails.
A/N: Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think.
Reference:
- Indsendelse: Danish word for 'submission.'