FIC: Filthy Kings, NC-17, Pete/Patrick
Title: Filthy Kings
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Pete/Patrick with a side of Gabe/Beckett
Summary: The opening night of Angels and Kings is a lot more entertaining than Patrick expects.
Word count: ~6500
Warnings: voyeurism, public sex, rimming, dirty talk
Author's Notes: This is for misspamela's Tales from the Angels and Kings Opening challenge, but I have to say a huge thank-you to supergrover24, who inspired it and who urged me on to write what is possibly the smuttiest PWP I've done so far. I think. *G* She's my Muse on this one. Please to be noting that this so didn't happen. Though I wish it did. Also, MTV.com reports that Gabe and Bill were chatting each other up at the opening. So. Blame them for this too. *G* Title is courtesy luciamad.
Charlie'd been the one to insist on the cameras.
Pete had thought it was a stupid idea because it was a dive bar, for Christ's sake, and Charlie had just looked at him, arms crossed over his chest, and he'd blinked slowly, once, then twice, with that calm, I-really-don't-give-a-fuck look on his face that even Pete couldn't argue with.
So Pete had given in (and Patrick was a little relieved about that because, you know, the last thing they needed was to have something happen they couldn't control and he didn't even want to think about what could happen when people were drunk--he'd been around Dirty enough, after all, and he was an affectionate drunk, not a mean one) and the cameras had been installed. Discreetly. You'd not even notice them unless you knew where to look, tucked away in the shadows.
Over the bar. Tucked in nooks and crannies. In the bathrooms even, outside the stalls--though there was a small, neatly engraved sign in there, noting the fact--and Patrick had just looked at Charlie then and Charlie had shrugged.
"Unisex bathrooms? In a fucking bar? Better safe than sorry. I wouldn't let my sister go in there without fucking cameras. I don't give a shit what Wentz wants, God love him."
Patrick’d had to agree.
The cameras went up.
***
His birthday party had been quiet compared to this.
The bar was packed, people everywhere, and Jesus, that was just from the guest list. Patrick didn't want to think about the swarms of people outside, spilling across 11th. He'd even heard that James Gandolfini had shown up, tried to park, and then gotten pissed off at the paparazzi's flashbulbs going off in his face enough to flip them a bird and speed off.
At least that's what he finally realized once Joe had shouted in his ear again--after Patrick had looked at him blankly and yelled Gandalf? As in little hairy-footed people-leading? How much fucking weed have you had, man?
Andy had choked on his seltzer, and Troh had spilled his beer over Andy's favorite vintage Zepplin t-shirt, pounding at his back wildly and shouting okay there, Hurley, hey man, you okay until Andy knocked his hand away.
"Anyone seen Pete?" Patrick asked and Andy shrugged.
"Last I saw he was in the corner trying to get his hand up Ashlee's shirt without MTV filming it." Joe lifted his bottle to his mouth, holding it loosely between two fingers, as he watched a girl in a skintight tank-top (and an even tighter pair of jeans) slide past. She smiled at them; even Patrick's eyes drifted down to her tits. Joe slid off the stool. "Speaking of which..."
Andy shook his head, his elbows splayed on the bar. He dug the lime out of his glass, fingers dripping, and sucked on it. "You're going to be in so much fucking trouble, Troh."
"Just talking." Joe drained his beer, set the bottle on the bar. "Nothing wrong with talking, right?"
"Isn't that what you said last time?" Patrick asked, but Joe was already pushing through the crowd, following Tank-top Girl. "Fucking lucky bastard," he groused, taking Joe's abandoned stool. "Twenty bucks says he gets blown in the bathroom."
Andy just gave him a look. "Forty says she offers and he chickens out."
"You're on." Patrick propped his chin on his fist and sighed.
"Everything okay?" Andy was drumming the backbeat to Everybody Wants You on the bartop with his fingertips, in perfect time with the music from the dance floor. Patrick knew the habit well. He still did it sometimes himself and it'd been years since he'd drummed.
He dropped his hand onto the bar and gave Andy a half smile. "Yeah, man. Just, you know, party. It's nothing."
Except it was.
Sort of.
Everybody in the fucking universe was getting laid except him lately, and it was pissing Patrick off.
It wasn't that he couldn't.
Or didn't even--he'd made out with that girl in New Zealand after all and she'd ended up straddling him, her hand shoved in his jeans and that'd been pretty damn good, except that Joe had burst in just after he'd come over her hand, with Dirty on his heels, both of them stoned and in search of the Doritos Patrick kept in his carryon.
At least that'd distracted him from the fact that he'd just moaned Pete against her mouth as his hips jerked up, his cock hot and wet and sticky against her stomach, his hands digging into her waist.
Shit.
"Give me an O'Doul's," he told the bartender, and a green bottle was in front of him in seconds, cold and open. Patrick took a swig and sighed. He leaned back against the bar, suddenly wishing he could get drunk off his ass. He stared glumly down at the O'Doul's.
So not going to happen.
Fuck it to hell and back.
***
The bar was dark, even with the occasional camera flash still glinting off the red walls. Karen had managed to send most of the photographers and video crews home, but some--the ones they knew a bit better--were still hanging around, the cameras forgotten in favor of the open bar. It was hot, and stifling, and Patrick had already shrugged out of his jacket, leaving it on one of the leather sofas.
He slid through the crowd, ducking his head and pulling his 504 Plan cap further down his forehead as he passed the remnants of the MTV crew--the last thing he wanted at the moment was to be fucking interviewed, even off-the-record. He wanted to go back to Pete's apartment, to kick his shoes off and collapse on the couch in his boxers and t-shirt, bare feet on the coffee table while he flipped through every goddamn channel in the Time Warner Digital lineup.
Patrick was used to not getting what he wanted.
But he was tired, and he was sweating, and he was beginning to get fucking cranky, so when he nearly ran into Jay-Z, he grabbed his arm and said, "hey man, have you seen Pete around?"
Jay-Z rubbed his palm over his damp forehead. "Last I saw, a few minutes ago, he was getting Simpson into a car--"
"He fucking left?" Patrick was going to kill Pete. Seriously. All out, no holds barred, first-degree homicide--the kind they called Gil and Catherine in to solve except there'd be no wrapping it up by the fourth act because Patrick would damn well be standing there with blood still dripping from his fucking hands--
"Hey." Jay-Z was giving him an odd look. "You all right, man?"
Patrick blinked. God, he was fucking exhausted. He hated this kind of shit. He was not a partying kind of guy. "Yeah. Sorry. Pete left?"
"Nah," Jay-Z shook his head and grabbed another glass of scotch that was passing on a waitress's tray. "Said he was going to hang out back with Charlie for a while."
Relief flooded Patrick. He was a fucking shit of a best friend, he knew. He shouldn't be so happy that Ashlee had fucked off. He liked her. He did. She was a sweet girl. But every time Pete brought her around, Patrick's fists clenched tight and his stomach burned and the way she hung over Pete like she fucking owned him or something just--
He suddenly realized he was grinding his teeth.
Shit.
Patrick ran a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose, rubbing at his eyes. He sighed.
Pete.
"Right. I should find him, yeah," Patrick said, over the bouncy Lily Allen remix that had half the crowd on the dance floor, it seemed, and Jay-Z just nodded, tapping his fist to Patrick's.
Patrick pushed through the crowd again, hating everyone at the moment. He was going to find Pete and tell him fuck it, he was going home.
He slid past Tommy Hilfiger and his girlfriend Dee and the way they were making out-God. There were just some things a guy wasn’t meant to see, you know?
Joe was still in the corner with Tank-top Girl, their heads bent together, and her leg was pressed against his, and Joe was laughing at something she said, even though his eyes were fixed on the low scoop of her shirt.
Patrick hated them too.
Christ. It was almost like he had fucking blue balls which was crazy because he jacked off twice every night, and at least once in the morning too lately. He didn't know what was wrong with him. Really. Sure he was a guy; he thought about sex roughly every seven-point-four seconds, but this was ridiculous.
And it was even more ridiculous that, if he was honest with himself--which Patrick prided himself on because really, if there was one thing being around Pete taught you it was that. Pete had no delusions about himself and didn't let anyone else have any either. So if he was honest with himself, Patrick knew that the fucking fact of the matter was that he could fuck the entire lineup of Pussycat Dolls and he'd still have blue balls of a sort because none of them were Pete.
Pete.
Pete with the girlfriend who wasn't really a girlfriend, not in the way the blogs and tabloids thought because Patrick knew Pete well enough to know when he was really getting laid and not just spending most of his nights making out on top of the covers.
And Pete wasn't getting laid.
Not any more than Patrick was.
Fuck.
He turned a corner, stumbling into a darker alcove, and there were people there, shit, and Patrick muttered sorry, sorry at the two guys on the loveseat, their arms and legs wrapped around each other, their quiet groans sending a shiver of want up Patrick's spine.
Goddamn it, he had the worst luck--
"Hey, man. Patrick." One of the guys looked up at him, almost blankly, and Patrick blinked. Bill Beckett's mouth was swollen and pink and wet and Christ, that would be bad enough, but Gabe was underneath him, and that god-awful abstract t-shirt of his was pushed up and Patrick swore he could count every rib the way Gabe was arched.
Patrick shoved his hands in his pockets; his jeans pulled tight across his cock and he breathed in sharply. "Hey. Sorry, I was just looking..." He trailed off. "You guys should be careful," he said finally, staring at the mugshot of Sid Vicious on the wall and not the way Bill's fingers were trailing over Gabe's nipple. "Still some photographers out there."
Bill groaned, and he frowned at Gabe. "Got a point there."
"Bastards." Gabe smoothed a hand over Bill's ass. Patrick looked away.
A group of girls walked past, throwing sideways glances and smiles their way, and Gabe rolled out from beneath Bill, and Patrick would not look at the bulge in his jeans, or the way Bill was sprawled across the couch, all legs and arms and long brown hair and half unbuttoned Levi's.
He wouldn't.
Fuck.
"Like to watch, Patrick?" Gabe whispered in his ear and he was too fucking close to him, close enough for his breath to brush warmly over Patrick's skin, close enough to drape his arm over Patrick's shoulder, close enough to make Patrick's dick jump and shit, Patrick wasn't doing this.
He pulled away. "Knock it off," he muttered, and his cheeks burned.
Fucking Gabe.
Bill laughed and sat up, pushing his hair back out of his eyes. "Leave him alone, man." He gave Patrick an apologetic look. "He's an asswipe."
Gabe flicked his tongue towards Bill, curling it up against his top lip and Jesus fuck, that was…yeah.
Patrick shivered.
And when Gabe suddenly reached for him, and pulled Patrick up against him with a laugh and a Bill likes to watch too, Patrick knew it was a bad idea, knew it, but Gabe was kissing him already, pushing him against the wall, his hands cupping Patrick's face, and he tasted like beer and peanuts.
It wasn't like Gabe hadn't kissed him before because, fuck, there wasn't anyone in their circle Gabe hadn't tongued, except for maybe Andy who was as fucking straight as you could possibly imagine, and Christ, Patrick didn't remember it being this fucking hot before, up against the wall with Gabe's mouth moving over his and Bill standing next to them, eyes wide and watching, his breath hot on Patrick's neck and-
Pete, he thought, except Gabe pulled back and raised an eyebrow at him and Patrick realized that he'd fucking done it again and in front of Gabe and Bill who could never keep their mouths shut about goddamn anything--
Shit.
Patrick shoved Gabe off him.
"Dude," he said breathlessly, and Patrick knew his face was red and, God, his dick was hard. He straightened his hat with shaking hands. "What the fuck-"
Gabe grinned at him, totally unapologetic, and Patrick suddenly felt like a mouse being watched by a snake. "We're going to try out those bathrooms, if you want to come with," Gabe said, and Patrick was so very aware of Gabe leaning into him on one side and Bill on the other.
"We don't mind you watching," Bill said, his eyes too bright. He reeked of Jack Daniels.
Patrick slid past them both. "Man, I've got-" He bit his lip. "Yeah. Pete. I need to find Pete. I'm supposed to ask him…" Patrick trailed off.
They were both giving him an amused look and Patrick flushed.
"Later," he said and he ran.
***
The bar offices were down a narrow hallway, past the bathrooms and the kitchen, and if Pete was hiding out anywhere away from the crowds, it'd be here, Patrick knew.
Charlie was sitting on the desk when Patrick pushed the door open, along with Matt, the guy Charlie'd made Pete hire for security at the bar. A bank of monitors flickered behind them, grey-white in the fluorescent lighting. They both looked up, exchanged glances.
"Patrick," Charlie started and Patrick cut him off.
"Have you seen Pete?"
A moment's pause, another exchanged look, and then Pete said, from behind him, quietly, "Yeah. They have."
Pete closed the door of the inner office behind him and looked at Patrick, his hands shoved in the pockets of his red hoodie. "How's Gabe?" he asked flatly, his eyes fixed on Patrick in that way that Pete had that unnerved even Patrick sometimes.
Patrick flushed. "What?" he asked even though he knew what Pete meant. Goddamn fucking cameras. Goddamn fucking Charlie. Goddamn fucking Gabe.
With a too careless shrug of his shoulders, Pete's gaze flicked over the monitors behind Charlie, and when Charlie mumbled I think we better check the floor Matt agreed, far too quickly.
Patrick hadn't seen two burly guys scamper out of a room so fast. Well. Not since Dirty'd had gas last time, at least.
He just looked at Pete, standing there in front of him, still watching him calmly, evenly, and you'd never know Pete was pissed off, not unless you knew him well enough to recognize the set of his jaw, the tightness of his mouth.
"So he kissed me," Patrick said finally, a rush of righteous annoyance flooding over him. Jesus. It's not like Pete had any right to be angry. "What the fuck difference does it make? It's Gabe. How many times has he stuck his tongue down your throat? And anyway, I heard what you were doing in the corner with your girlfriend."
Pete's eyes narrowed; his fists jerked in his pockets. "Whatever," he said, and he pushed past Patrick. "Your life. You want pictures of the two of you floating around Buzznet, what the fuck do I care?"
"Jesus." Patrick glared at Pete's back. "What the hell is wrong with-" He broke off, blinking at one of the monitors. "Fuck."
Pete turned around. "What?"
"I think you'd better be more worried about Bill and Gabe," Patrick murmured and he moved around the corner of the desk.
It was an odd angle, shot down the side of the sinks in one bathroom, and you could only see the top of Bill's head, his hair falling forward into his face, but Gabe was obviously on his knees, his mouth moving across Bill's jeans, and Bill's hand was tight on his shoulder as Gabe pressed him back against the side of the first stall.
"Are they-" Pete peered at the grainy picture. "Fucking shit."
"Yeah." Patrick's throat was dry. He knew he should walk out of the office, or at least turn his head because, dude, but instead he stared at the flickering black and white images, and when Gabe jerked Bill's jeans open, pulled his cock out, and Gabe's hand stroked down the shaft once, twice, Patrick whispered, "fuck."
Pete breathed out, and his hand gripped the back of the chair, knuckles white. "He's going to-"
"Yeah."
They watched, the only sounds their quick breaths in the silent room, and Patrick was so fucking horny that he groaned softly as Gabe moved in front of Bill, his head bending forward, his hands tight on Bill's hips.
"We shouldn't-" Pete licked his bottom lip. "Fuck," he murmured as Gabe pulled back, and they could see Bill's cock, wet and dark against his pale stomach, his t-shirt pushed up and it didn't matter that someone had just walked into the bathroom because Gabe had his mouth on Bill's hipbone and his hand on Bill's dick, moving down it quickly, and Bill's head fell back against the metal side of the stall and he grabbed wildly for the sink, fingers curling around the rim of the counter as he gasped, eyes closed, bottom lip caught between his teeth.
"Oh, God," Patrick said, and he couldn't tear his eyes away, couldn't, even though he knew he should, knew that this was a horrible idea, knew how creepy it was-fuck, these were his friends--but it didn't fucking matter because somehow, in some way, this was so much better than porn.
He heard Pete's sharp breath, soft and eager and then Pete was next to him, his hand on Patrick's jaw, turning his head just enough to kiss him, rough and open. His mouth was warm and wet against Patrick's and all Patrick could think was Jesus when Pete grabbed his hand and pressed it against the swell of his prick.
Bad idea, such a bad, bad idea, but Patrick’s hand was already pulling at the buttons of Pete’s jeans, jerking them open. His fingers curled around Pete’s cock and Pete sighed into Patrick’s mouth and fuck.
Pete pushed Patrick back against the desk and, God, Patrick thought, grabbing at Pete’s shoulder with one hand, his other sliding over Pete’s dick, hot and smooth, and Pete’s tongue slid over his. Patrick groaned.
His hat fell off.
He barely noticed.
“Come on,” Pete whispered, his breath warm on Patrick’s mouth, and his hands were fumbling with Patrick’s jeans, pulling down the zipper, pushing past denim and cotton until his fingers were tight on Patrick’s cock. Jesus, Patrick couldn’t think, didn’t think-he just wanted. The edge of the desk dug into his ass, and he lifted up, slid onto the desktop, knocking over a plastic mug of office supplies, sending paperclips and pencils flying across the room, rolling over the bumpy wood floor with a clatter.
Patrick didn’t give a damn; he just wanted Pete closer. He spread his thighs, pulled at Pete’s hip, and Pete pressed against him, kissing him desperately, hungrily, and goddamn it, Patrick hadn’t been kissed like this in months.
“Patrick,” Pete said, roughly, rawly, his voice catching. His cock slid over Patrick’s and Patrick didn’t give a fuck about anything any more except the taste of Pete, salty-sweet, the feel of him, the smell of sweat and musk on the stretch of skin under Pete’s jaw.
And then Pete pressed their cocks together, hot and hard, and Patrick’s hips jerked and his thighs tightened around Pete’s hips.
It was Pete and Pete’s cock and Pete’s mouth and Pete’s hand and fuck, this was crazy, totally crazy, but it felt so goddamn good and Patrick had been fantasizing about it for months. Every time he fucking jerked now it was to Pete. Always Pete.
Always.
He was going to regret this afterwards; he knew that. He just didn’t care, not if it meant that Pete was going to rock his hips against Patrick’s in just that way, their cocks sliding over each other, and Pete’s fingers closing around both of them, pulling, pressing and his mouth trailing down Patrick’s jaw, tiny bites along his neck.
Fucking hell.
He could still see Gabe and Bill on the monitor, and Gabe pushed Bill against the sink, bent him over, and then he was on knees, his face pressed against Bill's bare ass, his hands splayed on his hips, and God.
"Pete." Patrick pulled at his shoulder. "Look at that, look at them, fuck, I want that. I want to be on my knees like that. Look at him, shit, he has his fingers in Bill-"
Patrick turned his head, caught Pete’s mouth with his own in a rough kiss, their teeth hitting together painfully, but neither of them stopped. Patrick opened his mouth, bit at Pete’s tongue, and he grabbed Pete’s shoulders, pushing his hips into Pete’s.
“More,” he choked out, and Pete groaned and shoved him back onto the desk, and papers tumbled onto the floor, but all Patrick could think of was the hot press of Pete’s cock against his, the wetness of his mouth, the grainy image flickering in the monitor as Gabe slid up Bill's back, pushed him forward. Patrick could see the look on Bill's face reflected in the mirror.
"Fuck, Pete." Patrick stared at the monitor. "They're going to fuck, Christ, yeah."
“Come on,” Pete whispered against his throat, “come on, tell me more. Tell me what they're doing.” He rocked into him, his eyes dark and bright and Patrick had never seen anything so fucking gorgeous.
"Bill," Patrick choked out, and it was almost too much. "Bill's taking him-God--Bill's just fucking taking him in like that, and, fuck, Pete, I want you to do that for me. I want to push you up against the wall and just fucking make you take it-"
Pete moaned, and he whispered, "Patrick, yeah, God." He rubbed against Patrick, and he was so fucking hard, and Patrick could barely think because, Christ, nothing had felt this good in so long. "Oh, fuck, man," Pete said, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps, "how's he fucking him?"
Another glance at the monitor, at Bill moving against Gabe, at his prick pressed against the sink, at Gabe's hands clutching Bill's thin hips, at them moving together, hard and fast, and shit, just fucking shit, it was the hottest thing Patrick'd seen.
"Patrick," Pete groaned and he was leaning into Patrick, his cock slick and hot, "come on, man. Come on, baby. Tell me."
"Hard." Patrick swallowed, stared at the monitor. "Like he wants it, like he needs it-God, Pete, he's fucking him so hard, and shit, Bill's begging for it, I can see him, Pete, fuck. He wants it. Wants it bad. Wants to be fucked."
"Not the only one, Christ." Pete rubbed up against him, staring down at him with glazed eyes. "Want you. Want your cock in me. Goddamn it," he groaned. "Do you have a fucking condom? Tell me you have a condom, fuck."
Patrick pushed him back and he scrabbled in his back pocket, pulling out his wallet. He knew there was one in there, somewhere-he'd put it in a few weeks ago just in case, and yeah, he was pathetic but he didn't fucking care because there it was, thank God. He jerked it out and thrust it at Pete. "Put it on me."
"Shit." Pete's hands shook as he tore the wrapper open and he looked at Patrick, barely hesitating before sliding it over the head of Patrick's cock and rolling it down. Patrick's hips jerked. Jesus how could that be so fucking hot?
Patrick pushed him forward, against the cabinets underneath the bank of monitors and he turned Pete around, pulled at his hoodie, tugging it off Pete's arms. He threw it aside, smoothed his hands underneath Pete's t-shirt.
"God, you feel-" Patrick pressed his mouth to the back of Pete's neck. "You want-"
Pete was staring at the monitor. "Yeah. Fuck, yeah." He was breathing hard. "Jesus, look at them."
Patrick looked up. Gabe was bent over Bill and his hips were slamming into Bill's ass, hard enough to push Bill forward, and Bill's back was arched, his head thrown back and it was the hottest fucking thing Patrick could imagine right now.
Until he looked at Pete, at the long curve of his back, at the jeans hanging off his hips, off his ass, and fuck.
Patrick slid to his knees, his hands on Pete's hips, and he pushed Pete's jeans lower. His mouth trailed down over the flat curve of Pete's ass.
He could smell Pete, hot and musky, could hear his soft groans, and Patrick wanted-no, he needed to taste him.
"Come on," Pete whispered. "Please."
Patrick ran his tongue through Pete's crease, licking lightly, and fuck, he hadn't done this in years, hadn't ever with Pete, but God, he'd thought about it.
He lapped at Pete's skin, at the soft puckers. Pete tasted salty, earthy. Patrick groaned.
Pete's hips bucked slightly.
"Patrick." It was a murmur, a soft breath.
Another flick of Patrick's tongue, a tightening of his fingers on Pete's hips, pushing him forward, his face pressed against Pete's ass, and God the shudder than ran through Pete was enough to drive Patrick crazy. He ran the flat of his tongue across Pete's ass, bit the bottom curve, just over the bend of Pete's thigh and Pete swore, pushed his hips back.
"Come on," Pete ground out, and Patrick pulled away, his eyes fixed on the wetness of Pete's ass as he fumbled in the desk drawers. There had to be something that he could use. Anything. Fuck.
He looked up. Gabe was still inside Bill, pressing him forward and Bill's hand was on his cock, jerking wildly, and God, Patrick had to get inside Pete.
Now.
His fingers closed around a small bottle; he pulled it out. A trial-size Jergen's but fuck, that was good enough. He squeezed some on his fingers, smoothed it through Pete's crease, and he pressed one finger in.
Pete groaned. "Fucking shit, Stump, yeah. Come on."
Patrick pressed deeper, crooked his finger just so, and when Pete's thighs widened, when he gasped sharply, tensing, Patrick knew.
"Right there," he whispered, kissing Pete's ass, "yeah, I got you. That's it."
He pushed another finger in, stretching Pete, and he couldn't stop himself from licking around his fingers, lapping at Pete's skin, dipping his tongue into Pete, hot and musky and God, he tasted so fucking incredible, and with a groaned oh fuck, yeah, Pete pushed back against his hand, against his mouth.
God.
Patrick pulled his fingers away, jerked Pete's jeans down and off. Pete's boxers followed a moment later and he was standing there in just a t-shirt, tight over his chest and shoulders, and Patrick was so fucking hard.
He stroked a slick hand over his cock.
"Oh, fuck," Pete said again, bent over the cabinets, his ass clenching, pushing back as he arched against Parick, "come on, God, I want you fucking me so goddamn hard. Fuck, you drive me crazy--"
Patrick slid up Pete, turned him around because, fuck it, Patrick wanted to see him. He pushed Pete up onto the cabinets, pulling his legs wide, pressing his cock against him. "Tell me," he said, his mouth moving over Pete's jaw. "Tell me what you want, damn it."
"You." Pete's fingers dug into Patrick's shoulders. "Fuck it, I want you in me, fucking me, yeah. Come on, Patrick, man, give me your cock." Pete was looking at him with wild, wide eyes. "Please. I want your cock so far in me I can't fucking remember my fucking name."
He'd never been able to refuse Pete anything. Patrick doubted he ever would.
Patrick pushed into Pete, and he was hot and tight and goddamn. Patrick's fingers dug into Pete's hips.
They were still for a moment-a heartbeat-a long steady look-and then Pete pushed his hips up and Patrick pressed forward and Jesus, he was fucking Pete.
Pete.
"So fucking good," Pete whispered in his ear. "Your cock, so fucking good."
Patrick thrust into him, pulling Pete to the edge of the cabinets and he wrapped Pete's legs around his waist.
And then Pete was kissing him, open and wet, and moving against him, arching into each thrust, and Patrick knew he wasn't going to last long.
Not when Pete was tightening around him, telling him to fuck him, that he wanted Patrick, that he needed him and God, the things he wanted to do to Patrick, the things he'd always wanted to do to Patrick.
"God, I've always wanted you to fuck me," Pete gasped, "since I met you and fuck, man I'd be in bed, jerking off and so fucking guilty for even thinking about it, but I'd get a girl sometimes to strap-on, you know, and I'd pretend she was you-" He dug his heel into the small of Patrick's back, pulling him closer. Deeper.
Patrick lifted Pete's hips, thrust in harder. "Yeah? You did that?"
"Fuck, yeah." Pete bit at Patrick's jaw, undulating beneath him. "Yeah, and then you were fucking guys and I hated them when I found out because fuck, man, they were getting feel you inside of them-" Pete twisted his hips, his head falling back against a monitor. His hair was damp with sweat; it caught on his cheek, dark against his pale skin. "Yeah, fuck, like that, Jesus Christ, do that again, Patrick, God, please--"
Patrick slammed into Pete, pulling him harder against him, and he was so fucking deep into him, God, yeah. Nothing had felt like this before, nothing.
"And then there's Saporta." Pete dug his fingernails into Patrick's arms, gasping. "Touching you and Bill standing there staring at you and him, and fuck, Patrick, goddamn it that's so fucking not going to happen because you're mine-"
Pete cried out, arched against Patrick, his fingers sliding down Patrick's t-shirt, twisting in it, and fuck.
Patrick groaned and there wasn’t anything he could do to hold himself back because it was too fucking much and one more stroke into Pete-
“Pete,” Patrick choked out, closing his eyes. “Fuck, God, touch yourself, come on-" He arched up against Pete, needing this, wanting this. Pete kissed him, whispered look at me, and Patrick opened his eyes and there was Pete, watching him, bottom lip caught between his teeth and his hand was moving on his own cock-fast and tight--and just fuck.
Patrick shuddered, coming in hard, hot spurts inside of Pete and it was all he could do to keep his eyes open to watch Pete’s eyes widen, his breath catch.
“Shit, Patrick,” Pete said, his voice high, eyes wide. His hand, sticky and wet from his own cock, caught Patrick’s hip, holding him still as he thrust against Patrick, and the only thing Patrick wanted was to see him come, to know he did that.
To Pete.
Fuck.
It was everything out of his fantasies. And more.
He grabbed Pete, pulled him into a kiss as he pressed his hips forward, grinding into Pete's cock. "I’m going to make you come so fucking hard," he whispered against Pete's mouth. "So fucking hard, Wentz."
Pete groaned. "Yeah. Okay." He was shaking, gasping. "How?"
A swipe of his tongue across Pete's bottom lip, a quick bite at the corner of his mouth. "Like this."
Patrick's fingers curled around Pete's cock and he stroked, hard and quick and Pete cried out, his hips bucking up, his hands tightening on Patrick's shoulders.
"Don't you dare come yet," Patrick said, and his hand moved over Pete's cock, palm twisting over the head. "You're not going to come until I tell you to, all right?"
Pete nodded, and he bit his bottom lip, pressing his shoulders back against the monitor again. His t-shirt was pushed up, and his stomach was damp, the muscles clenching, moving beneath his skin with each upwards thrust of his hips.
He was fucking gorgeous, and Patrick couldn't believe he was still inside of Pete, still touching him, Jesus fuck.
"God, you should have a cock ring on," Patrick whispered, and when Pete's dick jerked in his hand, he grinned. "You like that?"
"Make it easier not to shoot on your face right now," Pete choked out and Patrick's breath caught because, God, how he wanted Pete to do that.
Patrick kissed him, and Pete's mouth opened beneath his, warm and wet, and God, there wasn't anything like kissing Pete. Tasting Pete. Fucking Pete. Coming inside Pete.
His fingers tightened on Pete's cock, twisted around the shaft, down and up. Pete was whimpering against him, saying his name over and over and over again, his fingers pulling at Patrick's t-shirt, his legs moving restlessly, feet sliding over Patrick's ass.
"So fucking hot," Patrick said. "You want to come, don't you?"
Pete just looked up at him, gasped. His hands slid down Patrick's arms.
"Hold on," Patrick said, "not yet." He stroked up Pete's dick, and the head was wet and red against his fist.
He pulled his hand away, licked the wetness off his palm, his fingers, and God, this was what Pete's cock smelled like, what his come would taste like, fuck.
Patrick knew what he wanted. He pulled back, his cock sliding out of Pete's ass and fuck, he missed the tightness, the warmth….missed Pete, but he pushed his fingers in Pete's mouth.
"Taste," he groaned, and Pete sucked at Patrick's fingers, making his cock ache again as Pete's tongue dipped between each finger, as his teeth scrapped across Patrick's knuckles.
And then Patrick was on his knees, his mouth around the head of Pete's cock, closing tight, his tongue lapping at the slit, tasting Pete.
"Oh, God," Pete groaned, his hand catching the back of Patrick's head, fingers twisting in his hair. "Patrick, I-Patrick-" He shifted beneath him, his legs spreading wide. "Fuck, I want to come down your throat, make you swallow. Yeah. I fucking want you to drink me down."
Patrick sucked him harder. Fuck.
He held Pete's hips still, kept them from bucking up and Pete was so close, Patrick could tell from the gasps and the whimpers and Pete's fingers tightening in his hair, and just before it was too much, just before Pete couldn't stop himself, Patrick pulled away.
Looked up at him.
Pete swore.
"I want to see," Patrick said roughly, and his fingers closed around Pete's wet dick. "I want to watch you come."
Pete's hips jerked. "Now?" he asked, pleading and Patrick twisted his hand over the head of Pete's cock.
"Now."
Pete cried out, and he pulled at Patrick's hair, his hips bucking up again, and over and over he said Jesus, Patrick, fuck, oh, fuck yeah as come hit Patrick's cheek, his hair, hot and thick and goddamn it, watching Pete tense, his eyes close, his body shake was the most erotic thing Patrick had ever seen.
Ever.
Pete fell against him, gasping, his face buried against Patrick’s neck.
They lay there silently for a moment, Pete curled over Patrick's shoulder almost, and Patrick dreaded Pete pulling away, dreaded what would come next.
The monitors flickered above them.
The bathroom was empty.
"You know," Pete said finally, his mouth brushing against Patrick's throat, sending shivers down Patrick's spine, "if fucking Gabe Saporta touches you one more time, I'll rip his nuts off with my bare hands."
Patrick slid up, pushed Pete back against the monitor. "What?"
Pete brushed Patrick's hair back from his forehead. "You heard me. Don't fucking kiss him again."
"I think he kissed me," Patrick said mildly, but he was staring down at Pete, into dark eyes that were looking at him, steady and even.
"Whatever." Pete's thumbs circled against Patrick's temple, smoothing his hair back behind his ear. "Don't kiss anyone."
"Pete," Patrick said, but Pete's mouth was on his, soft and sweet this time, a slow, easy kiss that caught Patrick's breath.
Patrick pulled away, peeled the condom off and tossed it in the trash can under the desk. He shoved himself back into his jeans, not looking at Pete as he jerked the zipper up. "That's not fair."
"I don't want anyone touching you." Pete leaned against the cabinets, half-naked, and there was something about the wanton slouch of his body that pissed Patrick off.
"Put your fucking clothes on," he snapped, looking away, and his face was hot.
Pete didn't move. "Patrick," he said softly, reaching for him, and Patrick pulled away.
"You've got a girlfriend," he started, and Pete's fingers closed around his wrist, tugging him back. Patrick shook his head. "This is a bad idea, Pete. Bad."
"It's not like that." Pete traced a figure eight on the back of Patrick's hand with his thumbnail. "We're just friends."
Patrick sighed heavily.
"We are," Pete insisted, and he hesitated. He licked his bottom lip. "It's not like us."
He slid off the cabinet, reached for his jeans. He pulled them on; they hung unbuttoned at his hips.
His eyes met Patrick's again. "Do you ever listen to me?" Pete asked quietly. "Did you hear what I said when your cock was so fucking deep inside of me I couldn't think of anything else? That's truth, dude."
Patrick didn't say anything; Pete cupped his hand over Patrick's cheek, rubbed his thumb across his skin.
"I didn't think I had a shot," he said. "Even when I found out about the other guys. You're my best friend. I didn't want to fuck this up."
Patrick just looked at him. "Have we?"
"No." Pete hesitated. "I hope not."
They just looked at each other.
"Me too," Patrick said finally. "We can't go back, you know." He looked away.
"Do you want to?" Pete twisted the hem of his t-shirt in one hand.
Patrick hesitated. It'd be easy to lie. Safer, probably.
He couldn't.
"No." He looked at Pete. "I don't."
Pete leaned in, brushed his mouth lightly over Patrick's. "God, you're the hottest fuck I've ever had, you know that?"
Patrick eyed him.
"I mean it." Pete grinned. "So you can't tell me I'm not going to get any more Stump cock, man. Because that would be a fucking tragedy."
"You're such a dick." Patrick couldn't hide his smile.
"Your dick." Pete slid his arm around Patrick's waist, pulling his jeans together with the other hand. Finally. "So, think you might be up to trying that on a proper bed?"
"Maybe." Patrick leaned into Pete.
Pete's kiss was soft, gentle.
This, Patrick thought, might be the best crazy so far.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Pete/Patrick with a side of Gabe/Beckett
Summary: The opening night of Angels and Kings is a lot more entertaining than Patrick expects.
Word count: ~6500
Warnings: voyeurism, public sex, rimming, dirty talk
Author's Notes: This is for misspamela's Tales from the Angels and Kings Opening challenge, but I have to say a huge thank-you to supergrover24, who inspired it and who urged me on to write what is possibly the smuttiest PWP I've done so far. I think. *G* She's my Muse on this one. Please to be noting that this so didn't happen. Though I wish it did. Also, MTV.com reports that Gabe and Bill were chatting each other up at the opening. So. Blame them for this too. *G* Title is courtesy luciamad.
Charlie'd been the one to insist on the cameras.
Pete had thought it was a stupid idea because it was a dive bar, for Christ's sake, and Charlie had just looked at him, arms crossed over his chest, and he'd blinked slowly, once, then twice, with that calm, I-really-don't-give-a-fuck look on his face that even Pete couldn't argue with.
So Pete had given in (and Patrick was a little relieved about that because, you know, the last thing they needed was to have something happen they couldn't control and he didn't even want to think about what could happen when people were drunk--he'd been around Dirty enough, after all, and he was an affectionate drunk, not a mean one) and the cameras had been installed. Discreetly. You'd not even notice them unless you knew where to look, tucked away in the shadows.
Over the bar. Tucked in nooks and crannies. In the bathrooms even, outside the stalls--though there was a small, neatly engraved sign in there, noting the fact--and Patrick had just looked at Charlie then and Charlie had shrugged.
"Unisex bathrooms? In a fucking bar? Better safe than sorry. I wouldn't let my sister go in there without fucking cameras. I don't give a shit what Wentz wants, God love him."
Patrick’d had to agree.
The cameras went up.
***
His birthday party had been quiet compared to this.
The bar was packed, people everywhere, and Jesus, that was just from the guest list. Patrick didn't want to think about the swarms of people outside, spilling across 11th. He'd even heard that James Gandolfini had shown up, tried to park, and then gotten pissed off at the paparazzi's flashbulbs going off in his face enough to flip them a bird and speed off.
At least that's what he finally realized once Joe had shouted in his ear again--after Patrick had looked at him blankly and yelled Gandalf? As in little hairy-footed people-leading? How much fucking weed have you had, man?
Andy had choked on his seltzer, and Troh had spilled his beer over Andy's favorite vintage Zepplin t-shirt, pounding at his back wildly and shouting okay there, Hurley, hey man, you okay until Andy knocked his hand away.
"Anyone seen Pete?" Patrick asked and Andy shrugged.
"Last I saw he was in the corner trying to get his hand up Ashlee's shirt without MTV filming it." Joe lifted his bottle to his mouth, holding it loosely between two fingers, as he watched a girl in a skintight tank-top (and an even tighter pair of jeans) slide past. She smiled at them; even Patrick's eyes drifted down to her tits. Joe slid off the stool. "Speaking of which..."
Andy shook his head, his elbows splayed on the bar. He dug the lime out of his glass, fingers dripping, and sucked on it. "You're going to be in so much fucking trouble, Troh."
"Just talking." Joe drained his beer, set the bottle on the bar. "Nothing wrong with talking, right?"
"Isn't that what you said last time?" Patrick asked, but Joe was already pushing through the crowd, following Tank-top Girl. "Fucking lucky bastard," he groused, taking Joe's abandoned stool. "Twenty bucks says he gets blown in the bathroom."
Andy just gave him a look. "Forty says she offers and he chickens out."
"You're on." Patrick propped his chin on his fist and sighed.
"Everything okay?" Andy was drumming the backbeat to Everybody Wants You on the bartop with his fingertips, in perfect time with the music from the dance floor. Patrick knew the habit well. He still did it sometimes himself and it'd been years since he'd drummed.
He dropped his hand onto the bar and gave Andy a half smile. "Yeah, man. Just, you know, party. It's nothing."
Except it was.
Sort of.
Everybody in the fucking universe was getting laid except him lately, and it was pissing Patrick off.
It wasn't that he couldn't.
Or didn't even--he'd made out with that girl in New Zealand after all and she'd ended up straddling him, her hand shoved in his jeans and that'd been pretty damn good, except that Joe had burst in just after he'd come over her hand, with Dirty on his heels, both of them stoned and in search of the Doritos Patrick kept in his carryon.
At least that'd distracted him from the fact that he'd just moaned Pete against her mouth as his hips jerked up, his cock hot and wet and sticky against her stomach, his hands digging into her waist.
Shit.
"Give me an O'Doul's," he told the bartender, and a green bottle was in front of him in seconds, cold and open. Patrick took a swig and sighed. He leaned back against the bar, suddenly wishing he could get drunk off his ass. He stared glumly down at the O'Doul's.
So not going to happen.
Fuck it to hell and back.
***
The bar was dark, even with the occasional camera flash still glinting off the red walls. Karen had managed to send most of the photographers and video crews home, but some--the ones they knew a bit better--were still hanging around, the cameras forgotten in favor of the open bar. It was hot, and stifling, and Patrick had already shrugged out of his jacket, leaving it on one of the leather sofas.
He slid through the crowd, ducking his head and pulling his 504 Plan cap further down his forehead as he passed the remnants of the MTV crew--the last thing he wanted at the moment was to be fucking interviewed, even off-the-record. He wanted to go back to Pete's apartment, to kick his shoes off and collapse on the couch in his boxers and t-shirt, bare feet on the coffee table while he flipped through every goddamn channel in the Time Warner Digital lineup.
Patrick was used to not getting what he wanted.
But he was tired, and he was sweating, and he was beginning to get fucking cranky, so when he nearly ran into Jay-Z, he grabbed his arm and said, "hey man, have you seen Pete around?"
Jay-Z rubbed his palm over his damp forehead. "Last I saw, a few minutes ago, he was getting Simpson into a car--"
"He fucking left?" Patrick was going to kill Pete. Seriously. All out, no holds barred, first-degree homicide--the kind they called Gil and Catherine in to solve except there'd be no wrapping it up by the fourth act because Patrick would damn well be standing there with blood still dripping from his fucking hands--
"Hey." Jay-Z was giving him an odd look. "You all right, man?"
Patrick blinked. God, he was fucking exhausted. He hated this kind of shit. He was not a partying kind of guy. "Yeah. Sorry. Pete left?"
"Nah," Jay-Z shook his head and grabbed another glass of scotch that was passing on a waitress's tray. "Said he was going to hang out back with Charlie for a while."
Relief flooded Patrick. He was a fucking shit of a best friend, he knew. He shouldn't be so happy that Ashlee had fucked off. He liked her. He did. She was a sweet girl. But every time Pete brought her around, Patrick's fists clenched tight and his stomach burned and the way she hung over Pete like she fucking owned him or something just--
He suddenly realized he was grinding his teeth.
Shit.
Patrick ran a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose, rubbing at his eyes. He sighed.
Pete.
"Right. I should find him, yeah," Patrick said, over the bouncy Lily Allen remix that had half the crowd on the dance floor, it seemed, and Jay-Z just nodded, tapping his fist to Patrick's.
Patrick pushed through the crowd again, hating everyone at the moment. He was going to find Pete and tell him fuck it, he was going home.
He slid past Tommy Hilfiger and his girlfriend Dee and the way they were making out-God. There were just some things a guy wasn’t meant to see, you know?
Joe was still in the corner with Tank-top Girl, their heads bent together, and her leg was pressed against his, and Joe was laughing at something she said, even though his eyes were fixed on the low scoop of her shirt.
Patrick hated them too.
Christ. It was almost like he had fucking blue balls which was crazy because he jacked off twice every night, and at least once in the morning too lately. He didn't know what was wrong with him. Really. Sure he was a guy; he thought about sex roughly every seven-point-four seconds, but this was ridiculous.
And it was even more ridiculous that, if he was honest with himself--which Patrick prided himself on because really, if there was one thing being around Pete taught you it was that. Pete had no delusions about himself and didn't let anyone else have any either. So if he was honest with himself, Patrick knew that the fucking fact of the matter was that he could fuck the entire lineup of Pussycat Dolls and he'd still have blue balls of a sort because none of them were Pete.
Pete.
Pete with the girlfriend who wasn't really a girlfriend, not in the way the blogs and tabloids thought because Patrick knew Pete well enough to know when he was really getting laid and not just spending most of his nights making out on top of the covers.
And Pete wasn't getting laid.
Not any more than Patrick was.
Fuck.
He turned a corner, stumbling into a darker alcove, and there were people there, shit, and Patrick muttered sorry, sorry at the two guys on the loveseat, their arms and legs wrapped around each other, their quiet groans sending a shiver of want up Patrick's spine.
Goddamn it, he had the worst luck--
"Hey, man. Patrick." One of the guys looked up at him, almost blankly, and Patrick blinked. Bill Beckett's mouth was swollen and pink and wet and Christ, that would be bad enough, but Gabe was underneath him, and that god-awful abstract t-shirt of his was pushed up and Patrick swore he could count every rib the way Gabe was arched.
Patrick shoved his hands in his pockets; his jeans pulled tight across his cock and he breathed in sharply. "Hey. Sorry, I was just looking..." He trailed off. "You guys should be careful," he said finally, staring at the mugshot of Sid Vicious on the wall and not the way Bill's fingers were trailing over Gabe's nipple. "Still some photographers out there."
Bill groaned, and he frowned at Gabe. "Got a point there."
"Bastards." Gabe smoothed a hand over Bill's ass. Patrick looked away.
A group of girls walked past, throwing sideways glances and smiles their way, and Gabe rolled out from beneath Bill, and Patrick would not look at the bulge in his jeans, or the way Bill was sprawled across the couch, all legs and arms and long brown hair and half unbuttoned Levi's.
He wouldn't.
Fuck.
"Like to watch, Patrick?" Gabe whispered in his ear and he was too fucking close to him, close enough for his breath to brush warmly over Patrick's skin, close enough to drape his arm over Patrick's shoulder, close enough to make Patrick's dick jump and shit, Patrick wasn't doing this.
He pulled away. "Knock it off," he muttered, and his cheeks burned.
Fucking Gabe.
Bill laughed and sat up, pushing his hair back out of his eyes. "Leave him alone, man." He gave Patrick an apologetic look. "He's an asswipe."
Gabe flicked his tongue towards Bill, curling it up against his top lip and Jesus fuck, that was…yeah.
Patrick shivered.
And when Gabe suddenly reached for him, and pulled Patrick up against him with a laugh and a Bill likes to watch too, Patrick knew it was a bad idea, knew it, but Gabe was kissing him already, pushing him against the wall, his hands cupping Patrick's face, and he tasted like beer and peanuts.
It wasn't like Gabe hadn't kissed him before because, fuck, there wasn't anyone in their circle Gabe hadn't tongued, except for maybe Andy who was as fucking straight as you could possibly imagine, and Christ, Patrick didn't remember it being this fucking hot before, up against the wall with Gabe's mouth moving over his and Bill standing next to them, eyes wide and watching, his breath hot on Patrick's neck and-
Pete, he thought, except Gabe pulled back and raised an eyebrow at him and Patrick realized that he'd fucking done it again and in front of Gabe and Bill who could never keep their mouths shut about goddamn anything--
Shit.
Patrick shoved Gabe off him.
"Dude," he said breathlessly, and Patrick knew his face was red and, God, his dick was hard. He straightened his hat with shaking hands. "What the fuck-"
Gabe grinned at him, totally unapologetic, and Patrick suddenly felt like a mouse being watched by a snake. "We're going to try out those bathrooms, if you want to come with," Gabe said, and Patrick was so very aware of Gabe leaning into him on one side and Bill on the other.
"We don't mind you watching," Bill said, his eyes too bright. He reeked of Jack Daniels.
Patrick slid past them both. "Man, I've got-" He bit his lip. "Yeah. Pete. I need to find Pete. I'm supposed to ask him…" Patrick trailed off.
They were both giving him an amused look and Patrick flushed.
"Later," he said and he ran.
***
The bar offices were down a narrow hallway, past the bathrooms and the kitchen, and if Pete was hiding out anywhere away from the crowds, it'd be here, Patrick knew.
Charlie was sitting on the desk when Patrick pushed the door open, along with Matt, the guy Charlie'd made Pete hire for security at the bar. A bank of monitors flickered behind them, grey-white in the fluorescent lighting. They both looked up, exchanged glances.
"Patrick," Charlie started and Patrick cut him off.
"Have you seen Pete?"
A moment's pause, another exchanged look, and then Pete said, from behind him, quietly, "Yeah. They have."
Pete closed the door of the inner office behind him and looked at Patrick, his hands shoved in the pockets of his red hoodie. "How's Gabe?" he asked flatly, his eyes fixed on Patrick in that way that Pete had that unnerved even Patrick sometimes.
Patrick flushed. "What?" he asked even though he knew what Pete meant. Goddamn fucking cameras. Goddamn fucking Charlie. Goddamn fucking Gabe.
With a too careless shrug of his shoulders, Pete's gaze flicked over the monitors behind Charlie, and when Charlie mumbled I think we better check the floor Matt agreed, far too quickly.
Patrick hadn't seen two burly guys scamper out of a room so fast. Well. Not since Dirty'd had gas last time, at least.
He just looked at Pete, standing there in front of him, still watching him calmly, evenly, and you'd never know Pete was pissed off, not unless you knew him well enough to recognize the set of his jaw, the tightness of his mouth.
"So he kissed me," Patrick said finally, a rush of righteous annoyance flooding over him. Jesus. It's not like Pete had any right to be angry. "What the fuck difference does it make? It's Gabe. How many times has he stuck his tongue down your throat? And anyway, I heard what you were doing in the corner with your girlfriend."
Pete's eyes narrowed; his fists jerked in his pockets. "Whatever," he said, and he pushed past Patrick. "Your life. You want pictures of the two of you floating around Buzznet, what the fuck do I care?"
"Jesus." Patrick glared at Pete's back. "What the hell is wrong with-" He broke off, blinking at one of the monitors. "Fuck."
Pete turned around. "What?"
"I think you'd better be more worried about Bill and Gabe," Patrick murmured and he moved around the corner of the desk.
It was an odd angle, shot down the side of the sinks in one bathroom, and you could only see the top of Bill's head, his hair falling forward into his face, but Gabe was obviously on his knees, his mouth moving across Bill's jeans, and Bill's hand was tight on his shoulder as Gabe pressed him back against the side of the first stall.
"Are they-" Pete peered at the grainy picture. "Fucking shit."
"Yeah." Patrick's throat was dry. He knew he should walk out of the office, or at least turn his head because, dude, but instead he stared at the flickering black and white images, and when Gabe jerked Bill's jeans open, pulled his cock out, and Gabe's hand stroked down the shaft once, twice, Patrick whispered, "fuck."
Pete breathed out, and his hand gripped the back of the chair, knuckles white. "He's going to-"
"Yeah."
They watched, the only sounds their quick breaths in the silent room, and Patrick was so fucking horny that he groaned softly as Gabe moved in front of Bill, his head bending forward, his hands tight on Bill's hips.
"We shouldn't-" Pete licked his bottom lip. "Fuck," he murmured as Gabe pulled back, and they could see Bill's cock, wet and dark against his pale stomach, his t-shirt pushed up and it didn't matter that someone had just walked into the bathroom because Gabe had his mouth on Bill's hipbone and his hand on Bill's dick, moving down it quickly, and Bill's head fell back against the metal side of the stall and he grabbed wildly for the sink, fingers curling around the rim of the counter as he gasped, eyes closed, bottom lip caught between his teeth.
"Oh, God," Patrick said, and he couldn't tear his eyes away, couldn't, even though he knew he should, knew that this was a horrible idea, knew how creepy it was-fuck, these were his friends--but it didn't fucking matter because somehow, in some way, this was so much better than porn.
He heard Pete's sharp breath, soft and eager and then Pete was next to him, his hand on Patrick's jaw, turning his head just enough to kiss him, rough and open. His mouth was warm and wet against Patrick's and all Patrick could think was Jesus when Pete grabbed his hand and pressed it against the swell of his prick.
Bad idea, such a bad, bad idea, but Patrick’s hand was already pulling at the buttons of Pete’s jeans, jerking them open. His fingers curled around Pete’s cock and Pete sighed into Patrick’s mouth and fuck.
Pete pushed Patrick back against the desk and, God, Patrick thought, grabbing at Pete’s shoulder with one hand, his other sliding over Pete’s dick, hot and smooth, and Pete’s tongue slid over his. Patrick groaned.
His hat fell off.
He barely noticed.
“Come on,” Pete whispered, his breath warm on Patrick’s mouth, and his hands were fumbling with Patrick’s jeans, pulling down the zipper, pushing past denim and cotton until his fingers were tight on Patrick’s cock. Jesus, Patrick couldn’t think, didn’t think-he just wanted. The edge of the desk dug into his ass, and he lifted up, slid onto the desktop, knocking over a plastic mug of office supplies, sending paperclips and pencils flying across the room, rolling over the bumpy wood floor with a clatter.
Patrick didn’t give a damn; he just wanted Pete closer. He spread his thighs, pulled at Pete’s hip, and Pete pressed against him, kissing him desperately, hungrily, and goddamn it, Patrick hadn’t been kissed like this in months.
“Patrick,” Pete said, roughly, rawly, his voice catching. His cock slid over Patrick’s and Patrick didn’t give a fuck about anything any more except the taste of Pete, salty-sweet, the feel of him, the smell of sweat and musk on the stretch of skin under Pete’s jaw.
And then Pete pressed their cocks together, hot and hard, and Patrick’s hips jerked and his thighs tightened around Pete’s hips.
It was Pete and Pete’s cock and Pete’s mouth and Pete’s hand and fuck, this was crazy, totally crazy, but it felt so goddamn good and Patrick had been fantasizing about it for months. Every time he fucking jerked now it was to Pete. Always Pete.
Always.
He was going to regret this afterwards; he knew that. He just didn’t care, not if it meant that Pete was going to rock his hips against Patrick’s in just that way, their cocks sliding over each other, and Pete’s fingers closing around both of them, pulling, pressing and his mouth trailing down Patrick’s jaw, tiny bites along his neck.
Fucking hell.
He could still see Gabe and Bill on the monitor, and Gabe pushed Bill against the sink, bent him over, and then he was on knees, his face pressed against Bill's bare ass, his hands splayed on his hips, and God.
"Pete." Patrick pulled at his shoulder. "Look at that, look at them, fuck, I want that. I want to be on my knees like that. Look at him, shit, he has his fingers in Bill-"
Patrick turned his head, caught Pete’s mouth with his own in a rough kiss, their teeth hitting together painfully, but neither of them stopped. Patrick opened his mouth, bit at Pete’s tongue, and he grabbed Pete’s shoulders, pushing his hips into Pete’s.
“More,” he choked out, and Pete groaned and shoved him back onto the desk, and papers tumbled onto the floor, but all Patrick could think of was the hot press of Pete’s cock against his, the wetness of his mouth, the grainy image flickering in the monitor as Gabe slid up Bill's back, pushed him forward. Patrick could see the look on Bill's face reflected in the mirror.
"Fuck, Pete." Patrick stared at the monitor. "They're going to fuck, Christ, yeah."
“Come on,” Pete whispered against his throat, “come on, tell me more. Tell me what they're doing.” He rocked into him, his eyes dark and bright and Patrick had never seen anything so fucking gorgeous.
"Bill," Patrick choked out, and it was almost too much. "Bill's taking him-God--Bill's just fucking taking him in like that, and, fuck, Pete, I want you to do that for me. I want to push you up against the wall and just fucking make you take it-"
Pete moaned, and he whispered, "Patrick, yeah, God." He rubbed against Patrick, and he was so fucking hard, and Patrick could barely think because, Christ, nothing had felt this good in so long. "Oh, fuck, man," Pete said, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps, "how's he fucking him?"
Another glance at the monitor, at Bill moving against Gabe, at his prick pressed against the sink, at Gabe's hands clutching Bill's thin hips, at them moving together, hard and fast, and shit, just fucking shit, it was the hottest thing Patrick'd seen.
"Patrick," Pete groaned and he was leaning into Patrick, his cock slick and hot, "come on, man. Come on, baby. Tell me."
"Hard." Patrick swallowed, stared at the monitor. "Like he wants it, like he needs it-God, Pete, he's fucking him so hard, and shit, Bill's begging for it, I can see him, Pete, fuck. He wants it. Wants it bad. Wants to be fucked."
"Not the only one, Christ." Pete rubbed up against him, staring down at him with glazed eyes. "Want you. Want your cock in me. Goddamn it," he groaned. "Do you have a fucking condom? Tell me you have a condom, fuck."
Patrick pushed him back and he scrabbled in his back pocket, pulling out his wallet. He knew there was one in there, somewhere-he'd put it in a few weeks ago just in case, and yeah, he was pathetic but he didn't fucking care because there it was, thank God. He jerked it out and thrust it at Pete. "Put it on me."
"Shit." Pete's hands shook as he tore the wrapper open and he looked at Patrick, barely hesitating before sliding it over the head of Patrick's cock and rolling it down. Patrick's hips jerked. Jesus how could that be so fucking hot?
Patrick pushed him forward, against the cabinets underneath the bank of monitors and he turned Pete around, pulled at his hoodie, tugging it off Pete's arms. He threw it aside, smoothed his hands underneath Pete's t-shirt.
"God, you feel-" Patrick pressed his mouth to the back of Pete's neck. "You want-"
Pete was staring at the monitor. "Yeah. Fuck, yeah." He was breathing hard. "Jesus, look at them."
Patrick looked up. Gabe was bent over Bill and his hips were slamming into Bill's ass, hard enough to push Bill forward, and Bill's back was arched, his head thrown back and it was the hottest fucking thing Patrick could imagine right now.
Until he looked at Pete, at the long curve of his back, at the jeans hanging off his hips, off his ass, and fuck.
Patrick slid to his knees, his hands on Pete's hips, and he pushed Pete's jeans lower. His mouth trailed down over the flat curve of Pete's ass.
He could smell Pete, hot and musky, could hear his soft groans, and Patrick wanted-no, he needed to taste him.
"Come on," Pete whispered. "Please."
Patrick ran his tongue through Pete's crease, licking lightly, and fuck, he hadn't done this in years, hadn't ever with Pete, but God, he'd thought about it.
He lapped at Pete's skin, at the soft puckers. Pete tasted salty, earthy. Patrick groaned.
Pete's hips bucked slightly.
"Patrick." It was a murmur, a soft breath.
Another flick of Patrick's tongue, a tightening of his fingers on Pete's hips, pushing him forward, his face pressed against Pete's ass, and God the shudder than ran through Pete was enough to drive Patrick crazy. He ran the flat of his tongue across Pete's ass, bit the bottom curve, just over the bend of Pete's thigh and Pete swore, pushed his hips back.
"Come on," Pete ground out, and Patrick pulled away, his eyes fixed on the wetness of Pete's ass as he fumbled in the desk drawers. There had to be something that he could use. Anything. Fuck.
He looked up. Gabe was still inside Bill, pressing him forward and Bill's hand was on his cock, jerking wildly, and God, Patrick had to get inside Pete.
Now.
His fingers closed around a small bottle; he pulled it out. A trial-size Jergen's but fuck, that was good enough. He squeezed some on his fingers, smoothed it through Pete's crease, and he pressed one finger in.
Pete groaned. "Fucking shit, Stump, yeah. Come on."
Patrick pressed deeper, crooked his finger just so, and when Pete's thighs widened, when he gasped sharply, tensing, Patrick knew.
"Right there," he whispered, kissing Pete's ass, "yeah, I got you. That's it."
He pushed another finger in, stretching Pete, and he couldn't stop himself from licking around his fingers, lapping at Pete's skin, dipping his tongue into Pete, hot and musky and God, he tasted so fucking incredible, and with a groaned oh fuck, yeah, Pete pushed back against his hand, against his mouth.
God.
Patrick pulled his fingers away, jerked Pete's jeans down and off. Pete's boxers followed a moment later and he was standing there in just a t-shirt, tight over his chest and shoulders, and Patrick was so fucking hard.
He stroked a slick hand over his cock.
"Oh, fuck," Pete said again, bent over the cabinets, his ass clenching, pushing back as he arched against Parick, "come on, God, I want you fucking me so goddamn hard. Fuck, you drive me crazy--"
Patrick slid up Pete, turned him around because, fuck it, Patrick wanted to see him. He pushed Pete up onto the cabinets, pulling his legs wide, pressing his cock against him. "Tell me," he said, his mouth moving over Pete's jaw. "Tell me what you want, damn it."
"You." Pete's fingers dug into Patrick's shoulders. "Fuck it, I want you in me, fucking me, yeah. Come on, Patrick, man, give me your cock." Pete was looking at him with wild, wide eyes. "Please. I want your cock so far in me I can't fucking remember my fucking name."
He'd never been able to refuse Pete anything. Patrick doubted he ever would.
Patrick pushed into Pete, and he was hot and tight and goddamn. Patrick's fingers dug into Pete's hips.
They were still for a moment-a heartbeat-a long steady look-and then Pete pushed his hips up and Patrick pressed forward and Jesus, he was fucking Pete.
Pete.
"So fucking good," Pete whispered in his ear. "Your cock, so fucking good."
Patrick thrust into him, pulling Pete to the edge of the cabinets and he wrapped Pete's legs around his waist.
And then Pete was kissing him, open and wet, and moving against him, arching into each thrust, and Patrick knew he wasn't going to last long.
Not when Pete was tightening around him, telling him to fuck him, that he wanted Patrick, that he needed him and God, the things he wanted to do to Patrick, the things he'd always wanted to do to Patrick.
"God, I've always wanted you to fuck me," Pete gasped, "since I met you and fuck, man I'd be in bed, jerking off and so fucking guilty for even thinking about it, but I'd get a girl sometimes to strap-on, you know, and I'd pretend she was you-" He dug his heel into the small of Patrick's back, pulling him closer. Deeper.
Patrick lifted Pete's hips, thrust in harder. "Yeah? You did that?"
"Fuck, yeah." Pete bit at Patrick's jaw, undulating beneath him. "Yeah, and then you were fucking guys and I hated them when I found out because fuck, man, they were getting feel you inside of them-" Pete twisted his hips, his head falling back against a monitor. His hair was damp with sweat; it caught on his cheek, dark against his pale skin. "Yeah, fuck, like that, Jesus Christ, do that again, Patrick, God, please--"
Patrick slammed into Pete, pulling him harder against him, and he was so fucking deep into him, God, yeah. Nothing had felt like this before, nothing.
"And then there's Saporta." Pete dug his fingernails into Patrick's arms, gasping. "Touching you and Bill standing there staring at you and him, and fuck, Patrick, goddamn it that's so fucking not going to happen because you're mine-"
Pete cried out, arched against Patrick, his fingers sliding down Patrick's t-shirt, twisting in it, and fuck.
Patrick groaned and there wasn’t anything he could do to hold himself back because it was too fucking much and one more stroke into Pete-
“Pete,” Patrick choked out, closing his eyes. “Fuck, God, touch yourself, come on-" He arched up against Pete, needing this, wanting this. Pete kissed him, whispered look at me, and Patrick opened his eyes and there was Pete, watching him, bottom lip caught between his teeth and his hand was moving on his own cock-fast and tight--and just fuck.
Patrick shuddered, coming in hard, hot spurts inside of Pete and it was all he could do to keep his eyes open to watch Pete’s eyes widen, his breath catch.
“Shit, Patrick,” Pete said, his voice high, eyes wide. His hand, sticky and wet from his own cock, caught Patrick’s hip, holding him still as he thrust against Patrick, and the only thing Patrick wanted was to see him come, to know he did that.
To Pete.
Fuck.
It was everything out of his fantasies. And more.
He grabbed Pete, pulled him into a kiss as he pressed his hips forward, grinding into Pete's cock. "I’m going to make you come so fucking hard," he whispered against Pete's mouth. "So fucking hard, Wentz."
Pete groaned. "Yeah. Okay." He was shaking, gasping. "How?"
A swipe of his tongue across Pete's bottom lip, a quick bite at the corner of his mouth. "Like this."
Patrick's fingers curled around Pete's cock and he stroked, hard and quick and Pete cried out, his hips bucking up, his hands tightening on Patrick's shoulders.
"Don't you dare come yet," Patrick said, and his hand moved over Pete's cock, palm twisting over the head. "You're not going to come until I tell you to, all right?"
Pete nodded, and he bit his bottom lip, pressing his shoulders back against the monitor again. His t-shirt was pushed up, and his stomach was damp, the muscles clenching, moving beneath his skin with each upwards thrust of his hips.
He was fucking gorgeous, and Patrick couldn't believe he was still inside of Pete, still touching him, Jesus fuck.
"God, you should have a cock ring on," Patrick whispered, and when Pete's dick jerked in his hand, he grinned. "You like that?"
"Make it easier not to shoot on your face right now," Pete choked out and Patrick's breath caught because, God, how he wanted Pete to do that.
Patrick kissed him, and Pete's mouth opened beneath his, warm and wet, and God, there wasn't anything like kissing Pete. Tasting Pete. Fucking Pete. Coming inside Pete.
His fingers tightened on Pete's cock, twisted around the shaft, down and up. Pete was whimpering against him, saying his name over and over and over again, his fingers pulling at Patrick's t-shirt, his legs moving restlessly, feet sliding over Patrick's ass.
"So fucking hot," Patrick said. "You want to come, don't you?"
Pete just looked up at him, gasped. His hands slid down Patrick's arms.
"Hold on," Patrick said, "not yet." He stroked up Pete's dick, and the head was wet and red against his fist.
He pulled his hand away, licked the wetness off his palm, his fingers, and God, this was what Pete's cock smelled like, what his come would taste like, fuck.
Patrick knew what he wanted. He pulled back, his cock sliding out of Pete's ass and fuck, he missed the tightness, the warmth….missed Pete, but he pushed his fingers in Pete's mouth.
"Taste," he groaned, and Pete sucked at Patrick's fingers, making his cock ache again as Pete's tongue dipped between each finger, as his teeth scrapped across Patrick's knuckles.
And then Patrick was on his knees, his mouth around the head of Pete's cock, closing tight, his tongue lapping at the slit, tasting Pete.
"Oh, God," Pete groaned, his hand catching the back of Patrick's head, fingers twisting in his hair. "Patrick, I-Patrick-" He shifted beneath him, his legs spreading wide. "Fuck, I want to come down your throat, make you swallow. Yeah. I fucking want you to drink me down."
Patrick sucked him harder. Fuck.
He held Pete's hips still, kept them from bucking up and Pete was so close, Patrick could tell from the gasps and the whimpers and Pete's fingers tightening in his hair, and just before it was too much, just before Pete couldn't stop himself, Patrick pulled away.
Looked up at him.
Pete swore.
"I want to see," Patrick said roughly, and his fingers closed around Pete's wet dick. "I want to watch you come."
Pete's hips jerked. "Now?" he asked, pleading and Patrick twisted his hand over the head of Pete's cock.
"Now."
Pete cried out, and he pulled at Patrick's hair, his hips bucking up again, and over and over he said Jesus, Patrick, fuck, oh, fuck yeah as come hit Patrick's cheek, his hair, hot and thick and goddamn it, watching Pete tense, his eyes close, his body shake was the most erotic thing Patrick had ever seen.
Ever.
Pete fell against him, gasping, his face buried against Patrick’s neck.
They lay there silently for a moment, Pete curled over Patrick's shoulder almost, and Patrick dreaded Pete pulling away, dreaded what would come next.
The monitors flickered above them.
The bathroom was empty.
"You know," Pete said finally, his mouth brushing against Patrick's throat, sending shivers down Patrick's spine, "if fucking Gabe Saporta touches you one more time, I'll rip his nuts off with my bare hands."
Patrick slid up, pushed Pete back against the monitor. "What?"
Pete brushed Patrick's hair back from his forehead. "You heard me. Don't fucking kiss him again."
"I think he kissed me," Patrick said mildly, but he was staring down at Pete, into dark eyes that were looking at him, steady and even.
"Whatever." Pete's thumbs circled against Patrick's temple, smoothing his hair back behind his ear. "Don't kiss anyone."
"Pete," Patrick said, but Pete's mouth was on his, soft and sweet this time, a slow, easy kiss that caught Patrick's breath.
Patrick pulled away, peeled the condom off and tossed it in the trash can under the desk. He shoved himself back into his jeans, not looking at Pete as he jerked the zipper up. "That's not fair."
"I don't want anyone touching you." Pete leaned against the cabinets, half-naked, and there was something about the wanton slouch of his body that pissed Patrick off.
"Put your fucking clothes on," he snapped, looking away, and his face was hot.
Pete didn't move. "Patrick," he said softly, reaching for him, and Patrick pulled away.
"You've got a girlfriend," he started, and Pete's fingers closed around his wrist, tugging him back. Patrick shook his head. "This is a bad idea, Pete. Bad."
"It's not like that." Pete traced a figure eight on the back of Patrick's hand with his thumbnail. "We're just friends."
Patrick sighed heavily.
"We are," Pete insisted, and he hesitated. He licked his bottom lip. "It's not like us."
He slid off the cabinet, reached for his jeans. He pulled them on; they hung unbuttoned at his hips.
His eyes met Patrick's again. "Do you ever listen to me?" Pete asked quietly. "Did you hear what I said when your cock was so fucking deep inside of me I couldn't think of anything else? That's truth, dude."
Patrick didn't say anything; Pete cupped his hand over Patrick's cheek, rubbed his thumb across his skin.
"I didn't think I had a shot," he said. "Even when I found out about the other guys. You're my best friend. I didn't want to fuck this up."
Patrick just looked at him. "Have we?"
"No." Pete hesitated. "I hope not."
They just looked at each other.
"Me too," Patrick said finally. "We can't go back, you know." He looked away.
"Do you want to?" Pete twisted the hem of his t-shirt in one hand.
Patrick hesitated. It'd be easy to lie. Safer, probably.
He couldn't.
"No." He looked at Pete. "I don't."
Pete leaned in, brushed his mouth lightly over Patrick's. "God, you're the hottest fuck I've ever had, you know that?"
Patrick eyed him.
"I mean it." Pete grinned. "So you can't tell me I'm not going to get any more Stump cock, man. Because that would be a fucking tragedy."
"You're such a dick." Patrick couldn't hide his smile.
"Your dick." Pete slid his arm around Patrick's waist, pulling his jeans together with the other hand. Finally. "So, think you might be up to trying that on a proper bed?"
"Maybe." Patrick leaned into Pete.
Pete's kiss was soft, gentle.
This, Patrick thought, might be the best crazy so far.