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*
Patrick and David don’t always arrive home at the same time, these days. Long gone is the freedom to close the store together, taking twice the time they should for all the flirtatious banter and playful looks, locking up as one and meandering home side by side, day after day.
They’re busier now. They have commitments and aspirations outside the flagship store at the heart of the town they call home. More and more often, while one holds down the fort, the other will be visiting a vendor, or attending a networking event, or more recently, meeting with their real estate agent to discuss the upcoming purchase of their second location in Elm Glen.
Today, though, the Artisanal Creator’s Festival that David had been planning on attending had been rained out. Turns out, it’s not advisable to plan an open-air event in a field in the middle of November. Max, their part-time sales assistant, was already scheduled with Patrick for the afternoon, so Patrick assured his husband they had everything covered, encouraging him to take the time off to relax.
So, it’s one of those days where Patrick gets the privilege of walking into their home, hanging his coat, and being greeted by his husband. He’s not sure when the novelty of that is supposed to wear off. Perhaps it’s odd to still feel butterflies and tamp down a skip in his step as he crosses the threshold, knowing the man he loves - the man he chose, and who chose him - is waiting inside.
After three years of marriage, Patrick has grown accustomed to David’s favourite spots in the house. His eyes and feet habitually guide him through several designated places he knows to check: if he’s not ready to greet him out on the loveseat on the porch, he’ll be curled up in the far corner of the lounge with a book; if he’s not there, most likely in the cramped but cosy studio they set up shortly after moving in, where he often retreats to mull over a moodboard, or painstakingly work on the knitting he’s picked up in the last year.
When Patrick doesn’t find him in any of those spots, he heads upstairs, figuring the next most likely story is that he’s fallen into an impromptu nap. Before he makes it to the bedroom, though, he bumps into David stepping out of the bathroom door, who squawks and yanks his wet-rubber-glove-clad hands clear of Patrick’s chest.
“Oh, hey. Cleaning?” Patrick asks with an almost concerned eyebrow-wiggle, leaning in for a familiar peck.
“Um, sort of?” David hedges, mirroring Patrick as he tries to peer first over one shoulder, then the other… and that’s when the smell hits him.
“Oh Jesus, what happened in there? Did something die?” It’s like every sweaty locker room he’s had the misfortune to breathe in, every forgotten gym bag and dirty jockstrap he’s owned in his life, combined into a thick, powerful stench.
David makes an expression as if he’s personally offended. “If you must know, I’m doing you a favour.”
Patrick blanches. What on earth has he done to deserve a favour that smells like this?
“Okay, and kind of for me, too. I’ve wanted to do this for so long. But like, who has the time for stripping? It takes hours!”
“Hours, huh? That’d be an expensive but very comprehensive dance.” Patrick grins when David predictably rolls his eyes but peels off the rubber gloves and runs his hands over Patrick’s shoulders anyway.
“Not that kind of stripping. I’m not about to just take all this off. I put a lot of thought into my aesthetic choices for that festival today, only for it to be rudely cancelled.”
Patrick steps back out of David’s space, gaze flicking appreciatively over his outfit. The sleeves of his cosy sweater are carefully rolled up to make room for the gloves; now that they’re draped over the edge of the bath, Patrick’s instead treated to an uncharacteristic, glorious amount of olive-skinned forearm. Patrick’s eyes wander all the way down to where a skirt brushes just above his knees, made of a pleated, soft leather. There’s a few errant buckles here and there which Patrick doesn’t quite understand the function of, but he’s not about to question it when David looks this delicious.
It’s only in the last six months or so that David has slowly started incorporating skirts into his daily rotation, buoyed by Patrick’s endless awe of how good he looks in them, and by a steadily burgeoning flame that sparked the day he filed his papers for the store - a kind of pride, and a genuine like for himself. Patrick loves to watch it ebb and flicker and ultimately grow, quietly observing David as he settles into himself, bit by tiny bit.
Patrick’s fingers trace one of the pleats admiringly. “I can see that you did. It’s a shame no one else got to see it, but I’m glad you kept it on.”
David’s pleased little smile is almost enough to distract Patrick from the near-toxic stench from the bathroom. Almost. He wrinkles his nose, and David grimaces, stepping aside to let Patrick past.
The bathtub - their beautiful, claw-footed bathtub that David almost had a genuine orgasm over the first time he saw it - looks like it’s full of some kind of horrendous soup. Except, the main ingredients appear to be Patrick’s baseball uniforms. They’re floating in shallow, dirty-brown water, and Patrick is… confused.
“Stripping,” David says, as if that’s enough information to answer all of Patrick’s many, many questions.
“What - what are you - weren’t those clean?”
“Yeah, fresh out of the dryer. But you know they’re not clean clean.”
Patrick did not know this.
“So all of that crap in the water is…”
“Oh, soap and detergent residue, mineral buildup, general body oils and bacteria and… grossness. It doesn’t all come out, with regular washing.”
“Oh.”
That’s… mildly embarrassing. Both the shocking opaqueness of the water (did all of that filth really come from his uniform?), and the fact that Patrick apparently had no idea that washing his clothes wasn’t actually washing his clothes. How has he made it so far into his thirties without knowing about this?
“I know it’s disgusting right now, but they’re going to be, like, insanely white. Trust me.”
Patrick does, unquestionably.
David crowds into his space again, his fingers dancing on Patrick’s biceps and squeezing his shoulders as he gives a little shimmy. “You’re gonna be so fresh for your li’l game on Sunday.”
A sudden warmth blooms in Patrick’s chest. Of course. The Greater Elms Athletic Association Tournament of Champions and Good Sportsmanship Sponsored by Ray Butani Enterprises and the Elmdale House of Gardening and Outdoor Supplies.
The whole season has been building to this. It’s definitely not a li’l game. His team has never made it this far in a season, and Patrick’s started to dare to think they might just take it all the way. Along with the tentative hope comes a flood of anxiety, however, which usually manifests in him rattling off game strategies or ranting about teammates missing practice when David is trying to have his quiet, before-bed reading time.
Of course, David’s supportive of his passion for the game. He’s never gone so far as to fill in as a body on the field again since that one memorable occasion, but he always makes sure he’s there at the sidelines, doing those cute little shakes of his fists when he thinks Patrick’s team is winning, and he’s only wrong about half of the time. Still, this gesture surprises Patrick, in the best kind of way. Before now, he wasn’t even sure if David was aware of the magnitude of this game, having shown a remarkable ability to tune out whenever Patrick starts talking sports.
Patrick has no idea what in the hell goes into this process, but given that it apparently takes hours - and that their bathtub is full of god knows what right now - he can gather that it’s a lot of effort. And David just - he just did that. He could have had an afternoon doing whatever he liked - could have caught up on that baking show he loves - and yet he chose this. He chose to don rubber gloves and make this… this concoction which looks and smells like nothing Patrick would ever imagine his husband to go within fifty feet of. He’s stuck for words. His heart squeezes giddily. He’s so fucking lucky.
“It is on Sunday, right? The baseball?” David asks, the pitch of his voice rising slightly in the face of Patrick’s dumbfounded silence.
“Yes - yeah, yeah, sorry. It’s Sunday. This is…” Patrick can’t stop the wide, adoring smile splitting open on his face. “This is really sweet of you, David.”
Glancing down, David squirms a little, both uncomfortable and pleased with the praise.
“Hey. Thank you,” Patrick says softly, cupping David’s face for a gentle kiss. It deepens and lingers, both of them fusing together again every time they pull back for a breath, drawing on and on until he’s rewarded with a low, appreciative mm from David. When they part, Patrick finds himself with the open door pressed to his back (when did he step backwards?) and David so close at his front, looking down at him with a twisted little smirk. It’s one of those moments where Patrick is intensely reminded of their height difference; it makes him want to widen his stance and slide down a little further, have David loom over him.
Patrick clears his throat, shaking his head a little as if to physically clear the clouds in his mind, and he’s pretty sure David snickers at that.
“So, you just… know. How to do this.” Patrick gestures to the bathtub soup, and David nods, shrugs.
“I had to learn from videos online, when we first got to Schitt’s Creek. Imagine sleeping on those motel sheets without thoroughly treating them first? Absolutely not.” Patrick snorts, but doesn’t argue. “I might have gotten a little obsessed after that? I went through a lot of Borax at that time in my life.”
Patrick laughs, winding his arm around David’s waist, feeling an inexplicable need to touch him. “Pretty impressive that you learned that online.”
“It’s not that hard.” David tucks away a smile, the one that says he’s secretly preening, but trying not to show it. “You just need Borax, Tide, washing soda, and some really hot water. Leave it for four to six hours until the water’s completely cold, stir it up every hour, and throw it in a water-only machine wash once it’s done. Easy.”
As David speaks, Patrick swears he can feel every fibre of his shirt against his body, as if it’s too tight, too close against skin that’s suddenly heated. He stares at David’s mouth as it shapes the words, drinks in the calm timbre of his voice, and feels a sharp pull in his gut as he watches his graceful hands wave around to illustrate his explanation.
Something about the casual, effortless way David reels that all off… well, it’s nice. It’s very nice. It’s inexplicably hot, actually. Patrick loves how methodical David can be when he channels his focus into a task. He loves that he can take something so complicated on the surface and smooth it out with capable hands until it’s simple. He loves that he can stand here and talk about cleaning products in that nonchalant tone and somehow, somehow have Patrick’s pulse picking up and his face warming with a steady blush.
“God, you’re amazing.”
“It’s not as if I’m, like, scrubbing your costumes clean, Patrick.”
Patrick shakes his head in amazement. “David, that’s still…”
“Hold on - not that I’m not enjoying the praise, but can we do this… anywhere that doesn’t smell like the inside of your gym bag? This Givenchy can only withstand a limited time in this room.” David plucks at his sweater to illustrate his point, and fuck Patrick loves him so much.
Once the door is securely closed behind them, Patrick can’t help it; he gets a hand around the back of David’s neck and tugs him into another kiss, a little misaligned and messy. David laughs into it, surprised, but he winds his arms around Patrick’s shoulders, tilts his head so that their mouths slide together easier.
“What’s gotten into you?” David murmurs, as Patrick sneaks a hand around to grope David’s ass through the skirt. The leather is soft and supple under his palm, and he almost groans.
“Nothing,” he lies ridiculously, and David raises an eyebrow.
“Is it the skirt?” David takes a step back so he can lift the hem out a little, showing it off. It swishes around his legs with the movement, and Patrick’s mouth waters.
“Yes.” That’s technically true.
“Mmm.” David regards him with a sharp look. “Not just the skirt, though. I saw the way you were looking at me in there.”
“Yeah, like what?”
David cocks his head. “You got that... hungry, flushed look on your face while I was explaining how the stripping works; looking at me like you wanted to drop to your knees. Or, hm... maybe like you wanted me to put you there.”
Patrick’s mouth is dry. He opens it, and closes it again. David breaks into a delighted grin.
“Oh. Is this like that time you watched me fix a leaky sink and I got very nicely fucked in Room 3?”
Patrick’s cheeks flame up. “It’s not my fault you’re so…"
"Competent? Multi-talented? Effortlessly sexy in everything I do, apparently?"
David's smiling indulgently, and Patrick is so, so in love. And so, so turned on. "All of the above, yes."
“You like it when I’m good at things. When I know what I’m doing, and you don’t.”
It’s not a question, or a new discovery; it’s a reminder of something they both know, but still it makes Patrick flush. David steps forward, tilting Patrick’s head up. Patrick purposely steps back in time with him, dragging David along by the hips until he feels the closed door to their bedroom bump up against his back, and yeah, there it is. David’s crowding into his space, knowing exactly what he wants, sliding a thigh between Patrick’s legs as he gazes down at him. Patrick slides down the door a little, breaths quickening. Yes.
“I bet you’re hard right now.”
“You gonna find out instead of talking about it?” Patrick shoots back, annoyingly breathless.
David’s smirk is smug as he rips open Patrick’s belt and fly - always far less regard for Patrick’s clothes than his own, but then, Patrick’s are worth a fraction of both the monetary and sentimental value - and shoves his hand inside. He doesn’t even bother to push his jeans down, or take his cock out; he squeezes him roughly, feeling out the hard line of his dick as Patrick’s skull knocks against the door behind him.
“Oh, fu—”
“You are so easy,” David murmurs, and Patrick nods; he’ll agree to anything right now. In vain, he tries to spread his legs so David’s hand can delve further, but the tight jeans stop him. David’s hand is hot and insistent as it palms at his cock, and his thigh nudges beneath his balls through the denim. Patrick slips down a little further, grinding onto David’s thigh - David’s skirt hitches up with each rock of Patrick’s hips, exposing a teasing glimpse of long leg before falling down again.
“David, please, can you…”
“Oh, we’re begging already, huh?” David’s eyes dance. “I should wash your clothes more often.”
“I mean, yeah, you doing any of the chores might be — fuck —”
David bites sharply at his neck as he starts to rub his palm up and down Patrick’s cock, and Patrick can’t stand it anymore. He grabs David’s face with both hands and pulls him into a desperate kiss, whimpering as David instantly takes control of it. His tongue is insistent and unavoidable, claiming Patrick with every measured sweep into his mouth. Patrick’s hands are doing their best to be everywhere at once, rucking up David’s sweater in the back, flying up to grab at his hair, one shooting back down to slip under the skirt and grab his ass. David’s panting as he licks into his mouth again and again, hungry for it, and god at least it’s not just Patrick.
Fumbling behind him, Patrick scrabbles blindly for the doorknob, letting out a frustrated curse before he finally gets it - and then he’s stumbling backwards into their bedroom, and David’s all over him, groping him all filthy and rough and keeping him in place for David’s mouth with a firm grip on his neck.
One shove to his chest and Patrick’s hitting the bed with a soft thump, gazing wildly up at David, who despite his kiss-swollen lips, looks remarkably composed. Casting an eye over Patrick, David carefully smooths his hair down, the glints of silver at the sides even more noticeable as David’s ringed hand passes over them. Then, he straightens the line of his sweater. He tweaks the rolls at the sleeves, making sure they’re equal. When he starts adjusting the skirt, checking it’s hanging just right, Patrick lets out a groan.
“You’re the worst kind of person,” Patrick mutters, shoving his jeans down to mid-thigh and giving his cock a gratifying few strokes, openly ogling his husband as he does.
“And you’re very needy,” David replies mildly, though he can’t control the way his eyes darken at the sight of Patrick, hard and wanting. David purses his lips, as if he’s just thought of something important. “Y’know, I have a very strict schedule for checking on those clothes. I have to mix them every hour.”
Patrick swallows, eyes widening at the mere implicit threat that David might walk out, might leave him like this. “How long do you have?”
Calmly, David pulls his phone from a pocket Patrick hadn’t realised existed. “Twenty-five minutes.”
“That’s enough,” Patrick says quickly.
David smirks. “Well, it better be. Because when that timer goes off, I’m going to go, whether you and your needy cock have gotten off yet or not.”
Patrick nods eagerly. His dick twitches in his hand, already wet with pre-come, and yeah, that’s not going to be a problem.
“Take your clothes off, please.”
Patrick doesn’t think he’s ever moved so fast. He’s naked before he takes his next breath, it feels like. He flings himself back onto the pillows with such enthusiasm that it cracks David’s cool facade, making him laugh so hard he snorts even as he strips off the black briefs he has on under the skirt.
“You fucking dork. I’m gonna sit on your face now.”
The moment is very quickly not funny anymore as David climbs onto the bed, still entirely clothed, and kneels with his knees either side of Patrick’s head.
“This okay?” David murmurs, pushing a loving hand through the hair on top of Patrick’s head, where it’s grown just long enough to start to curl. Patrick leans into it.
“Fuck yes.”
David grins, giving his hair a little tug - fuck, that’s reason enough to delay him visiting the barber for another few weeks. The leather of David’s skirt tents at the front with how hard David is; as David settles above his face, he flips the material up, freeing his cock to rest against Patrick’s cheek. Patrick moans, craning his neck to mouth at it and pulling David more firmly forward so he can drag his tongue beneath his balls and find his hole.
“Oh shit, yeah,” David gasps, and Patrick’s dick stiffens further as he feels David’s weight bear down - he loves that moment, when David lets go of whatever concerns he has and just fucking takes. Patrick aches, groans, shakes with the intense want to give it all to him.
David’s clutching at the skirt, holding it up out of the way as he starts to grind against Patrick’s face in a slow, sinuous rhythm. Patrick squeezes his eyes shut, lapping hungrily at David’s hole and moaning as it quivers under his tongue, betraying how gone David really is. David’s cock drags all over Patrick’s face as he moves, and it’s so fucking filthy - Patrick can’t help desperately pulling at his own dick, which throbs with every dirty roll of David’s hips.
“God, honey, just like that - yeah, just fucking let me ride that pretty mouth…”
David groans as his movements become more insistent. The leather fabric falls down as he lets go to strip his sweater off. He takes a moment, his rhythm uninterrupted, to carefully fold the garment, placing it on his bedside table. Then, just as calmly, one hand moves to grip Patrick’s hair, the other grabbing the headboard so he can ride him harder. As the skirt slides over his face, all Patrick can smell is the sharp, clean scent of his husband and the musk of the expensive leather, and all he can do is offer up a wet tongue and hot mouth for David to use as he takes full control of the pace.
Someone’s whimpering, and Patrick’s pretty sure it’s himself - he can’t speak like this, but his brain doesn’t make that connection, trying to push out words like please and David and oh god I need —
“Yeah? What, you need something?”
David shifts his weight back just enough for Patrick to gulp some ragged breaths against his skin, still mouthing mindlessly at David’s balls even as he tries to speak. “Fuck - fuck me - please - mmf - fuck me, David.”
David flicks the material of the skirt out of the way so he can meet Patrick’s eyes. God, what a view; David’s bare chest is heaving and his eyes are dark as sin, pinning Patrick to the bed with more weight than his body. His smirk is dangerous.
“Oh, I’m going to fuck you. But you can get yourself ready.”
David leans over to grab the lube from their bedside drawer, and tosses it carelessly in the direction of Patrick’s hand.
Patrick waits for a beat. David doesn’t move. He arches a deliberate eyebrow at him.
“You can multitask, right?”
Patrick’s eyes narrow with an instant determination to prove himself. It’s no secret that he has a competitive side, an intrinsic need to be the best at everything he tries, but it’s not often that David is the one to directly bring it out. Now, though, he gazes helplessly up at his husband, sitting astride his face with sheer power rolling off him. His methodical, capable husband, who brings the same painstakingly considered energy to apparently magicking his uniforms clean as he does to completely taking Patrick apart. He knows exactly what he’s doing right now. He’s competent to a searingly hot level, and Patrick is so, so weak for it.
Yeah, he can fucking multitask.
Hands shaking, Patrick blindly covers his fingers with probably far too much lube and hitches his legs up as far as he can. The muscles in his shoulder pull tight with the stretch - it’s not a good angle, but he’d die before moving from this position. With a shuddering gasp, he slips two fingertips inside at once, so eager for it that his body relaxes around them almost instantly. Patrick whines needily as he manages to fuck them in a little further, squirming on his awkwardly-bent hand as David rides his face with purpose. The concentrated focus on fucking himself open makes his mouth go slack, barely able to lick at David’s now slick and puffy hole; he’s just hanging on for the fucking ride.
Patrick loses track of time, faintly aware of the seconds ticking away silently on David’s phone, with no concept of how much they have left. It’s a relief when David lifts off his mouth, glancing over his shoulder to observe Patrick thrusting his fingers in and out as far as they’ll go.
“Think you’ve done a good enough job? Think you can take my dick?”
“Yes,” Patrick grits out, before David’s even done speaking. He feels wrecked. The entire bottom half of his face is wet and messy, his lips tingling with sensitivity, sweat beading along his hairline. “Yes, yes, yes, fuck me right fucking now.”
“That’s not a very polite way of asking for my cock, Patrick.”
“Please,” Patrick whines, “please put it in me. David, honey, baby, please, I want it —”
That’s apparently enough, because David’s swinging a leg over him and getting up off the bed on frustratingly steady legs. With sure, confident hands, he half-pulls, half-guides Patrick until he’s laying horizontally on the bed, his legs hanging off the side. “That’s it. I think we’ll keep you on your back, hmm? I know you want to look at me.”
David’s hands linger at the fastening on one side of the skirt, watching carefully for Patrick’s reaction. Patrick makes an abortive move as if to reach out and stop him, and David gives a pleased smile.
“Knew it. You want me to keep it on?”
“Yeah. Fuck, you look incredible.”
The flattery just adds to the confidence rippling off David’s body in waves, and he grins, easing Patrick’s legs up and then yanking him sharply to the very edge of the bed.
“Just so you know,” David says conversationally, as he lifts the skirt to line up his cock, “this is bespoke hand-stitched Italian leather, so I hope you’re not planning on making a mess of it.”
“From what I’ve seen today, I’m pretty sure you could - wash it out - ah! ”
Patrick cries out as David slides in, slow and purposeful, so much deeper than Patrick’s fingers could reach. Once he’s fully seated, Patrick’s body struggling to accommodate him as he sweats and curses and writhes, David casually pulls out his phone again.
“Nine minutes.”
Fuck.
Patrick grabs his thighs and hauls his knees up to his chest, spreading himself wider, and David groans, throwing the phone onto the bed in favour of grabbing his hips with both hands. Then he’s fucking him, and it’s goddamn exquisite - every thrust is calculated, David’s gaze boring into him as he notes his every reaction, his wordless pleas for deeper and harder that David indulges without fail.
It’s fast and harsh but not frantic, always controlled. David’s cock spears into him again and again and his balls slap filthily at his ass. The fabric of the skirt drapes over where they join, occasionally brushing Patrick’s cock and sending a bolt of arousal through him. He has a dim thought that David can’t possibly be that concerned about the safety of the skirt, or else he’d refuse to wear it at all, but there’s still something of a naughty thrill at the thought that they might dirty up something so pristine.
As David thrusts into him, the leather pleats swing around his legs, and the material slaps into the back of Patrick’s thighs rhythmically, making him moan. He grabs for his cock, already close, and David grunts in response, suddenly yanking him even further off the edge of the bed and lifting his ass up into the air, tilting his body at a better angle for David to fuck into. Patrick feels dirty, feels wanton, feels used, and it’s fucking incredible.
“God - fuck - David, yes, fuck oh god that’s deep - don’t stop, love your fucking cock - gimme - give it to me, yes —”
“Jesus, Patrick,” David grinds out, fucking into him harder - and holy shit, this angle is insane, the head of David’s cock slipping deep enough that Patrick’s eyes roll back in his head and his whole body arches.
And… David’s timer sounds.
Patrick's breath catches in his chest.
He stares up at David, who slows to a stop with just the tip of his cock still inside him. God, no, fuck no, he can’t stop now. Patrick deliberately clenches around the cockhead keeping him spread open, feeling smug when David’s jaw tightens at the pressure. David tilts his head thoughtfully, flicking a considering gaze over Patrick’s flushed body, and over to his phone. The air is thick with scorching tension, and Patrick’s practically shaking, waiting for David to do something, even if it means he walks out to check on the fucking clothes - anything’s better than this.
“Please,” Patrick whispers, and David breaks. He scrambles for the phone, trying to swipe the alert away, and when he can’t get it after a few tries, he curses under his breath and leaves it ringing. Patrick half-laughs, half-gasps as David grabs under his ass again, fucking elated that he couldn’t bear to tear himself away from Patrick, despite his commitment to precisely-timed clothing treatments.
David’s grinning, too, unrestrained and wolfish as his hips snap again and again. As Patrick hurtles closer to the brink, he can feel his muscles fluttering around David’s cock, gripping at him and pressing him more firmly into all the right spots. Every time it happens, David growls and picks up the pace, fucking him impossibly harder. With the speed David’s moving, Patrick can’t even lock his legs around David’s waist; his feet are in the air and he’s got nothing to ground himself on, except David pistoning inside him. Patrick fists his cock urgently, his knuckles brushing against bespoke leather as he does.
With another couple of jerks, Patrick’s orgasm hits him, pulsing through him in overwhelming waves. Distantly, he registers David’s level voice murmuring something to him, and his own wails reverberating off the walls, but all he can sense is the hard cock pounding into him and the never-ending shockwaves wracking his body.
David’s moans ratchet up an octave, his fingers bruisingly tight on Patrick’s ass, and Patrick whimpers as he feels him grind in deep, hips rutting tight against his ass as he fills him up with come.
Thankfully, David has the presence of mind to shove Patrick backwards a little, so that his bottom half doesn’t entirely fall off the side of the bed when David lets go. David collapses forward, hands planted either side of Patrick’s head, his thighs trembling where they’re pressed to Patrick. Weakly, Patrick strokes a shaking hand through David’s hair, tracing his favourite streaks of silver.
“Holy fuck,” David whispers with a breathless laugh, finally reaching over to switch off the timer.
Patrick glances pointedly at the phone. “What happened to your strict schedule?”
David plants a slow, thorough kiss on Patrick’s lips. “You did.”
“Mmm, hell yeah I did.” A satisfied, cock-sure smile spreads over Patrick’s lips. David rolls his eyes, but Patrick knows it’s only because he’s annoyed by how charmed he is. Patrick pushes up onto his elbows as David straightens to pull out, and Patrick immediately grimaces. “Um… I think I happened a little on your skirt, there.”
“You...” David frowns in confusion, glances down at the skirt, and gasps. There’s a smear of come, most likely from the back of Patrick’s knuckles, over the front of the matte leather. “Patrick!”
“What?! You kept it on. And you fucked me so good I came all over myself. I’m really blameless here, if you think about it.”
David pulls out slightly quicker than he usually would, making Patrick wince, which is probably his own little payback. It’s fair, honestly. Patrick watches him adoringly as he delicately unfastens the skirt and slips it off, making sure it doesn’t come into contact with his bare cock.
“It’s cool, you can just… give it the magic bathtub treatment, right?”
David gives him a scandalised, reluctantly amused look as he trots into their en suite for a warm flannel. “Oh my god, you can’t strip this, Patrick!”
Patrick lights up suddenly. “I have leather wipes for the car! I can get them from the… garage?” He trails off in the face of his husband’s expression.
David blinks at him slowly, then flicks the flannel squarely at his head. “How did I marry someone this clueless about proper garment care?”
“I’m a really good lay, and I keep our house moth-free.”
David snorts, shoulders shaking with laughter, and Patrick didn’t realise he’d actually held a little knot of nerves in his chest at potentially ruining something important to David, but it loosens now, regardless. “It’s fine, honey. If it doesn’t just wipe off with water, a really mild vinegar solution spot treatment should do it.”
Patrick’s dick gives a weak twitch as David easily recites that information. “Have I ever told you it’s really, really hot when you’re knowledgeable about things?”
David smiles. “I kind of had an inkling, yeah.”
*
While David busies himself with the final stages of laundering Patrick’s uniforms (and carefully dabbing at his skirt, which thankfully did not require vinegar… or car wipes), Patrick occupies his evening by making dinner for the two of them. David’s face brightens when he pads downstairs to throw the uniforms in the washing machine and is greeted by the warm, spiced aroma of Patrick’s patented chilli, which happens to be David’s favourite.
“Smells great, honey,” David murmurs, looping his arms around Patrick’s stomach from behind and kissing his neck affectionately.
“Mm. You did a really thoughtful thing for me today. Thought I should at least try to return the favour.”
He feels David’s lips curve against the nape of his neck. “I mean, I think you did that very thoroughly already. But… I won’t say no.”
David pulls the clothes from the washer to the dryer as Patrick’s serving the food, flapping his hands when Patrick tries to follow him to peek over his shoulder - “ Noooo, you have to wait and see the finished product! It’s like a grand finale!”
The dryer whirs faintly as they eat together, and by the time the dishes are clear and they’re on their second glass of fruit wine (Herb really has come a long way in the last few years), it’s winding down.
David is practically vibrating in his seat with excitement, and Patrick just inclines his head, wordlessly giving him his blessing to go and check on the fruits of his labour. “I’ll do the dishes, babe. Go ahead.”
It’s not just the warmth from the chilli in his belly or from the wine blooming in his chest that makes Patrick’s heart clench as David leaps up from his seat, stopping to smack a quick kiss on Patrick’s cheek before darting out of the room. Patrick hums to himself as he clears up, snatches of a tune he’s half-working on for the next open mic night, and he’s almost done when he hears a prim ahem behind him.
He turns to find his husband proudly presenting him with a stack of neatly folded white and green, one of David’s hands supporting it at the bottom while the other splays on top, almost possessively. David’s glowing with pride, and his shoulders shimmy as Patrick approaches.
“Look how white!” David exclaims excitedly.
Patrick looks. And… wow. The uniforms are practically sparkling, even in the dim, romantic lighting under which they ate dinner. If Patrick was asked, before today, what the main colour of his uniform was, he would have undoubtedly said white. Apparently, he's been sorely mistaken. He’s pretty sure he’s never seen them this pristine, even when they were new. He’s… a little speechless, actually, and a whole lot impressed.
“Wow. Wow. David, that is… amazing. You’re like a… a laundry wizard or something.”
David laughs, ducking his head away from Patrick’s wide-eyed, reverent gaze. “Like I said, it’s… not that hard.”
“I’m still impressed.” Patrick lifts up the corner of the first meticulously folded shirt, then the next, inspecting them all. A waft of freshness washes over him with each one he touches, and they even seem softer than ever, more pliable under his fingers. He kind of wants to bury his face in them.
“Thanks,” David says softly, his mouth twisting to the left, and then to the right, as if it can’t decide where to put his shy smile.
Patrick stares at him, in awe of how he’s managed to take something Patrick didn’t even know could be improved and make it beautiful. In a way, that’s what he does every day; it’s why they work so well. David sees those opportunities for beauty and immaculate perfection, and he’ll work until he achieves it.
When Patrick tunes back into reality, David’s smirking knowingly at him.
“What?”
“You’ve got that look again.”
Patrick feels his face warm under David’s glittering gaze. With the utmost care, he takes the stack of laundry from David’s hands, placing it on a nearby chair at the table (of course, checking it was 100% clean, first). Without the clothes between them, when Patrick returns, he can stand close enough to feel short puffs of air on his lips as David breathes. David’s eyes flick down to Patrick’s mouth, and back up. Patrick grins, takes David’s hands, and places them deliberately on his own shoulders.
“Y’know, you were right earlier,” Patrick says, quiet and low. “When you said I wanted you to put me on my knees.”
David’s Adam’s apple bobs, and he rubs his hands affectionately over Patrick’s shoulders, before giving them a firm shove. Patrick takes the direction gladly, sinking down to his knees and ignoring his own wince at the hard tile beneath them.
“You do look very pretty down there,” David murmurs, cupping Patrick’s cheek as Patrick teases his fingers at the waistband of David’s sweats.
He’s about to lean in, bury his face in that soft fabric and nuzzle into the firmness beneath - when he stops suddenly. A horrifying thought pops into his mind.
“David.”
David’s brow furrows, clearly concerned as Patrick sits back on his haunches to meet his eye, then glances over at the pile of laundry in alarm.
“You didn’t strip my lucky socks, did you?”
David blinks at him, then laughs in relief. “Oh my god, I thought something was actually wrong.”
“David - you didn’t, right?”
Patrick is aware that the rising panic at the thought of the impending game is irrational. But he’s had those socks for years, saving them for the big games, and they’ve brought him a win more often than not - that’s just statistics. He’s not a superstitious guy as it goes, but he’s allowed one exception, he figures. If David threw his socks into all those chemicals, and they came out practically new, what if all that luck just… drained out of them with the filth?!
“Honey.” David’s voice brings him back. “I did not strip your lucky socks.”
Patrick blows out a huge sigh, tipping forward to pillow his forehead against David’s thigh. “Ohthankgod.”
“I mean, that might have been because I couldn’t find them? They definitely need it.”
Patrick points a warning finger up at him. “I swear to God —”
David laughs. “I’m joking. Mostly. I promise I won’t touch them, okay?”
“Thank you.” Patrick presses a grateful kiss to David’s thigh, looking up at him through his lashes. “So, now that that’s out of the way… I believe you were telling me how good I look down here?”
*