Birthday Smut-A-Thon: Frogs Out There Who Used To Be People (Bandom/FOB)
Title: Frogs Out There Who Used To Be People
Fandom: Bandom (Fall Out Boy)
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 3,800
Summary: Sexpollen of the supernatural variety.
Notes: Okay, technically this is not a Birthday Smut-a-Thon prompt. I actually wrote it for anon_lovefest. But I felt very celebratory doing it! So I'm counting it.
Disclaimer. Not mine. Just for fun.
Warning: This has the usual consent issues you find with sexpollen, so be warned. Also, no offense intended to actual practitioners of witchcraft!
Frogs Out There Who Used To Be People
by Lenore
"Don't you think there's something off about Pete's new girlfriend?" Patrick frowns in the direction of his best friend, who is sitting two tables over with the aforementioned girl, downing pink drinks without even a hint of embarrassment, because they're her favorites.
The girl's name is Desideria, which she insists is on her birth certificate and not just something she made up. She has long dark hair and wears extremely tiny skirts, and Patrick is pretty sure one of her eyes is bigger than the other. At the moment, she's messily sprawled across Pete, practically giving him a lap dance. She picks the maraschino cherry out of her gaudy cocktail and holds it up. Pete reaches for it with his mouth, and Desideria moves her hand, teasing. Pete barks with laughter, and keeps trying to catch the cherry, and Patrick is unfortunately reminded of a trained seal with a fish.
Desideria finally pops the cherry into her own mouth. She can tie the stem into a bow with her tongue. Patrick knows this, because Pete has only mentioned it one billion times.
Joe watches for a moment and then shrugs. "Isn't there something wrong with everybody Pete dates?"
"But, but," Patrick insists, "like something really wrong."
"One of her eyes is bigger than the other," Joe offers.
Patrick slumps over his half-finished beer which is by now too warm for him to drink. No one gets it. No one else sees it.
Andy puts on his Zen-master expression. "What do you think is wrong with Pete's girlfriend, Patrick?" he asks, slowly, enunciating each word. If he were anyone else, Patrick would punch him.
"It, it's just--" He stalls, not sure if he should actually say it, because having his friends stare at him like he's crazy really sucks. At last concern for Pete wins out. "I think she's a witch!" he says in a rush.
Joe considers this a moment, absently scratching at his elbow. "Well, she did go kind of ballistic when I ate all the Cool Ranch Doritos."
Patrick sighs. "Not that kind of witch. I mean--"
"Like Wiccan?" Andy suggests.
"Like there might be frogs out there who used to be people," Patrick says.
They both just stare at him for a moment.
"Oh, hey. Dude. Patrick." Joe fixes him with a look that's got a wisp of pity in it. "I'm sure Pete will get tired of her soon, and be back to hanging all over you again."
"What?" Patrick sputters. "That's not-- I don't want--"
Andy pats him on the arm. "Just hang in there, man."
"I don't care if Pete has a girlfriend!" Patrick's voice rises, louder than it probably should. "I just don't want him dating someone who's going to put the whammy on him with her dark arts!"
Andy and Joe both nod, too slowly, their eyes shifty, like they're placating the crazy person at the table.
Patrick sighs and takes a sip of his beer. It tastes shitty, the way warm beer always does.
***
Patrick is not in the best of moods when he goes to bed. His best friend is in the clutches of a voodoo mistress, and his bandmates think he's cracking up, and the air conditioner in his room makes this rattling lub-lub-clunk that just might be the most annoying noise in the entire world. He has only just managed to settle into a fragile sleep when an ungodly pounding startles him awake. At first, in his fuzzy-headed state, he thinks the air conditioner has ratcheted up its "annoy the fuck out of Patrick" gambit another notch, and he peers blearily around the room, looking for something he can use to teach it a lesson. He thinks disappointedly, Where is a baseball bat or sledgehammer when you really need it?
Then a few more neurons join the party, and Patrick realizes that the pounding is actually someone at the door. He thumps out of bed, stubbing his toe on the dresser, spouting "fuck, fuck, fuck" as he goes. He whips the door open, ready to yell or possibly throw a punch.
Pete slouches in the doorway, not at all who Patrick was expecting. Honestly, he can't imagine anything short of a crowbar that would have separated Pete from Desideria. This is how Pete is with his girlfriends.
"What's wrong?" Patrick asks him.
Pete blinks owlishly, as if he doesn't quite know where he is or how he got there. "Trick," he says in a pitiful voice.
He stumbles inside, unsteady on his feet, and throws himself at Patrick, all flailing arms and wiry strength and desperate urgency. Patrick's heart lurches. Maybe one day there will be enough days, months, years between them and a Best Buy parking lot that moments like this won't scare the living shit out of him. Maybe tomorrow Patrick will yell at Pete for being a selfish fucking drama queen who has an insomniac's disregard for other people's rest. Maybe he'll even punch Pete in the mouth if he's pissed enough. Right now, though, Patrick brings his arms up, folding them around Pete, one hand cupping the back of his head.
"What's wrong?" he asks more firmly.
Pete shakes his head, his nose pressed into Patrick's neck. He breathes in, deep, shaky gulps, like he's trying to memorize how Patrick smells. "'s just… You can't go away, okay? Because I can't-- I need you, Patrick."
Patrick can feel that Pete is shaking, and his voice quavers on Patrick's name, and fuck, why didn't he notice before how the heat is just pouring off of Pete?
He skims his palm over Pete's forehead. "Shit. You're burning up. Are you sick? Don't be sick, okay?"
Pete mumbles, "Don't think I'm sick. 's just--" He curls his fingers into Patrick's T-shirt, clinging. "Need you. Please, please. Don't go. Don't ever go. I need you to be with me."
Patrick puts a wry smile into his voice. "I'm right here. Where am I going to go?"
"No," Pete says, sounding frustrated. "I need you to be with me." He angles his head, gets his lips on Patrick's jaw, drags his tongue over stubble. It's not anything he hasn't done a million times before, often enough in front of a stadium full of screaming kids.
Still. "Pete?" Patrick says uncertainly.
Pete chants, "Patrick, Patrick, Patrick." He licks at the curve of Patrick's neck, right at that vulnerable place where the skin is paper thin, where the pulse sounds like thunder.
Patrick shivers. He can't help it. Pete takes this as a sign of encouragement, or not a complete lack of willingness at the very least. His lips trail upwards, over Patrick's Adam's apple, over his chin, and then right up against Patrick's mouth, firmly pressed. Pete has, of course, kissed Patrick before, too many times to count, even occasionally with tongue the way he's doing now. But those other kisses have been Pete playing to the spotlight, Pete being a goofball, Pete feeling like it's his mission in life to make Patrick turn pink and sputter "You got your spit in my mouth!"
This isn't like any of those other kisses. Pete takes deep, long, greedy sips of Patrick's mouth, moaning softly, vibrating with need. It's not just his forehead that's feverish. His whole body swelters, plastered all along Patrick's front. Patrick can feel the heat of Pete's hard on pressed against his thigh.
For a moment, Patrick loses his mind too, as desperate and far-gone as Pete. He presses a hand insistently to the back of Pete's head, keeping him there, there, right there, while he frantically returns the kiss, biting softly at Pete's lips, stroking their tongues together. He kisses until they're both breathless and shuddering. Pete whimpers and lunges, like he's trying to crawl inside Patrick's skin. Patrick has fantasized about this a time or two or possibly sixty-five million, and it's so good, even better than he thought, and there's no reason why he shouldn't, why they can't...
Except.
Patrick breaks the kiss and takes a stumbling step back. "Wait. You've got a girlfriend, remember?"
Pete looks blank.
"Desideria?" Patrick reminds him.
There are still no signs of comprehension.
Pete grapples at Patrick's shoulder, pulling him close again, pressing their mouths together. "You're the only one I want."
Maybe whatever Pete has is catching. Or maybe Patrick's just been waiting way too long to hear that--since he was sixteen years old, fumbling and shy and so in love with Pete it was actually kind of painful. Whatever the reason, Patrick ditches his claim to the moral high ground. Desideria who? He has more important things to think about, like how long he can suck on Pete's tongue without passing out.
When Pete finally pulls away, it has nothing to do with the need to breathe. He just wants to take his shirt off.
"What are you--" Patrick hasn't thought ahead to nakedness. He hasn't done much thinking at all up to this point.
"'m hot," Pete says, the words slurring. He undoes his jeans and kicks those off, too. He's not wearing any underwear.
Patrick stares. He's seen Pete naked before. Who hasn't, really? But he's never seen him like this, naked and hard and just for him. "Um." This is where sensible words about how they really shouldn't be doing this are supposed to come spilling out of him, but it seems that they've gotten stuck.
Pete throws himself onto Patrick's bed, cock bouncing, eyes glassy but intently focused, as if Patrick is the only thing that exists in the whole, vast universe.
"C'mere," he says, with a jerk of his chin.
Patrick stalls there, as if his feet are stuck to the drab, institutional-beige carpet. Pete doesn't break his stare, hardly even seems to blink. He licks his hand, a slow, deliberate drag of his tongue across his palm, and wraps it around his cock. His lips purse, as if touching himself takes all his concentration, and he starts to stroke, base to tip, his forehead furrowing. His erection, blood-dark and wet at the tip, slips and slides in his fist. Pete lets out a wild little sound, like an animal that's been startled. Like he didn't expect it to feel quite so good. Quite so necessary.
Patrick's feet take charge of the situation then, moving him over to the bed. His brain isn't exactly firing on all cylinders right now, but some strangled remnant of conscience does surface long enough to insist, I'm only going to check on him, to make sure he's okay. Patrick nods along as if someone actually said that out loud. He sits on the edge of the bed, none of him touching any of Pete. He has the best intentions of being good. Being careful. Being Pete's friend.
"Patrick," Pete says, a low moan torn from the back of his throat.
Technically, Pete hasn't actually asked for anything, but Patrick shakes his head, nonetheless. "You shouldn't-- There's something wrong. You're sick or--" Not in your right mind, but he can't say that to Pete. "You don't really want this. I can't--"
Pete's answer is to take Patrick's hand and move it to his cock. Patrick sits there for a moment, an eon, since the beginning of time, too stunned to move, to breathe. The kind of stunned like he's been hit over the head with a sledgehammer, bludgeoned by lust. Touching Pete's naked cock does nothing to improve his ability to craft a metaphor.
Pete pushes his hips up demandingly and starts to ramble, "Been so fucking in love with you since you were sixteen, but couldn't fuck you up, so I didn't, but I can't, can't wait. Please."
This is not a word that comes naturally to Pete Wentz, and maybe that's why it seems to ricochet around inside Patrick, making heat coil and uncoil in his belly, making him too restless in his own skin to just sit there and keep doing nothing.
So he does something.
He leans over and kisses Pete's pretty, please-saying mouth, tracing the sensual bow of it with the tip of his tongue. He pushes Pete's hand away, gets his own palm wrapped around Pete's cock. It has a satisfying heft in Patrick's hand, hot and slippery, and he can feel the pulse beating in it beneath his fingers. He thumbs at the head, and Pete stains upwards, shoulders lifting off the mattress, neck craning. Two more pulls, and he comes all over himself, gasping, "Trick!"
Pete flops back down onto the bed and lets out his breath, a little sigh at the end of it, like he's pleased or maybe just relieved. This doesn't last long. He quickly starts to get hard again and curls in on himself, whimpering, needy and helpless-looking.
Patrick stares, his eyes going wide. "Oh, fuck! Are you on something? What the fuck did you take?" He knows he's shouting, but Jesus. Pete and his fucking pills.
Pete thrashes his head, insistent in his denial. "Trick. Please. Need to feel you against me. Need to."
There's a knife-edge of desperation in the words, and Pete's shoulders have the particular hunch they get when he's in actual physical pain and doesn't want to admit it, usually because he's done some really stupid asshole thing like jumping off the top of speakers that are twice as tall as he is.
Patrick shucks his clothes. He can't let Pete go on hurting. It's...okay, not exactly noble, but disinterested at least. Sort of. Okay, so not his dick. His dick is very, very interested.
He lies down, and Pete grabs for him, pulls him on top of him. Bare skin on bare skin is a live wire that burns Patrick up from the outside in. Pete mouths at Patrick's jaw and bucks his hips up, rubbing his cock insistently against Patrick's thigh. His movements are jerky and uncoordinated, but apparently effective enough. Warm-wet spreads between their bodies. Pete is still hard.
"Patrick," he says almost pitifully.
Patrick gets it and nods. He brushes just one glancing kiss to Pete's belly as he goes down. Now is not the time for foreplay. He takes Pete's cock in hand and snakes out his tongue. Pete tastes like salt and sweat and an almost metallic bitterness. Patrick mouths the head, and Pete twists on the bed, begging with his body. Patrick takes in as much of the shaft as he can manage, scrambling around for whatever cocksucker's tricks he knows. He's done this, but not so much that he has a routine, that he has panache.
It doesn't seem to matter to Pete that it's nothing fancy. He grunts contentedly, flinging his legs open wider, his feet kicking out, pushing at the rumpled covers. Patrick doesn't make a conscious decision: I'm going to touch Pete's ass now. It's just...instinct? Curiosity? His fingers skim Pete's hole, rubbing lightly, exploring.
The reaction is instantaneous. Pete's body jerks violently, and he grabs at Patrick's shoulders, long fingers digging in, leaving marks. He comes in short, ropey spurts in Patrick's mouth.
Pete is gasping and undone, the remains of his eyeliner bleeding down his cheek, his sweaty bangs plastered to his forehead. And still he hasn't had enough. Still he rakes his nails down Patrick's bare thigh, reaches for Patrick's cock, shaking as he touches. "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," he says in a breathless rush.
Patrick stutters still. He can't breathe. His head buzzes, and his skin is too hot. He wants to fuck Pete so bad he thinks he might explode from it. "I can't," he says nonetheless. I shouldn't is what he really means.
But apparently he should. Pete hooks one leg around Patrick's waist, his heel digging insistently into Patrick's ass, pulling him in, trying to guide Patrick's cock inside him.
"No," Patrick says sharply, his hand on Pete's shoulder like a stop sign. He'll fuck Pete, but he won't hurt him. Everyone has their line in the sand. Maybe Patrick's is feeble, but still, it's his.
He reaches into the bedside drawer, pulls out the lube and condoms he's stowed there. Pete makes needy little mewling noises while Patrick slicks him inside, fingers him open. Patrick rolls on a condom and rolls onto Pete, and then fuck, fuck, he's inside, where he's wanted to be for what feels like his whole damned life.
Patrick has some vaguely chivalrous notion of waiting for Pete to catch his breath, waiting for him to adjust, but Pete is having none of it. "Do me, do me, Trick. Do me!" Pete writhes and grinds down onto Patrick's cock, craning up to leave slobbery drive-by kisses on Patrick's cheek, his mouth, his throat. Patrick slides his hands beneath Pete's hips, lifts him up, into his thrusts, and oh holy fuck, Pete is hot, tight.
The cant of Pete's hips changes the angle, and suddenly he's howling. There's no other word for it. For one dazed moment, Patrick thinks he's hurt him, and urgent babble forms on his lips, I'm sorry. Oh God, I'm so fucking sorry! But then Pete is coming all over his chest, and Patrick realizes: there's more than one reason to howl.
It's miraculous, really, that Pete's orgasm doesn't squeeze the orgasm right out of Patrick. By the last tremor, he's gritting his teeth, hanging onto his self-control by his fingernails. And this, finally, is the ugly truth about Patrick: he's not just the guy who's fucking his best friend, the best friend who is probably drugged or delirious with fever or possibly having some kind of erotic psychotic break. He's the guy who wants to go on fucking him, who can't get enough. He's a greedy son of a bitch.
This realization doesn't stop him from thrusting, eyes shut, jaw set. Oh God, so good, so fucking good.
But then Pete starts making a high, whining noise of protest. He flails, hands pushing at Patrick's shoulders, and Patrick isn't that much of a son of a bitch.
"Okay, okay," he says. "Shit. Sorry." He pulls out, rolls off, lies on his back staring up at the ceiling. He's so fucking hard he wants to cry.
Pete scrambles up, but he doesn't flee. He hitches his leg over Patrick's body and straddles him, eyes huge and dark and bright.
"Be careful," Patrick wants to tell him, but Pete is already sinking down, not carefully at all, but with a hell of a lot of enthusiasm.
Pete grunts in satisfaction and starts to ride, with lurching, desperate movements, the muscles trembling in his thighs. Against all odds, he's hard again. There's clearly something going on here, because that's not normal, even for someone as libido-driven as Pete. But there's a part of Patrick, the part that's been waiting for this since he was sixteen years old, that wants to believe that this is just how Pete is when he's naked with Patrick: insatiable, fuck-happy, a whore for Patrick's cock.
"P'trick," Pete mumbles.
He's still rising and falling above Patrick, but he's starting to lose steam, starting to list to one side, his eyelids drooping. Patrick grips him tightly by the hips and shoves up into him, hard, maybe harder than he should. But he's just so determined, to get Pete off one last time, to get himself off. He knows he's found the right spot when Pete starts howling again. Pete takes a big, wet-sounding breath, and then his body is clenching around Patrick's cock again. Patrick closes his eyes and comes deep inside him.
Pete is boneless and shaky afterwards, and Patrick untangles their bodies, helps Pete off his lap. Pete slumps heavily on the bed, nestled snugly along Patrick's side. Before Patrick can offer to go get a wash cloth, Pete is already asleep.
Patrick presses a kiss to his forehead, which is still warm, still sweat-damp along the hairline. "I hope you don't hate me in the morning," he murmurs softly.
"He won't. But I'd like to rip your testicles out through your nostrils."
Patrick startles so hard he bangs into the bedside table. It's Desideria, standing at the foot of the bed. Patrick would have sworn she wasn't there just a second ago. "How did you get in here?"
"Door wasn't locked."
Patrick is pretty fucking sure it was, but there's something about the way Desideria's eyes glitter that keeps him from saying it.
"That was supposed to be me!" She glares at Patrick, at the sex-mussed bed, at Pete's sleeping form. "I didn't go to all the trouble of scaring up an albino otter's spleen so you could end up with him!"
"Wait. What? You mean you put a spell on him?" He presses a little closer to Pete, not sure if he's trying to protect him or use him as a human shield.
"Fucking Peter," Desideria says with disgust. "A cheating little bastard. So I decided to do something about it. He was supposed to go to his true love and never leave. He was supposed to yield to his truest passion and forget everything else. That was supposed to be me!" She takes a deep breath and puts her hands on her hips. "Well, fine then. You want him? You got him. I hope he fucking annoys the living hell out of you." She turns sharply on her heel and heads for the door.
"Wait!" Patrick yells. "Where are you going? You can't just leave! You have to take the damned spell off!"
"Can't," Desideria says. "Doesn't work that way. But don't worry. It'll wear off."
"When?" Patrick asks desperately.
"When you're dead," Desideria tells him with a mean little smirk, and then she's gone.
"I knew you were a witch!" Patrick insists, even if she isn't there to hear him.
Pete snuffles in his sleep and snuggles closer. Patrick takes a breath and lets it out and settles back down beside him. He considers his future: with Pete clinging and making big dramatic declarations every five minutes and probably annoying the living hell out of him. It will be exactly like his past with Pete, in other words, only now there will be sex. Lots and lots of sex, he's guessing. He drapes an arm proprietarily across Pete's chest.
"Patrick," Pete murmurs in his sleep, nuzzling at Patrick's throat. He sounds happy.
Patrick strokes his fingers through Pete's hair and kisses his stubbled cheek. Maybe it's the beginning of the morally compromised portion of his life, but the truth is, Patrick is feeling pretty good about his future.
Fandom: Bandom (Fall Out Boy)
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 3,800
Summary: Sexpollen of the supernatural variety.
Notes: Okay, technically this is not a Birthday Smut-a-Thon prompt. I actually wrote it for anon_lovefest. But I felt very celebratory doing it! So I'm counting it.
Disclaimer. Not mine. Just for fun.
Warning: This has the usual consent issues you find with sexpollen, so be warned. Also, no offense intended to actual practitioners of witchcraft!
Frogs Out There Who Used To Be People
by Lenore
"Don't you think there's something off about Pete's new girlfriend?" Patrick frowns in the direction of his best friend, who is sitting two tables over with the aforementioned girl, downing pink drinks without even a hint of embarrassment, because they're her favorites.
The girl's name is Desideria, which she insists is on her birth certificate and not just something she made up. She has long dark hair and wears extremely tiny skirts, and Patrick is pretty sure one of her eyes is bigger than the other. At the moment, she's messily sprawled across Pete, practically giving him a lap dance. She picks the maraschino cherry out of her gaudy cocktail and holds it up. Pete reaches for it with his mouth, and Desideria moves her hand, teasing. Pete barks with laughter, and keeps trying to catch the cherry, and Patrick is unfortunately reminded of a trained seal with a fish.
Desideria finally pops the cherry into her own mouth. She can tie the stem into a bow with her tongue. Patrick knows this, because Pete has only mentioned it one billion times.
Joe watches for a moment and then shrugs. "Isn't there something wrong with everybody Pete dates?"
"But, but," Patrick insists, "like something really wrong."
"One of her eyes is bigger than the other," Joe offers.
Patrick slumps over his half-finished beer which is by now too warm for him to drink. No one gets it. No one else sees it.
Andy puts on his Zen-master expression. "What do you think is wrong with Pete's girlfriend, Patrick?" he asks, slowly, enunciating each word. If he were anyone else, Patrick would punch him.
"It, it's just--" He stalls, not sure if he should actually say it, because having his friends stare at him like he's crazy really sucks. At last concern for Pete wins out. "I think she's a witch!" he says in a rush.
Joe considers this a moment, absently scratching at his elbow. "Well, she did go kind of ballistic when I ate all the Cool Ranch Doritos."
Patrick sighs. "Not that kind of witch. I mean--"
"Like Wiccan?" Andy suggests.
"Like there might be frogs out there who used to be people," Patrick says.
They both just stare at him for a moment.
"Oh, hey. Dude. Patrick." Joe fixes him with a look that's got a wisp of pity in it. "I'm sure Pete will get tired of her soon, and be back to hanging all over you again."
"What?" Patrick sputters. "That's not-- I don't want--"
Andy pats him on the arm. "Just hang in there, man."
"I don't care if Pete has a girlfriend!" Patrick's voice rises, louder than it probably should. "I just don't want him dating someone who's going to put the whammy on him with her dark arts!"
Andy and Joe both nod, too slowly, their eyes shifty, like they're placating the crazy person at the table.
Patrick sighs and takes a sip of his beer. It tastes shitty, the way warm beer always does.
***
Patrick is not in the best of moods when he goes to bed. His best friend is in the clutches of a voodoo mistress, and his bandmates think he's cracking up, and the air conditioner in his room makes this rattling lub-lub-clunk that just might be the most annoying noise in the entire world. He has only just managed to settle into a fragile sleep when an ungodly pounding startles him awake. At first, in his fuzzy-headed state, he thinks the air conditioner has ratcheted up its "annoy the fuck out of Patrick" gambit another notch, and he peers blearily around the room, looking for something he can use to teach it a lesson. He thinks disappointedly, Where is a baseball bat or sledgehammer when you really need it?
Then a few more neurons join the party, and Patrick realizes that the pounding is actually someone at the door. He thumps out of bed, stubbing his toe on the dresser, spouting "fuck, fuck, fuck" as he goes. He whips the door open, ready to yell or possibly throw a punch.
Pete slouches in the doorway, not at all who Patrick was expecting. Honestly, he can't imagine anything short of a crowbar that would have separated Pete from Desideria. This is how Pete is with his girlfriends.
"What's wrong?" Patrick asks him.
Pete blinks owlishly, as if he doesn't quite know where he is or how he got there. "Trick," he says in a pitiful voice.
He stumbles inside, unsteady on his feet, and throws himself at Patrick, all flailing arms and wiry strength and desperate urgency. Patrick's heart lurches. Maybe one day there will be enough days, months, years between them and a Best Buy parking lot that moments like this won't scare the living shit out of him. Maybe tomorrow Patrick will yell at Pete for being a selfish fucking drama queen who has an insomniac's disregard for other people's rest. Maybe he'll even punch Pete in the mouth if he's pissed enough. Right now, though, Patrick brings his arms up, folding them around Pete, one hand cupping the back of his head.
"What's wrong?" he asks more firmly.
Pete shakes his head, his nose pressed into Patrick's neck. He breathes in, deep, shaky gulps, like he's trying to memorize how Patrick smells. "'s just… You can't go away, okay? Because I can't-- I need you, Patrick."
Patrick can feel that Pete is shaking, and his voice quavers on Patrick's name, and fuck, why didn't he notice before how the heat is just pouring off of Pete?
He skims his palm over Pete's forehead. "Shit. You're burning up. Are you sick? Don't be sick, okay?"
Pete mumbles, "Don't think I'm sick. 's just--" He curls his fingers into Patrick's T-shirt, clinging. "Need you. Please, please. Don't go. Don't ever go. I need you to be with me."
Patrick puts a wry smile into his voice. "I'm right here. Where am I going to go?"
"No," Pete says, sounding frustrated. "I need you to be with me." He angles his head, gets his lips on Patrick's jaw, drags his tongue over stubble. It's not anything he hasn't done a million times before, often enough in front of a stadium full of screaming kids.
Still. "Pete?" Patrick says uncertainly.
Pete chants, "Patrick, Patrick, Patrick." He licks at the curve of Patrick's neck, right at that vulnerable place where the skin is paper thin, where the pulse sounds like thunder.
Patrick shivers. He can't help it. Pete takes this as a sign of encouragement, or not a complete lack of willingness at the very least. His lips trail upwards, over Patrick's Adam's apple, over his chin, and then right up against Patrick's mouth, firmly pressed. Pete has, of course, kissed Patrick before, too many times to count, even occasionally with tongue the way he's doing now. But those other kisses have been Pete playing to the spotlight, Pete being a goofball, Pete feeling like it's his mission in life to make Patrick turn pink and sputter "You got your spit in my mouth!"
This isn't like any of those other kisses. Pete takes deep, long, greedy sips of Patrick's mouth, moaning softly, vibrating with need. It's not just his forehead that's feverish. His whole body swelters, plastered all along Patrick's front. Patrick can feel the heat of Pete's hard on pressed against his thigh.
For a moment, Patrick loses his mind too, as desperate and far-gone as Pete. He presses a hand insistently to the back of Pete's head, keeping him there, there, right there, while he frantically returns the kiss, biting softly at Pete's lips, stroking their tongues together. He kisses until they're both breathless and shuddering. Pete whimpers and lunges, like he's trying to crawl inside Patrick's skin. Patrick has fantasized about this a time or two or possibly sixty-five million, and it's so good, even better than he thought, and there's no reason why he shouldn't, why they can't...
Except.
Patrick breaks the kiss and takes a stumbling step back. "Wait. You've got a girlfriend, remember?"
Pete looks blank.
"Desideria?" Patrick reminds him.
There are still no signs of comprehension.
Pete grapples at Patrick's shoulder, pulling him close again, pressing their mouths together. "You're the only one I want."
Maybe whatever Pete has is catching. Or maybe Patrick's just been waiting way too long to hear that--since he was sixteen years old, fumbling and shy and so in love with Pete it was actually kind of painful. Whatever the reason, Patrick ditches his claim to the moral high ground. Desideria who? He has more important things to think about, like how long he can suck on Pete's tongue without passing out.
When Pete finally pulls away, it has nothing to do with the need to breathe. He just wants to take his shirt off.
"What are you--" Patrick hasn't thought ahead to nakedness. He hasn't done much thinking at all up to this point.
"'m hot," Pete says, the words slurring. He undoes his jeans and kicks those off, too. He's not wearing any underwear.
Patrick stares. He's seen Pete naked before. Who hasn't, really? But he's never seen him like this, naked and hard and just for him. "Um." This is where sensible words about how they really shouldn't be doing this are supposed to come spilling out of him, but it seems that they've gotten stuck.
Pete throws himself onto Patrick's bed, cock bouncing, eyes glassy but intently focused, as if Patrick is the only thing that exists in the whole, vast universe.
"C'mere," he says, with a jerk of his chin.
Patrick stalls there, as if his feet are stuck to the drab, institutional-beige carpet. Pete doesn't break his stare, hardly even seems to blink. He licks his hand, a slow, deliberate drag of his tongue across his palm, and wraps it around his cock. His lips purse, as if touching himself takes all his concentration, and he starts to stroke, base to tip, his forehead furrowing. His erection, blood-dark and wet at the tip, slips and slides in his fist. Pete lets out a wild little sound, like an animal that's been startled. Like he didn't expect it to feel quite so good. Quite so necessary.
Patrick's feet take charge of the situation then, moving him over to the bed. His brain isn't exactly firing on all cylinders right now, but some strangled remnant of conscience does surface long enough to insist, I'm only going to check on him, to make sure he's okay. Patrick nods along as if someone actually said that out loud. He sits on the edge of the bed, none of him touching any of Pete. He has the best intentions of being good. Being careful. Being Pete's friend.
"Patrick," Pete says, a low moan torn from the back of his throat.
Technically, Pete hasn't actually asked for anything, but Patrick shakes his head, nonetheless. "You shouldn't-- There's something wrong. You're sick or--" Not in your right mind, but he can't say that to Pete. "You don't really want this. I can't--"
Pete's answer is to take Patrick's hand and move it to his cock. Patrick sits there for a moment, an eon, since the beginning of time, too stunned to move, to breathe. The kind of stunned like he's been hit over the head with a sledgehammer, bludgeoned by lust. Touching Pete's naked cock does nothing to improve his ability to craft a metaphor.
Pete pushes his hips up demandingly and starts to ramble, "Been so fucking in love with you since you were sixteen, but couldn't fuck you up, so I didn't, but I can't, can't wait. Please."
This is not a word that comes naturally to Pete Wentz, and maybe that's why it seems to ricochet around inside Patrick, making heat coil and uncoil in his belly, making him too restless in his own skin to just sit there and keep doing nothing.
So he does something.
He leans over and kisses Pete's pretty, please-saying mouth, tracing the sensual bow of it with the tip of his tongue. He pushes Pete's hand away, gets his own palm wrapped around Pete's cock. It has a satisfying heft in Patrick's hand, hot and slippery, and he can feel the pulse beating in it beneath his fingers. He thumbs at the head, and Pete stains upwards, shoulders lifting off the mattress, neck craning. Two more pulls, and he comes all over himself, gasping, "Trick!"
Pete flops back down onto the bed and lets out his breath, a little sigh at the end of it, like he's pleased or maybe just relieved. This doesn't last long. He quickly starts to get hard again and curls in on himself, whimpering, needy and helpless-looking.
Patrick stares, his eyes going wide. "Oh, fuck! Are you on something? What the fuck did you take?" He knows he's shouting, but Jesus. Pete and his fucking pills.
Pete thrashes his head, insistent in his denial. "Trick. Please. Need to feel you against me. Need to."
There's a knife-edge of desperation in the words, and Pete's shoulders have the particular hunch they get when he's in actual physical pain and doesn't want to admit it, usually because he's done some really stupid asshole thing like jumping off the top of speakers that are twice as tall as he is.
Patrick shucks his clothes. He can't let Pete go on hurting. It's...okay, not exactly noble, but disinterested at least. Sort of. Okay, so not his dick. His dick is very, very interested.
He lies down, and Pete grabs for him, pulls him on top of him. Bare skin on bare skin is a live wire that burns Patrick up from the outside in. Pete mouths at Patrick's jaw and bucks his hips up, rubbing his cock insistently against Patrick's thigh. His movements are jerky and uncoordinated, but apparently effective enough. Warm-wet spreads between their bodies. Pete is still hard.
"Patrick," he says almost pitifully.
Patrick gets it and nods. He brushes just one glancing kiss to Pete's belly as he goes down. Now is not the time for foreplay. He takes Pete's cock in hand and snakes out his tongue. Pete tastes like salt and sweat and an almost metallic bitterness. Patrick mouths the head, and Pete twists on the bed, begging with his body. Patrick takes in as much of the shaft as he can manage, scrambling around for whatever cocksucker's tricks he knows. He's done this, but not so much that he has a routine, that he has panache.
It doesn't seem to matter to Pete that it's nothing fancy. He grunts contentedly, flinging his legs open wider, his feet kicking out, pushing at the rumpled covers. Patrick doesn't make a conscious decision: I'm going to touch Pete's ass now. It's just...instinct? Curiosity? His fingers skim Pete's hole, rubbing lightly, exploring.
The reaction is instantaneous. Pete's body jerks violently, and he grabs at Patrick's shoulders, long fingers digging in, leaving marks. He comes in short, ropey spurts in Patrick's mouth.
Pete is gasping and undone, the remains of his eyeliner bleeding down his cheek, his sweaty bangs plastered to his forehead. And still he hasn't had enough. Still he rakes his nails down Patrick's bare thigh, reaches for Patrick's cock, shaking as he touches. "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," he says in a breathless rush.
Patrick stutters still. He can't breathe. His head buzzes, and his skin is too hot. He wants to fuck Pete so bad he thinks he might explode from it. "I can't," he says nonetheless. I shouldn't is what he really means.
But apparently he should. Pete hooks one leg around Patrick's waist, his heel digging insistently into Patrick's ass, pulling him in, trying to guide Patrick's cock inside him.
"No," Patrick says sharply, his hand on Pete's shoulder like a stop sign. He'll fuck Pete, but he won't hurt him. Everyone has their line in the sand. Maybe Patrick's is feeble, but still, it's his.
He reaches into the bedside drawer, pulls out the lube and condoms he's stowed there. Pete makes needy little mewling noises while Patrick slicks him inside, fingers him open. Patrick rolls on a condom and rolls onto Pete, and then fuck, fuck, he's inside, where he's wanted to be for what feels like his whole damned life.
Patrick has some vaguely chivalrous notion of waiting for Pete to catch his breath, waiting for him to adjust, but Pete is having none of it. "Do me, do me, Trick. Do me!" Pete writhes and grinds down onto Patrick's cock, craning up to leave slobbery drive-by kisses on Patrick's cheek, his mouth, his throat. Patrick slides his hands beneath Pete's hips, lifts him up, into his thrusts, and oh holy fuck, Pete is hot, tight.
The cant of Pete's hips changes the angle, and suddenly he's howling. There's no other word for it. For one dazed moment, Patrick thinks he's hurt him, and urgent babble forms on his lips, I'm sorry. Oh God, I'm so fucking sorry! But then Pete is coming all over his chest, and Patrick realizes: there's more than one reason to howl.
It's miraculous, really, that Pete's orgasm doesn't squeeze the orgasm right out of Patrick. By the last tremor, he's gritting his teeth, hanging onto his self-control by his fingernails. And this, finally, is the ugly truth about Patrick: he's not just the guy who's fucking his best friend, the best friend who is probably drugged or delirious with fever or possibly having some kind of erotic psychotic break. He's the guy who wants to go on fucking him, who can't get enough. He's a greedy son of a bitch.
This realization doesn't stop him from thrusting, eyes shut, jaw set. Oh God, so good, so fucking good.
But then Pete starts making a high, whining noise of protest. He flails, hands pushing at Patrick's shoulders, and Patrick isn't that much of a son of a bitch.
"Okay, okay," he says. "Shit. Sorry." He pulls out, rolls off, lies on his back staring up at the ceiling. He's so fucking hard he wants to cry.
Pete scrambles up, but he doesn't flee. He hitches his leg over Patrick's body and straddles him, eyes huge and dark and bright.
"Be careful," Patrick wants to tell him, but Pete is already sinking down, not carefully at all, but with a hell of a lot of enthusiasm.
Pete grunts in satisfaction and starts to ride, with lurching, desperate movements, the muscles trembling in his thighs. Against all odds, he's hard again. There's clearly something going on here, because that's not normal, even for someone as libido-driven as Pete. But there's a part of Patrick, the part that's been waiting for this since he was sixteen years old, that wants to believe that this is just how Pete is when he's naked with Patrick: insatiable, fuck-happy, a whore for Patrick's cock.
"P'trick," Pete mumbles.
He's still rising and falling above Patrick, but he's starting to lose steam, starting to list to one side, his eyelids drooping. Patrick grips him tightly by the hips and shoves up into him, hard, maybe harder than he should. But he's just so determined, to get Pete off one last time, to get himself off. He knows he's found the right spot when Pete starts howling again. Pete takes a big, wet-sounding breath, and then his body is clenching around Patrick's cock again. Patrick closes his eyes and comes deep inside him.
Pete is boneless and shaky afterwards, and Patrick untangles their bodies, helps Pete off his lap. Pete slumps heavily on the bed, nestled snugly along Patrick's side. Before Patrick can offer to go get a wash cloth, Pete is already asleep.
Patrick presses a kiss to his forehead, which is still warm, still sweat-damp along the hairline. "I hope you don't hate me in the morning," he murmurs softly.
"He won't. But I'd like to rip your testicles out through your nostrils."
Patrick startles so hard he bangs into the bedside table. It's Desideria, standing at the foot of the bed. Patrick would have sworn she wasn't there just a second ago. "How did you get in here?"
"Door wasn't locked."
Patrick is pretty fucking sure it was, but there's something about the way Desideria's eyes glitter that keeps him from saying it.
"That was supposed to be me!" She glares at Patrick, at the sex-mussed bed, at Pete's sleeping form. "I didn't go to all the trouble of scaring up an albino otter's spleen so you could end up with him!"
"Wait. What? You mean you put a spell on him?" He presses a little closer to Pete, not sure if he's trying to protect him or use him as a human shield.
"Fucking Peter," Desideria says with disgust. "A cheating little bastard. So I decided to do something about it. He was supposed to go to his true love and never leave. He was supposed to yield to his truest passion and forget everything else. That was supposed to be me!" She takes a deep breath and puts her hands on her hips. "Well, fine then. You want him? You got him. I hope he fucking annoys the living hell out of you." She turns sharply on her heel and heads for the door.
"Wait!" Patrick yells. "Where are you going? You can't just leave! You have to take the damned spell off!"
"Can't," Desideria says. "Doesn't work that way. But don't worry. It'll wear off."
"When?" Patrick asks desperately.
"When you're dead," Desideria tells him with a mean little smirk, and then she's gone.
"I knew you were a witch!" Patrick insists, even if she isn't there to hear him.
Pete snuffles in his sleep and snuggles closer. Patrick takes a breath and lets it out and settles back down beside him. He considers his future: with Pete clinging and making big dramatic declarations every five minutes and probably annoying the living hell out of him. It will be exactly like his past with Pete, in other words, only now there will be sex. Lots and lots of sex, he's guessing. He drapes an arm proprietarily across Pete's chest.
"Patrick," Pete murmurs in his sleep, nuzzling at Patrick's throat. He sounds happy.
Patrick strokes his fingers through Pete's hair and kisses his stubbled cheek. Maybe it's the beginning of the morally compromised portion of his life, but the truth is, Patrick is feeling pretty good about his future.