
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4183518.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Bandom, Fall_Out_Boy
  Relationship:
      Patrick_Stump/Pete_Wentz, Bob_Bryar/Patrick_Stump, Andy_Hurley/Patrick
      Stump, Matt_Mixon/Patrick_Stump, William_Beckett/Patrick_Stump
  Additional Tags:
      Extremely_Dubious_Consent, Underage_Drinking, Sex_Pollen
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-06-22 Words: 5410
****** With Eyes Wide Open ******
by coricomile
Summary
     Maybe this party thing isn't going to be so awesome.
  This work was inspired by
      Party_Favor by naotalba
It's a frat house. An honest to god frat house, Pi Cappa Pi written in dead
language over the white columns, a banner dangling from the overhang. Patrick
feels his eyes go wide as he takes it in. Holy shit.
Pete grins at him, wide and smug, and links their fingers together before
pulling Patrick through the doors after him. There's people all over nursing
red plastic cups and thick, bass heavy music pumping through the sound system
loud enough to shake the walls. Pete's hand is warm, and Patrick feels a stupid
rush of giddiness sink in. This is kind of awesome.
The last party he went to was Sarah Mitchell's twelfth birthday party and that
was nothing compared to this. He can't help watching everything going on around
him a little bug-eyed. The fact that Pete asked him specifically to come with.
Well. That's just the icing on this particular cake.
"Stay here," Pete shouts, leaned in close. His cheek is pressed against
Patrick's, his voice a hot puff of air over Patrick's ear. "I'm going to get
drinks." Patrick nods and roots himself in front of the awards case, staring in
at the weird trophies in it. He'd never considered Fastest Beerbong worthy of a
trophy but, hey, there it is.
Pete's back in no time, shoving a beer stein into Patrick's hand. The liquid
inside is dark amber and smells like the inside of his gym locker. Patrick
makes a face, looking up to ask Pete what it is, but Pete's already shouting a
quick catch you later over his shoulder, navigating away from him. Patrick
wrinkles his nose and frowns into his drink.
Maybe this party thing isn't going to be so awesome.
The whatever-it-is in the mug tastes as gross as it smells, burning down his
throat. He chokes, coughing the last of it down. If this is what drinking's
like, he doesn't really see the appeal. Still, this is a real college party and
he's one of the privileged few high school kids in attendance, so he's going to
do this shit right.
Maybe if he drinks it faster, it won't be as bad.
He takes a deep breath, screws his eyes shut, and gulps down as much as he can
manage in one go. It still makes him cough, but the taste is near non-existant,
so that counts as a win.
When he tries to walk away from the trophy case, his legs feel a little wobbly.
He frowns at them and takes a stubborn step forward. It goes a little better so
he does it again. He's totally got this.
He wanders aimlessly from room to room, looking for familiar faces- Pete- and
listening for any interesting conversations. Mostly, he just bobs his head to
the music, weaving between people. He loves music. Music is awesome. This place
is awesome, too, full of people that smile at him and help him from room to
room when his legs get uncooperative, and the room's a little spinny, but
that's sort of awesome in a different way.
Someone is in his way. Patrick runs into him, forehead to chest, and laughs as
big hands grab him around the shoulders to keep him from toppling over. He
looks a little like Pete when Patrick narrows his eyes, and Patrick misses
Pete, even as not-Pete talks him into a dance.
Not-Pete, whose name is Matt as it turns out, has a nice smile and nice hands
and nice freckles, and he doesn't laugh at Patrick's terrible, terrible
dancing. He also doesn't laugh when Patrick- who is sixteen, okay?- pops a
boner, which is really a giant plus in his book.
Matt curls his hands around Patrick's hips and pulls him in, grinding against
him. That- That feels great. Patrick clutches his drink with one hand and holds
onto Matt's elbow with the other, thrusting against him more than dancing. Matt
grins and leans down, mouth pressing to Patrick's ear.
"You want to go somewhere private?" Matt asks. The pointed tip of his tongue
traces the shell of Patrick's ear, sending a quick jerk through Patrick's
spine. And, oh, oh. That means Matt- who is really hot and hard against
Patrick's hip, wow- wants to- Oh.
"I can't," Patrick mumbles, and is sad because of it. Oh, he'd really, really
like to, but. He's just. He kind of has this stupid hope for Pete to be the
first one, because he's an idiot and hopelessly, hopelessly in love.
"You sure?" Matt asks, pressing his strong, lean thigh between Patrick's.
Patrick moans against Matt's chest and rocks against him. It feels so good, and
Pete's nowhere nearby, and Patrick needs this like he needs air and more of his
gross drink. Maybe Pete won't mind if he does something about it.
"Okay," he says, tripping over himself as Matt leads him towards a row of
rooms.
He takes another swig of his drink- there's too much left in the cup to be
right- and laughs when he finds himself against Matt's chest again, looking up
at Matt's face. Matt's got a nice mouth, and Patrick tells him so. Matt laughs,
pulling back to thumb open his jeans.
"You too, dude," he says, grinning. His hands feel heavy on Patrick's
shoulders, pressing lightly. Oh. Oh! Patrick tumbles down, balancing his drink
precariously. It hurts his knees, but the dark look in Matt's eyes makes the
dull ache fade to the back of his fuzzy brain.
"Wow," Patrick says as he tugs down Matt's shorts. Matt's cock is thick and
long, damp at the blood dark head. Patrick would like a starter course before
attempting the final exam, please. That's not fair.
"You're good, you're fine," Matt soothes, and oh. Oh, he's been saying that out
loud. Whoops. "Just. Here." Matt's fingers curl into Patrick's hair, pulling
him in.
Patrick has to brace himself against Matt's hips, held up by luck and the loose
grip Matt's got on his head, his fingers white, white, white against Matt's
dark skin. Matt draws in a sharp burst of air when Patrick wraps his mouth
around the head, sucking experimentally. It sends a shiver down Patrick's
spine, makes his dick twitch in his jeans.
Maybe this whole giving head thing isn't so hard. He lets Matt guide his head
in a slow, steady rhythm, sucking as Matt's hips move back, licking sloppily at
the underside when Matt presses in at steadily deeper intervals. There's spit
gathering at the edges of his mouth, dribbling down over his chin, and that's
kind of gross, but Matt's really hot, and Patrick really wants to get him off.
The floor's vibrating, the party sounds suddenly louder, and when Patrick looks
up, there's three guys in the doorway, crowded around it like something out of
a cartoon. Patrick can dimly recognize them from concerts, thinks Misery
Signals, and somewhere in the back of his brain, there's an itch like he should
be feeling something that he's not.
"Dude," one of them says. The others echo it.
"Busy," Matt grumbles out, the timbre of his voice gone low and thick. Patrick
tries to rub at himself through his jeans, but he goes a little off balance,
falling forward just enough to trigger his gag reflex. "Fuck."
Then, there's hot, wet, bitter on his tongue, choking him, and Matt's pulling
him back by the hair, insistent. It's not as bad as his drink, which is still
sitting next to his knees, dangerously close to being spilled over. He wipes
the back of his hand over his wet, swollen mouth and blinks up at the guys in
the doorway again.
"Oh dude, me next," one of them says, and the others shove him, bickering and
loud, shouting over the music.
"You okay?" Matt asks, leaning down to help Patrick up. He's got sweat at the
edges of his hairline, his eyes a little unfocused, and Patrick nods, because,
wow, he did that.
"Mix, dude, share," one of the guys say from the doorway, and Patrick's up,
scrambling to grab his drink as someone drags him by the elbow back into the
thick of the party.
Time does a funny thing, and it feels like he's been hit in the head by
something with sharp edges, filling his brain with cotton and blurring the
world at the corners. He feels himself moving, sees flashes of colors that
could be t-shirts, hears a deep, rough voice in his ear. Someone's hand cups
his still hard dick, and Patrick whines, squirming against the bodies that feel
too close, too close.
"You're totally wasted," the voice says, and Patrick nods, his stomach roiling
as the world shakes. Yes, yes he is. The hand on his dick presses harder, and
Patrick's knees buckle and collapse under him.
There's people everywhere, a tight circle around him of dudes he knows from
shows, faces a mass blur of light and color. Someone crouches and tips the cup
in his hand up to his mouth, feeds him his weird, gross drink (he misses Pete,
wants him close, wants to go home) and what he can't swallow runs in rivulets
down his jaw, soaking into the collar of his shirt. It's sticky and wet, and
his mouth hangs open after, sucking in breaths through his burning lungs.
Through the holes in the knees of his jeans, he can feel the wet patch of
carpet under him, the roughness digging into his skin, and someone has a hand
on his face, thumb slipping into his mouth. Patrick sucks on it because he
can't do anything else, blinks up at the blurry face. This is like. Like
practice. Like learning everything he'll ever need to know, and there's people
watching as the thumb is replaced by something else entirely.
The tight ring of people close in even tighter as Patrick wraps his lips around
the head of this guy's cock, as he bobs his head as far as the dizziness will
let him. The music pumps through the speakers, makes his heartbeat stutter and
jump. Hands in his hair, a sharp burst of breath, and he's being turned far
enough to face someone else, far enough for the next person to slide into his
open mouth easy and quick.
Someone's laughing. Patrick can hear it through the other noises, can hear it
over the rush of blood in his ears, and that not-feeling curls in his chest
again, sharp and foreign as he's pulled back again, manhandled into a new
direction.
Someone in the crowd drops down near him, a flash of blue eyes and freckles and
orange hair out of the corner of his eye, and there's a hand undoing the buckle
of his belt, rough fingers sliding in between his skin and the damp cloth of
his boxers, wrapping around his dick almost hard enough to hurt.
The guys have stopped moving him, which his spinning mind appreciates, and have
instead made some sort of pecking order, standing in front of him, fisting
themselves in time to the rhythm Bob- Patrick thinks that's his name, he could
be wrong, can barely remember his own name right now- has set.
Patrick curls in on the ache in his stomach, thrusting up into Bob's hand. It's
dry, but it feels so good. A hand jerks in his hair, his hat gone- he wants his
hat, feels naked and bare and exposed and needs it- and he has to look up at
the blurry faces, has to see the guys crowded in front of him, jerking off.
He comes, groaning, going limp against whoever's holding his head back. His
body's vibrating, like he's stuck on a rush, a high that he can't come down off
of. He's still hard in his sticky jeans, dick pressing against the open fly
through the dampness of his boxers, but Bob's gone, and he can't make his hands
work enough to touch himself.
Someone comes on his face. It's hot; a slick, gross streak of warmth sliding
down his cheek, and someone else adds to the mess. It hits his jaw, already
going sticky in the hair of his sideburn. The laughter grows louder, and
Patrick closes his eyes as the others finish.
Time goes funny again. He thinks he drank more, tried to drown out the taste of
too many people (too many of the wrong people) out of his mouth, but he's not
really sure. The carpet's still damp, and his jeans are still open, and he's
hard enough to ache with the need to get off again.
"You okay?" Someone asks. Patrick dimly recognizes the voice from garages and
basements, and when he opens his eyes, Bill Beckett is next to him, one hand
around the curve of Patrick's arm, the fingers of the other slipping through
the handle of the mug at Patrick's side.
"I want to lay down," Patrick chokes out, voice rough. He feels sick, all the
liquor in his stomach sloshing around unpleasantly.
"Yeah," Bill says. "Yeah, okay." He knocks back the last of Patrick's drink and
gives a determined sigh as he wraps his arm under Patrick's shoulder.
Somehow, Bill helps him up, staggering under Patrick's weight. Patrick's jeans
are still undone. He really, really wants to do them up, afraid that they'll
fall off if he doesn't, but Bill's leading him through the crowd, shouldering
people older than them out of the way to clear a path.
They reach a bedroom which is, thankfully, empty. Bill helps him onto the bed,
tumbling onto it beside him. He giggles and Patrick giggles too, because.
Because. He doesn't really know. Things seem better out of the claustrophobic
crush of people, and Bill's familiar and good, and the room isn't spinning
quite as fast anymore.
"I'm going to get more beer," Bill says determinedly, sliding off the bed. He
trips, and that's funny, too, and Patrick can't stop laughing, even though it's
starting to hurt. "Stay here."
Like Patrick's got a choice. He snuggles into the covers, an open limbed
sprawl, and tries not to close his eyes. The colors make him nauseous.
Finally noticing that his arms are free and functioning, he reaches clumsily
for the fly of his jeans, wrestling with his boxers to reach his dick. A nap
sounds really, really nice, but he has to get himself off first, has to make
the pain curling in his gut disappear.
Oh, oh it feels nice, even though he can't really move with anything like
rhythm, everything fluid like he's underwater. His eyes stay open, unfocused
and blankly staring at the ceiling, his hips squirming as he tries to thrust up
into his hand.
"Want some help?" Someone asks. Yes, Patrick thinks. Help would be nice.
The fuzzy thing in the door is a person. It gets closer, and Patrick can see
red hair and a flash of tiny silver ball under thin lips, and then there's a
face by his, hands on his shoulders hauling him up.
"Hi," he says, hand still curled around his dick. He knows that face. "Oh. Oh,
hi Andy." Andy raises his eyebrows but doesn't answer. "You're a really awesome
drummer, and you should play with us."
"Uh huh," Andy murmurs. "How much have you had to drink?"
"Just one," Patrick answers. He's kind of a lightweight. It's not fair. "Hi. Do
you want me to suck your dick? I'm- I did that a lot tonight. I- Here. Watch."
Andy should definitely be their drummer, Patrick thinks, sliding haphazardly
off the bed. His back scrapes against the mattress, the top sheet pulling down
with him. If he does this, Andy will definitely join them, and they'll be a
real band, and that's what Patrick really, really, really wants.
"Patrick-" Andy's hand is on his head, fingers to his forehead, pushing him
away. No, no, no.
"I want to," Patrick says, leaning forward against the pressure, reaching up to
undo Andy's jeans.
"You're sort of really drunk," Andy says, like Patrick doesn't already know.
Patrick hums, blindly shoving at Andy's pants. Something soft like skin is
under his fingertips, and he just has to-
"I want to," he says again, petulant. He can totally score the band a really
awesome drummer. Andy just has to cooperate.
The pressure on his forehead fades without entirely leaving, but it's enough
for Patrick to inch forward, to press his nose to Andy's belly and to fist a
hand around Andy's half hard cock.
Andy kind of smells like vanilla, a girly sort of thing that makes Patrick
giggle a little as he slides his mouth over him, wet slick side of his heavy
tongue against the smooth skin. Andy's hand slides from his face, dragging away
dried flakes of come, down to his shoulder, fingers clamping down. When he
tries to move his head forward, the world tips on its side, makes him feel off
balanced. The solution is to make Andy move instead.
He lifts his heavy hands to Andy's hips, nails catching on the weirdly soft
edges of Andy's belt. He presses forward against the swell of Andy's ass- oh,
he's touching Andy Hurley's ass, awesome- and Andy goes stiff, his fingers like
claws on Patrick's shoulders.
"Don't," he says, rough and low. Patrick hums and pushes harder. He's got this.
He's totally a pro after however many dudes in the living room. This is
nothing.
He looks up, watches the sliver of Andy's labret flash in the dim light, and
opens his mouth wider. Whatever resolve Andy had worked up dissolves, and his
hips jerk forward, a steady, steady rhythm of in, out, in, out. His face is
going pink, eyes hidden behind his glasses.
There's a noise at the door, but Patrick's too busy trying not to choke on
spit, everything slow and hazy. Andy pulls out when he comes, a hand jerking
forward to catch the mess, and all Patrick can do is smile up at him stupidly,
blinking away dampness at his eyes.
"Fuck," Andy says softly. He fits his hands under Patrick's arms and lifts,
then there's something solid against his back, soft and cool against the
overheated skin of his face. "Fuck."
"Not that," Patrick mumbles, sleepy. "If you could-"
"Fuck," Andy says again for good measure. His hand wraps around Patrick's dick,
and it doesn't feel as good as usual, the pleasure blunted by an aching
soreness from being jerked off dry too many times. Still, it's quick,
efficient, Patrick thrusting up towards it until the pressure builds into a
white blur behind his closed eyelids.
Andy wipes his hand on the blanket and tugs Patrick's hoodie off, tucking him
in like a kid. Patrick's shoes are gone, and he doesn't remember losing them.
He hopes Pete can find them before they go home because he really, really likes
those shoes and doesn't want to miss them.
"Sleep it off," Andy says softly, a warm hand passing over Patrick's too hot
forehead. That sounds like a good plan.
His eyes are closed, sleep at the corners of his mind, when he feels someone
tugging at his undone jeans. He squirms and kicks, groaning into the damp
pillow. He's sweating, hot under the covers, hot all the way inside where he
can't make it better.
The person shushes him, a hum of sound, his jeans and underwear slipping off
his legs to lay near them. He's hard again- afraid of what was in his drink,
afraid that he'll be hard for the rest of his life, dizzy and sick for the rest
of his life- and long fingers are pressing at the insides of his thighs, cool
and insistent.
"No," he mumbles. His eyes feel glued shut, lids too heavy to lift. He tries to
close his legs, tries to clench his knees together against the hands that keep
moving them apart. "No."
"It's okay," the voice says, slurred and familiar. Bill. Bill's hands on his
legs, Bill's naked hips against his, trying to squirm in. "It's just me."
"No," Patrick says again, a broken record. Panic wells up in him because Bill
keeps pushing, fingers digging in, and Patrick doesn't want this, wants to keep
it for someone else, wants to go home and sleep and curl into Pete's side where
it's safe and okay, okay, okay.
Then he's crying. The tears unstick his eyes, clean his face. He jerks under
the pressure of Bill's hands, the slow, underwater motions of his legs losing
the battle making him cry louder.
"I'm sorry," Bill says. "I'm sorry, I just have to-"
There's a crash and Bill's weight is gone, the air cold where he had been
resting. Patrick can't stop crying, confused and aching everywhere. He just
wants to go home.
He finds his jeans somehow and tries to pull them on, his eyes blurred, motions
all stop-jerk-halt. When he gets one leg on he gives up, reaching for his
hoodie instead. It slides on easier, soft cotton inside scraping against his
bare back and chest, zipper cool against his skin. There's noises, metallic and
sharp, and a few muttered curses, and oh, oh thank god-
"Pete?" Patrick asks. Pete doesn't say anything, but Patrick knows it's him,
knows the line of his back and the tense set of his shoulders. He’d know Pete
if he were blind.
It seems like it takes Pete forever to get up from the door, to drop the
silvery thing in his hand to the ground and turn to face him. Patrick feels
exposed, hard and mostly naked on the bed, Pete's eyes tracking down over him
slowly. Patrick sniffles, wipes the sleeve of his hoodie across his nose, and
tries to crawl into himself.
"Hey," Pete says, toeing his shoes off. He looks sad- disappointed- as he
crawls into the bed with him. Patrick has to close his eyes against it, the
slow leak of tears finally coming to a stop. "If I hug you, will that make it
worse?"
"Fuck. I don't know." Patrick turns in toward the arms that wrap around him,
familiar and comforting. "I've never had this problem before." He's not really
sure which problem he's talking about, but it's all true, too thick around him
to be anything he's experienced before. Pete makes a soft sound against his
hair, an agreement or an apology or something Patrick can't categorize.
He fumbles to get his own arms around Pete, pulling him closer. The ache in his
head fades a little. Pete: the cure to hangovers. Patrick wants to laugh but
can't find the voice to do it. Pete's warm and solid, and Patrick inches closer
and closer, until his front is pressed flush to Pete's, his erection laying
thick and heavy against Pete's thigh.
Pete doesn't say anything, but he doesn't move away either, even as Patrick
rocks against him, trying to alleviate some of the pain. He wants to get off
and then sleep for weeks. Something's nagging at the back of his brain,
something that could be important, quick flashes through the goodgoodowgood
that's taken over his motor functions.
"Where's Bob?" He asks, mouth to Pete's throat. Pete tastes like sweat, clean
skin under it, the scent of his cologne cloying up close. "No, not Bob. Where's
Bill? He took the last of my drink."
"Shit," Pete mumbles,starting to pull away. Patrick makes a noise of protest, a
whine in the back of his throat that echoes in his head. Pete shushes him,
presses him back down, before turning to look at a lump of a shadow in the
corner.
The shadow is Bill, apparently, naked and curled into a ball, his cheek an
angry red-blue-black. Pete prods at him, something dark across his eyes. The
curve of his ass through his jeans makes Patrick's dick twitch, and oh. Ow.
"Pete," he says pathetically, curling around himself. "It hurts." Pete's
watching him, and Patrick wants to wrap around him again, wants everything. "I
can't make it go down. No one can.."
"Jesus, Patrick," Pete snaps. Patrick flinches, hunching in tighter on himself.
"Have you just been walking around all night showing off your boner and asking
for help?"
Patrick's bawling again. Fuck, fuck, fuck he's messed it up, and now
everything's over. The band and Pete and the stupid fairytale ending he's been
hiding in his dreams, and it's wrong.
"I'm sorry," he chokes out, squeezing his eyes shut in a weak attempt to cut
the tears off. "I'm so sorry. I wanted it to be you, but I couldn't find you,
and I'm sorry."
His mouth's moving, words pouring out at their own speed, his heavy tongue
tripping him up. He can't stop talking, can't stop crying like a stupid kid. He
just wants to start over and dump that stupid fucking drink out on the floor.
"Shh, I got you." Pete's sliding into the bed with him in his t-shirt and
boxer-briefs, reaching for him. Patrick chokes back another sob and kicks off
the leg of his jeans that's still clinging to him.
"Pete? It's okay now, right?" He asks. Pleads. Please, let it be right. Let it
be what he's thinking it is. "You'll take care of me now, right?"
Pete's silent for a moment, fingertips sliding through Patrick's hair, parting
the dirty strands gently. When he speaks, his voice is rougher than Patrick can
remember ever hearing it.
"You're probably sore everywhere by now."
"Yeah," Patrick says, laughing. That's all he's worried about? Thank god. "That
guy from 7 Angels 7 Plagues is hung like a horse. My jaw might be dislocated."
There a pause, Pete's fingers still moving gently through his hair.
"If your jaw's that sore, I'm surprised you can lie on your back," Pete says
stiffly, like it hurts. And, what? What's that got to do with- "Your ass could
keep up with that? Jesus, Patrick-"
"No." Patrick rolls, tries to grab onto Pete before he can decide to get up and
walk away, and finds himself laying on top of Pete instead. He feels his hoodie
slide away. Feels his naked chest pressing to Pete's soft t-shirt, and can only
think no, no, no, no, can only think please understand. "I didn't- I couldn't
wait for you for everything, it was hurting, but I waited for that. I told Bill
to stop, I did!" His mouth's running again, a distant soundwave that takes a
back seat to the feel of Pete's hand sliding down his spine.
"Shh," Pete says again, his other hand an anchor on Patrick's hip. "I've got
you." Patrick presses up against the hand that's found its way to his ass, hums
a sharp, pleased sound when the rough pad of Pete's index finger touches his
asshole.
"See," Patrick says. "Just for you." He grinds down against Pete's hip, Pete's
dick hard against his, and whines. It hurts, but it feels so good, and Pete's
pulling away again, pressing at his shoulders and tipping him off to the side.
"Where are you going?"
"Just," Pete stabilizes him on his side, his eyes running down the length of
Patrick's body again. If he could, Patrick would totally preen. As it is, it's
all he can do to stay propped up, watching Pete back away. "Hang on."
Pete scruffs his shirt, tossing it away as he hangs over the edge of the
mattress. The line of his back is long and firm, and Patrick wants to touch it,
wants to pull Pete back and hold him and fuck him and just. He wants. Pete pops
back up, too fast for Patrick's dizzy brain, and jerks open the side table
drawer, tossing things to the floor as he roots through it.
"Fucking yes." Pete flips back over, reaching for Patrick again. He's got a
bottle of- oh. Oh, awesome. He's got a bottle of lube in one hand, a shiny foil
wrapped condom on the mattress next to him. He squeezes a hefty amount into his
palm, guiding Patrick's hips forward. "Yeah, like that." Patrick thrusts into
the loose circle of Pete's fist, the slick slide of it fucking perfect.
The hand goes, which is just wrong, but Pete's squirming out of his underwear,
naked and scootching towards Patrick determinedly.
"Come here," he says softly, hand tucking under Patrick's knee and lifting.
Patrick wraps his leg around Pete's waist, presses the heel of his foot against
the back of Pete's thigh. "It's okay. I got you."
Pete's hand slides across his hip, palm resting for a moment against the swell
of his ass cheek, slick with lube. Patrick groans when one of Pete's fingertips
presses gently into him.
It feels weird but also really nice, and it doesn't hurt at all, not like he
thought it would. He jerks back onto it, his dick pressed between their
bellies, rubbing against Pete's taut skin. A second finger joins the first, a
burn running through his spine and settling in somewhere near his heart.
The third finger hurts a little, but this means that they're close. That Pete's
going to be fucking him soon. Patrick can't stop himself from rocking down
against him, mouth open and leaving a wet spot against the thorns at Pete's
collar. He's ready, he's ready, he's been ready. Pete's driving him crazy.
He hears the condom wrapper tear, feels Pete's fingers slide free, and thinks
finally, but then Pete's climbing over him, disappearing from view.
Pete's mouth on his is wet and slick, messy and Pete, and Patrick tries to kiss
back, his neck twisted strangely, fingers gripping Pete's arm maybe too hard,
but it's mostly just his lips sliding against Pete's, uncoordinated and sloppy.
Pete pulls back, breathing hotly against Patrick's shoulder, and then he's
pressing inside, a quick pop in Patrick's ears. Pete's mouth is on his again,
but Patrick can't do anything but squirm, breath leaving him in an unsteady
rush as he shoves back, feels Pete's stomach press flush against his ass.
“Fuck, Pete," he gasps out, eyes sliding shut against the wave of
yesrightgoodPete. "Talk to me. Tell me it’s you. It’s been a fucked up night, I
need to hear you.” Needs to know it's Pete moving inside him, needs to know
he's not with Bill or Bob or Andy or Matt. Pete mouths at his shoulder, his
neck, wet and slick, his hips slamming forward hard enough to make Patrick's
breathing stutter.
“So fucking hot that you saved yourself for me," Pete says against his ear, a
sharp nip of teeth against the lobe making him whine. "So fucking turned on all
night. Saw you taking Hurley’s dick in that pretty mouth of yours and wished it
were mine.” Patrick rolls his hips, tilts his head back. He's going to suck
Pete dry as soon as he can see straight again. “So fucking tight, even as
fucked up as you are." Pete moans softly, nosing the soft spot behind Patrick's
ear. "So fucking responsive, aren’t you? Do you think I can make you come just
like this?”
Patrick groans. Please, he thinks. Anything. Pete's fingers dig into his hip,
nails a sharp pressure against his skin, his thrusts harder. Faster. Blunt
teeth drag down the nape of his neck, bite at the knob of his spine, and then
Pete's hips jerk back, his cock sliding wetly against the small of Patrick's
back as he comes.
Patrick whines, throwing an arm back to touch Pete's chest, Pete's tight,
trembling stomach. He wants- He needs- He clumsily shoves three fingers into
himself, pressing back against them like they're Pete. It doesn't feel as good-
isn't as good- but when he wraps his other hand around his sore dick, he feels
his balls draw up, feels his stomach go tight. So close, so close.
"Want to see you lose it for me," Pete breathes against it jaw, licking a broad
line across his throat. Patrick whines, coming hard enough to see spots, bright
colors dancing in the darkness behind his eyelids. Pete's hand shoves his away,
squeezes hard enough to hurt, and Patrick nearly yells into the pillow, the
sharp spike of pleasure knocking something loose in him.
He's aware of Pete wiping something soft against his stomach, aware of Pete's
arms closing in around him, all warm skin fitting against his back. After that,
the world goes dark.
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