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1. Sandy The Bombshell
To say Pete was pissed was an understatement. He was beginning to find himself on the verge of pouring gasoline on every object of furniture he owned within his apartment and setting flames to the trails. However, that wasn’t exactly a choice of convenience, considering he was dirt poor.
Pete blamed Patrick, but mostly Joe.
Pete’s classic Saturday nights consisted of alcohol, a bar or two, and a messy one night-stand. Tonight was no different. He was on god damn stage three not even ten minutes ago with his head nestled between smooth and silky thighs. Unfortunately for him, just when it was getting to the good part, he heard his front door jingle open and a large mound tumble to the floor.
“For fuck’s sake Joe.” Pete heard right before the girl beneath him squealed in terror, voice shrill like shattering glass. Pete winced at the sound, glancing up at the girl who was attempting to sheathe herself with her pleather jacket. She was a bombshell of a girl, plump in all the right places, with a punk sense of fashion that had Pete rolling. He was pretty sure her name was sandy...or maybe that was just the color of her hair.
Pete cranked his neck backwards to connect just what was happening within his home. Patrick, eyes wide, skin blanched, staring at the two of them in horror with his arms curled around Joe’s drunken and swooning form, desperately trying to lift him up.
“God damn it,” Patrick muttered, letting Joe flop face-down upon the matted carpet. “Bad timing, but,” he began before Pete cut him off.
“No fuckin’ shit,” he drawled in a hiss, still slightly intoxicated and somewhat dizzy. “Dude, what the fuck?”
Patrick’s face twisted into a grimace, his view flicking from them to the ground, clearly uncomfortable as his feet shifted from one to the other.
“Joe got hammered, didn’t have a ride, and I didn’t know what to do,” he sighed, his fingers running over his chin. “You were close, so I thought I could just…y’know.”
“So basically, you’re telling me you let Joe get shit-faced and then thought you could use my apartment as the dumping section.”
Patrick’s brow furrowed at the assumption, gaze latching onto Pete, like a spider to a fly. Pete almost felt intimidated.
Almost.
“Screw you.” Pete could only dream at this point. With his blue-balls and whatnot. “No, I was clearly going to take care of the situation and clean up the residue.”
“Clearly,” Pete snorted.
That was a mistake.
Patrick huffed an angry breath, the click of his throat sharp while his nostrils flared. “Look, I’m sorry I interrupted you getting your dick wet and all, but Joe’s coughing up French fries all over your floor and I’m a little more concerned about our guitarist here, so if you can get the fuck over yourself, that’d be nice.”
Pete instantly deflated at sound of Patrick’s crossed tone. Wanting to crawl back into himself, he automatically flipped the switch to his puppy dog eyes and aimed them up at Patrick.
Patrick’s arms are already crossed, face a stone-wall. Pete’s practically a wilted balloon at this point. Jumping out the window seemed like a good idea for all of three seconds, until he realized he only lived on the second floor. Who knows? Maybe he’d end up with a fractured arm and land himself up in the ER. Better that than this situation.
“Fuck me,” he mumbled, forehead in his hands, as ‘Sandy’ slid her way past him, and over Patrick. She turned around, jacket tied around her waist, skirt rumpled, bra straps visible, and hair fuzzy. Her nose wrinkled up at the two of them as her lips pursed. “This was nice and all, but screw you.”
She was out the door in an instant after that, hair flowing back and forth, and Pete’s dick mourned at its loss for a few brief moments until Patrick interrupted it.
“Uh…Sorry about that, I suppose.”
Pete was chuckling before he evened realized it. His throat quivering gingerly, until he had dollops of tears dribbling down his face from full-blown laughter. He took in a wet breath, coughing a couple of times in between before he steadied himself.
“The only one who deserves an apology is my dick…and probably that girl, yikes.”
Patrick’s face scrunched up at the thought of the girl and he groaned. “We are like, horrible people, y’know?”
Pete’s lips puffed out at the comment, knees teetering on the plush cushion of his couch as he murmured beneath his breath “I mean, you are.”
Patrick was borderline about to commit man-slaughter, Pete could see it in his eyes. Oddly enough it sent a tingle up his spine and miraculously his dick rose from the ashes like a phoenix. That is, until a small moan came from the carpet.
“Oh look, he’s not dead, yet.” Pete’s dick certainly was. Seemed the resurrection was a false alert.
The bassist found himself on high-alert after the look of death brimming from Patrick. He’ll sleep with two eyes open later…and probably tomorrow night. He might go a full week, y’know, just for good measure ‘cause he’d rather not get castrated.
Pete begrudgingly agreed to lending a hand or two with dragging Joe into the bathroom of his apartment. Accidentally bumping Joe on every single door frame along the path there. Patrick’s fingers slipped at one point and Joe plummeted to his demise of the chilled and vile bathroom flooring. The guitarist ultimately ended up sprawled out on the tile. Both Pete and Patrick cringed at the sight. However, the bassist felt somewhat satisfied. By the slight curl of Patrick’s lips, Pete knew he did too.
“Oh my god, dude, we’re like, bonding.”
“You’re still drunk, aren’t you?”
Pete pouted, knuckles tangled and kneaded into Joe’s unkempt hair, holding it back as the other man hurled leftover pizza into the toilet bowl.
“This is like, almost romantic, sort of.”
A laugh bubbled up and out of Patrick and Pete felt warm and sated. Blue-balls be damned.
“You totally suck, oh my god.”
Pete rolled his shoulders, brows waggling. “Son, if you don’t know it.”
There were dimples staring Pete in the face and he had just the tiniest urge to poke at them, but sadly his hands are tied…Quite literally.
Pete forgave Patrick in a flash. It wasn’t exactly his fault to begin with. Joe got blasted with the nickname of cock-blocker Trohman for about a month, though.
Pete and Patrick, in conclusion, end up in Pete’s bed together because the couch was currently occupied with cock-blocker Trohman, and the two of them both refused to let the other break their spines on the so-called fluffy carpet, that in actuality, is about as soft as a gym mat.
Patrick set rules, a line between the two of them made up of pillows, so they wouldn’t take up each other’s space.
Pete spent the night with his nose snuffled into Patrick’s neck, and an arm curled around his hip.
Pete was absolutely exceptional at breaking rules.
2. The Double Trouble Duo.
After a gig, Pete could only be batshit crazy, filled to the brim with adrenaline. Flashing lights, quick with erratic movements, and hollering. Hell, it’s practically sex. So, when it was over, he made his grand exit, mostly because he had to take a piss. He flew by Patrick with a loud ‘whoop’ and ran off the stage.
Color him surprised when he slithered out of the bathroom, hips loose, and back against the wall, when he noticed two ladies flashing him the eyes from across the hallway. Tall, dark, and gorgeous. Pete takes a brief moment to drive away the impulse to pinch himself. If he’s dreaming because he accidentally knocked himself out on the toilet rim, well, he doesn’t have to wake up just yet, right? Whatever.
He stood up straight, wiggled his shoulders, along with his toes, before he allowed himself the courage to even engage them.
“Well, if I had known two pretty girls such as yourselves were attending, I would’ve turned my notch up to eleven.”
A set of red cherry lipstick smiled back at him and Pete was already half-way down the street of getting laid when he pulled out the moonwalk.
Pete eyed them up, from top to bottom, and thought to himself ‘nice.’ He took one last moment to skim over their apparel, and that was when he noticed they’re wearing merch. Oh, he was already in. He wondered, just what did he do to deserve a pair of groupies, licking their lips at him, like he was a three-course meal.
“You know, there’s a party my friend’s throwing nearby,” so-called Heather grinned, hips swinging left, and Pete’s pupils tracking the movement.
Pete wasn’t a moron, not completely anyway. He could tell when an idea was a bad one, but, he had been on a dry steak for about a month and he was positive he was on the brink of death by that point.
“Yeah?”
He kept it short, curt, and terse because he was a dick like that.
“Yeah,” Allie confirmed, at least Pete was pretty sure that was her name. “It’s open invitation, so if you want to come…”
Pete, without a doubt, definitely wanted to come. However, his definition to the word may be a little different than theirs. His lips cracked into a playful smirk, arms crossed in a laxed fashion while his left converse hopped upon the marble beneath it.
“Sounds like a pla – “
Pete’s eyes widened, his mouth dropping open in a silent gasp when an arm snaked around his waist. Without enough leverage, his attempt to wring himself free is a god damned dud, and he’s only pulled tighter against a warm body. That’s when he turned, noting the short, yet familiar height of this fiend, although the hat was a dead giveaway.
“Sweetheart, what do you think you’re doing? Did you get lost?” The quirk of Patrick’s lips, overflowing with mischievous intent made Pete want to die. “Crew’s putting away the equipment and we need a hand, babe.”
Oh, now Pete understood. For fuck’s sake, why couldn’t his friends just take one for the team.
“I’m sure you guys can handle it, ‘trick,” Pete bit out through gritted teeth.
Patrick’s eyes narrowed just a tad smidge too much while his smile stayed intact. Pete knew it was over before it even began.
“Well I need your help with Sarah, of course.”
‘Who the hell is Sarah?’ Pete thought to himself, his brow furrowed, expression bemused.
Patrick snapped to the girls, grin vast and ample. “Ya see, I’m Pete’s boyfriend, and I’m responsible for taking care of my niece, Sarah,” Patrick started, smile growing in volume, while the girl’s faces were absolutely baffled.
“She’s got two left feet,” Patrick sighed in pity, shaking his head in distress. “At her last birthday party, she tried to do the hokey pokey…and it was just a tragedy. She fell right on her face, y’know.”
Pete had no words, and for the love of god, the two girls genuinely appeared sympathetic, like they actually believed this shit.
“Her dream in life is to be able to do the Cha Cha Slide, but it just ain’t happening and I have no idea how to break it to her,” Patrick mumbled, bringing a single finger up to his eye to wipe at a nonexistent tear, the bastard.
“Well girls, we’ll be on our way. It was nice meeting you!” Pete was at once dragged away. He didn’t even bother to put up a fight. He had already lost and he knew it from the couple of waves sent their way.
“I cannot believe you,” Pete growled, before letting out a yelp from the rough tug to his wrist. “Ow! What the hell?!”
Patrick’s expression is bright, ferocious, and Pete doesn’t like it one bit.
“Me? No, no, you! You, what the hell!” Patrick hissed in a furious whisper, prodding Pete’s chest hard enough to inflict bruises. “You can’t just run off to get fucked and leave us to pick up your shit, dude. It’s not cool, like at all!”
Okay, so maybe Pete enjoyed thinking with dick a little too often, but that sob story was fucking ridiculous. Two left feet? Well, okay, it was a little hilarious, but god damn it, threesomes!
“Sarah?!” Pete exclaimed, his voice echoing down the hallway in angry spurts. A slight grimace tinged over his face, switching to shock when Patrick shushed him with a hand.
“God, you’re loud.”
Pete’s voice was muffled against Patrick’s fingers, as he voiced his own complaints. A groan of annoyance left his throat before he purposely licked a line over the cracks of Patrick’s fingers. Patrick barely moved an inch, his jaw clenching, and his knuckles twisting.
“Yeah fucking right. You think I’m afraid of your saliva? Get real.”
Pete thought it was worth a shot.
“Look, I get it. Hot girls and whatever, but we really don’t have time for this…I admit the story was an unnecessary addition on my part.” Pete snorted into Patrick’s as of now moist hand, whining in discomfort when breathing decided to become a little too difficult for him.
Patrick got the message rather quickly, raising a brow. “You goin’ to yell?” Pete shook his head. He’ll be good, probably. The hand is removed and Pete’s reaction is to promptly take in an exaggerated breath. Patrick’s eyes were already rolling before he was finished.
“Fuck you,” Pete croaked, however, more fondness chose to leak out instead of the hostility he was originally aiming for. “So, is Sarah real…or…?” Patrick’s nose scrunched up at the question, a short exhale of laughter leaving him. Pete couldn’t help but feel enamored by the pleasant noise.
“She’s real…sort of,” Patrick shrugged, a lazy grin glazing over what used to be an angry glower. Pete’s lips pursed before he made the choice to ask the real question.
“Two left feet?”
Clucking his tongue, Patrick made a vague noise in response as he wiggled his fingers. “That’s debatable.”
“What a hardship,” Pete breathed, placing a hand over his heart.
Pete might or might not have ended up getting punched. Not hard, of course, but…it was the emotional pain that kept him up late at night.
3. Five-foot Nothing is Afraid of The Green-eyed Pete.
Writing lyrics was never easy. Neither was piecing them together into a song. However, the blunt aroma of coffee always had Pete jittery, energized, and ready to go. So of course, he’d gone for a pick-up of the said liquid because being confined within a stuffy basement filled with grime wasn’t exactly his kind of fun. Pete, of course, tore Patrick away from his cancerous laptop and up the stairs while the vocalist squawked and tried to bat him away. Of course, it was a failed attempt because Pete’s a persistent little shit and no way is his pretty little vocalist going to be murdered by dust bunnies and their fetid nature.
Pete couldn’t help but be infatuated with diners to an unhealthy extent. What with their comfy and lush booths to the fatty smell of chunky pancake batter. Unfortunately for him the syrup proved to be sticky and licking his fingers only made the absurdity worsen. He chalked Patrick’s funny look down to being fairly disgusted by the display, so the bathroom was his only option.
Pete took his time, scrubbing his hands down to the last layer of the sugary hell before he lugged them down scratchy paper towels. Pushing open the door with an over done grunt, Pete waddled back over to their booth, only to find Patrick chatting up what looked to be an edgy fourteen-year-old. However, on closer inspection, Pete came to the conclusion that it was in fact an adult, but only short as hell, like short-short, like shorter than Patrick short.
A fire began to brew within Pete’s chest, his gaze half-lidded on the scene before him while he tried to come up with an explanation as to why the icky feeling of jealousy was clenching horribly at his throat, a nasty sheath of venom coating his tongue. The fire prospered into flames the minute the kid placed his palm on the table, leering over Patrick like he was last slice of apple pie in existence.
The only reason for the abrupt presence of the green-eyed monster Pete could come up with was that he was feeling neglected. Patrick’s been a real grumpy sod lately, repulsed by Pete’s cuddling and pushing him off him at every pursuit. Whenever Pete tried to clamber on top, Patrick gave him a cruel whack to the ribs, cheeks flushed crimson as he growled at Pete to knock it the fuck off. Hell, he wouldn’t even let Pete rest his toes on his lap anymore, like what the hell? Whatever, it’s not like he missed the sensation of Patrick rubbing a smooth thumb over the dainty bones of his ankles. Nope.
Pete’s reddened cheeks puffed out at the thought, resembling an angry cat for only a brief moment before an idea stuck him like a bolt of lightning. He still had a platter of revenge to serve. A bit of the ole razzle dazzle in the form of comeuppance. Oh, oh, this would be good.
It had to be.
Pete propped both hands on his hips, fingers wound tight, pressing deep into the narrow bones of his sides. He took in a deep breath, chest propelled forward, and his mouth a deep line of a frown. It only took one step before he was stomping wildly over to the wobbly table. With a gruff hack, Pete cleared his throat and within breakneck speed, Patrick noted his attendance with an inquiring expression.
“Pete, what’s wro – “
“What’s wrong?!” Pete swiftly cut him off in an enraged shout, the jowls of his jaw clamped tight. Patrick’s shoulders sprung in response and so does all of Mr. five feet nothing. Pete didn’t feel bad in the slightest. “I leave to use the restroom for five minutes and my boyfriend is already flirting his way into another man’s pants!”
Patrick’s mouth was agape, his eyes intense, gawking up at Pete as he searched for any and every answer he could collect from this ludicrous situation before a knowing look wriggled through his features. Pete knew Patrick knew what he was doing, but he wasn’t about to raise the white flag in surrender. He was just getting started.
“God Patrick, you said you’d quit, said you only had eyes for me, but…look, I know you’re an addict when it comes to sex, it’s an issue, still, we can work through it!” Pete was aware he was wrenching out all the stops, throwing caution to the wind, but damn, if the looks on their faces weren’t satisfying enough…he wasn’t finished just quite yet though.
“Think of the children! All three of them! Anna, Jason, and Ashley! Oh, Patrick, please!” Pete wailed, his voice ringing loud enough to alert the nearby customers, but not enough to make him stop. The muffled bewildered whisper of “Three kids?!” from the runt had Pete radiating smugness from within his perfervid core.
“What about your niece?! Sasha?!” Pete demanded, arms stretched out, and fingers twitching to some degree from his prior caffeine intake.
Patrick’s gave a low snort at that, rolling his eyes. “It’s Sarah,” he corrected, before his face expressed horror, realizing that he had just essentially confirmed every spout of nonsense that had fallen from Pete’s mouth in the last three agonizing minutes. “Oh my god.”
The kid is already fleeing in the other direction, by the time Patrick twisted towards him in an attempt to soothe the cracks that this drivel had caused and reconcile what had been. In a flash, the younger’s face landed into the center of his conjoined palms while Pete’s hyena-like laughter filled the diner.
“Oh my god,” Patrick wheezed on a choked breath. Phrase repeating several times, until Pete’s giddy mood began to border on wee concern for his itty-bitty vocalist.
“Dude, you’re beginning to sound a teensy bit like a broken record.”
Patrick’s face gradually left his hands. At a snail’s speed, his fiery gaze met Pete’s and – oh. That’s not a pretty look.
“If you’re going to kill me, I need about a five second head start to the car. Okay?”
Pete was wholeheartedly aware of how Patrick was in no way going to give him a head start. Especially From the glare he was receiving and how tense the younger’s shoulders were. As a last resort, Pete chucked a crumpled twenty-dollar bill onto the cluttered table and had his arms flapping out the double doors before Patrick could even bat an eyelash.
You could not imagine the dismay that blossomed within Pete when he became conscious of the fact that he left his car keys to Patrick when he tottered off to the diner restroom to be rescued by the sink.
In conclusion, nobody died, but damn, was it a close second.
Pete was rewarded the cock-blocking title for a few weeks thereafter until Patrick decided to steal it back, the fucker.
4. Not enough cushion for the pushing, baby.
Pete thought with his dick, that much was already known. So, when he made his great escape it wasn’t exactly a shock. It’s only after a meager gig when he flounced down the block, wallet in hand, and club in sight. It wasn’t long before he was propped up on a stool, drink in hand, and a dark figure approaching him with crystal-clear intent.
Pete was antsy, hadn’t fucked in months, and he craved that sweet, sweet release. His toes curled into the insoles of his shoes when he took a meager sip of his drink, alcohol burning the back of his tongue as his throat constricted into a swallow. His eyelids were nearly closed, half-lidded as he ogled over a six-foot tall dude within the process of chatting him up. The backs of his feet were hopping atop of the bar connected to his stool, blustering club music booming into his eardrums, hard and heavy.
A hand slid up Pete’s shoulder, a brow raised suggestively, and he wondered “Why?”
The mood was right, all sexy, raw, and no strings attached, but Pete didn’t feel interested, felt indifferent towards the entire thing. He scanned for a flaw, an imperfection, and yet his palms held nothing in return.
The guy was hot, yeah, all solid muscle with chiseled abs that Pete could see himself running his hands all over. Tall, very tall, towering over Pete like a building as he smirked with unyielding conviction.
It would be hot. Dude’s wide, wide enough to pin Pete to the ground, bound and envelop him within his strong arms, firm stomach pressing into Pete’s own narrow hips. Could cover him from head to toe, give it to him rough, and he’d shake, feel it thrum deep within his bones for days.
No.
Something was wrong.
A wire in his brain faulty, had to be, because…he might just be going home alone tonight.
“He’s too firm,” Pete speculated to himself, lips twisting at the thought. “Too tan. Too tall…not cuddly enough.” It’s only when “Be better with a hat,” crossed his mind when the acknowledgment of just what the problem was burned painfully into his stomach, his intestines weaving into knots.
He was fucked.
Pete’s nose wriggled, lungs inflamed as he felt the churning of his belly. His mouth opened, a dry gasp filling him before he slumped from his chair, feet tingling beneath him when they thud against grating cement. A mumbled apology tumbled from his lips, eyeing his half-empty beer laid neatly upon the bar.
Dude’s angry, Pete couldn’t really blame him. With a quick glance at his phone, he’s been leadin’ the dude on for about twenty-five minutes or so. He apologized again, said he wasn’t feelin’ well, that he may end up vomming the entirety of his lunch with a bitter chuckle escaping him. A faint goodbye left him, his body already facing the other direction when his collar is yanked backwards.
Pete yelped, sharp, and terrified, only to be muffled by uncoordinated beats. Nails dug into his sides, moist breath near the shell of his left ear, and he was going to be sick. His writhing served no purpose, the guy’s strength surpassed his by a god damned marathon.
A gruff groan of pain hit his skin, his knees buckling before the hands disappeared from his body and a smaller, more familiar hand wrapped around his wrist and he’s jerked into a full-on sprint through a crowd of grinding strangers. He was out of the building, twisted around a street light, and sat on the edge of the curb when Patrick’s words are flung at him like acid.
“What the hell were you thinking?! Do you even know how worried I – ugh! That dude – and I – we were worried Pete!” Patrick’s voice was hoarse, scraping over Pete’s brain with a glare so fierce, eyes misty with tears. Pete hated himself for being the cause of that. The rage is gone faster than it came, consumed wholly by fear and relief. Patrick’s elbows awkwardly curl around his arms, runny nose pushed into the crest of his shoulder before Pete could even acknowledge it.
“You ever do this shit again,” is how it started. “I’m killing you,” is how it ended.
Pete’s hips are squirming with his neck twisting, cheek crammed into Patrick’s until his mouth hit the nail right on the dot, all thoughts that shrieked at one point absent from his mind.
Patrick went rigid, body stiffening in response to Pete’s wanton hands. His lips were still, Pete noted, his mouth pulling away when the shameful feeling of rejection coiled deep within his chest, his heart thumping wildly against his ribcage. There’s an apology on his tongue, waiting to leak out, but it never had the chance to escape because Patrick beat him to it.
“Pete,” it’s low in volume, almost silent, but Pete could pinpoint the terror in Patrick’s voice from a mile away. “How much did you drink?”
Pete wanted to laugh, chose not to though because it wouldn’t fit the occasion.
“Half a beer,” he rasped out, words gravel. “M’not drunk Patrick – not fucking with you. Need you to know.”
The silence was horribly deafening to Pete, the corners of his mouth twitching anxiously as he waited for a reply, anything. Pete couldn’t see Patrick’s face, couldn’t see his wide eyes beneath that big ole hat of his and it made him flounder like a fish out of water.
“Patrick,” he repeated, chest heaving another excruciating breath of oxygen. “I’ve always loved – “
Pete’s confession didn’t get very far. Mostly due to him being tugged upwards from the curb to stand upon imbalanced and shaky toes. That’s when he’s managed to catch a glimpse of Patrick’s face and he knows.
“If you’re fucking with me, Pete.”
Pete knew.
His mouth was on Patrick’s without delay, clumsy, messy, and good. It’s all tongues, teeth, and noses mushed together with blind gropes. Warm, soft, and wet as Pete’s tongue swiped across Patrick’s gums. A giggle spilled from his own lips easily when Patrick’s tongue ran up the upside of his mouth.
“Tickles, Trickles,” Pete smothered into Patrick’s face, grinning when the warm press of Patrick’s fingers glided over the expanse of warm skin exposed from his shirt riding up.
Patrick’s mouth cracked into a smile, hand drifting below the waistline of Pete’s jeans, but only a smidge, teasing.
“Asshole.”
5. (Epilogue) Every Night in My Dreams I See You, I Feel You.
“So, I’m thinking me, you, eloping to Vegas with Celine Dion playing in the background as we exchange rings,” Pete announced, thighs straddling Patrick’s within the backseat of his shitty car, scraps of leather peeling from the sides. Patrick’s face was nestled heavy within the crook of his neck, chin resting atop of his collarbone. Pete felt the skin around his eyes crinkle, the curve of Patrick’s lips grinning against his sweat-chilled skin.
“Is now really the time to – fuck,” Patrick hissed from the subtle thrust of Pete’s crotch. Head falling back against the rear door, he gave a glare, blunt nails buried deep into the meaty part of Pete’s back thighs clenching and provoking a groan of pain. “Asshole.”
Pete smirked, tongue poking out between his lips as he swerved his hips, ducking down to press a faint kiss to the underside of Patrick’s chin. “I get all tingly when you call me names like that, baby – Talk dirty to me.”
“Prick,” Patrick rumbled before giving a feeble snort when Pete reacted with a forced moan.
They were like a pair of two horny teenagers rubbing off one in the backseat of his mom’s car and Pete wanted to poke fun at the fact, but at the same time his brain felt musty, groin warm, and his chest tight, making it difficult to breathe properly.
“Might bust one in my jeans if this keeps on,” Pete muffled into Patrick’s chest, a high note that he’ll deny later leaving him when hands shove into the back of his jeans, gripping his ass hard.
“Do that and I’ll kill you,” Patrick groused, right before planting one on him, wet and dirty.
Pete, who felt a little left out of the game decided to fiddle with the button to Patrick’s jeans, humming to himself as he undid them.
“You know,” Pete mumbled, teeth sunken into his bottom lip as the pads of his fingers creeped down the front of Patrick’s boxer-briefs and – oh, hello.
“Wow, Patty – packing some fine heat, I see.” Pete’s hand curled around thick warmth – Jesus – and Patrick’s breath hitched in reply. Flicking his wrist as his hand slid up, he dragged his thumb over the slit before skimming over the ridge with the tip of his fingernail. A harsh breath escaped him when a splash of precum leaked over his knuckles.
“You’re fucking soaked,” Pete sighed breathily, dreamily, palm squeezing the base. Licking over his bottom row of teeth, he swallowed thickly as he traced a single finger over a large vein. “Is it me? Making you this hot? C’mon Patrick give me something here.”
Pete didn’t expect it, eyes widening when hands slid down his crease, curious. Patrick’s cheeks were flushed red, delicate pink slipping down to his neck while his throat shuddered over a muffled grunt.
“If you fucking knew how gorgeous – god,” Patrick choked, stuttered words passing his lips when Pete’s hand tightened around his cock. His fingers sunk lower, smoothing over furled skin gingerly. Pete’s chest rocked back and forth along with his hips, his heart picking up speed.
“Gonna do it? Fucking do it. Want y’too,” Pete slurred, eyelids fluttering as his crotch humped against Patrick’s knee. His legs felt like they were inflamed, muscles contracting with every movement of his pelvis as he jerked back and forth. God, he might actually end up making a mess of his jeans like a fucking fifteen-year-old, shit.
A yip of surprise was flying out of Pete’s mouth the moment Patrick knocked him over onto his ass, shoulder blades hitting the seat cushion with a loud thump while a shadow loomed over him.
“Dude, what,” Pete started before he noticed the expression on Patrick’s face, body shuddering from the intense gaze upon him. Patrick’s pupils were dilated, blackened eyes swallowing Pete whole. Being prey wasn’t something Pete was so familiar with. From the way his dick was cramped up tight against his zipper, he was pretty sure he was down for it.
With a nervous laugh, Pete cleared his throat. “You’re lucky I didn’t tear your dick off during the avalanche, man.”
Pete’s measly attempt at humor is neglected a response when Patrick’s hands decided to leave his ass and the hand around Patrick’s dick is plucked away.
Pete felt like whining from the loss of contact, bottom lip trembling, and his legs twitching forward. That is, until Patrick was making quick work of his zipper. His pants along with his underwear were shoved down, caught snug around his thighs. Pete felt his legs being tipped back, knees spreading before fingers slipped back towards his core.
“Fuck,” Pete gasped, one digit sliding into him – it burned, ached so good.
“Good?” Spoken soft, like a gentleman and Pete answered with a thrust of his hips. Sweat beading at his hairline as he took in broken breaths of air.
“C’mon, move it,” Pete pushed, the muscles in his calves trembling from the exertion of seesawing back and forth. He gave a half-grin, hands scrambling back behind him for leverage. “You don’t expect me to fuck myself on your fingers all night, do you?”
Patrick’s eyes narrowed, head curved slightly to the side as his finger shimmied in deeper. “Keep talking and you won’t have a choice.”
Pete had a snarky comeback, he swore he did, but it was lost when Patrick’s finger glanced over the spot that made him see stars. “Wait! – Trick, there, there! C’mon!” Pete’s wiggling is stilled when a hand hugs around the back of his knee, restraining his movement. Pete was hushed, a gentle chuckle against his ear as another finger met the one already inside him. They were moving this time, exploring, and tears latched upon Pete’s eyelashes as he muffled his pitiful wails into his dampened sleeve. Fingers coiled around his dick, puffs of air hit his neck before teeth sunk into his shoulder and he’s coming with a drawn-out whine, thick ropes of white spurting up his stomach. Pete felt slickness grind up hard against him, once, twice, before heat is spilling over him, a guttural noise filling his eardrums.
It wasn’t the time, nor the place, but Pete was never fussy when it came to declarations of affection.
“Fuckin’ love you – you’re still a dick, but I love you.” It’s not the most romantic thing Pete could’ve said, but it’s enough. Patrick’s dimples made it worth the embarrassment.
“So, uh, this isn’t, like, a onetime thing or anything, right?” Pete felt a little ridiculous, knees still pointed towards sky heaven with his ass hanging out of his jeans and he was probably going to hell, but that’s not the main issue right now.
“What? No – wait, do you want it to be?” Patrick seemed alarmed, which overall was in-fact a good thing, so Pete’s shoulders relaxed, chest warm and fuzzy as he smiled, lips crooked and his eyes half-lidded.
“Nope, you’re mine, all mine. Seriously.” Pete was serious.
Patrick rolled his eyes and Pete kicked him in the rib with the front of his shoe. There was a squawk of discomfort in reply, but Pete was pretty sure it meant “I love you too.”
Nobody earned the cock-blocking title that month.
Good-fucking-riddance.