Chapter Text
The trick isn't getting the timing right. The trick is not showing his hand too soon.
The math is easy, when you know a few exact benchmarks. Pat ate on the fifteenth of the month, a Saturday. Exactly two weeks later, it's still a day shy of being paid again on the thirtieth, so Pat'll be in the same situation as before by about Friday, same as last time. But Brian doesn't want Pat to suffer that much again—that's the whole point—so the sweet spot is probably two days earlier. And Pat streams Tuesdays and Thursdays, which leaves only the evening after Gill and Gilbert free.
The part of him that notices narrative parallels thrills when he loops his finger in Pat's belt loop as they're getting ready to go on stream, pulling him close and asking in his best good boy voice, "What are your plans after this?"
Pat hums, still absently uncoiling a cable even as his eyes go straight to the curve of Brian's smirk. "Thinking I might get in a cheeky half-marathon. Might go a little crazy and learn Mandarin. Bake a pie. Why?"
"D'you wanna come to mine?" Brian asks.
He can see Pat do the calendar math in his head, pressing his lips between his teeth before answering. "Might be a little bitey," he says, slowly. "Dunno if I should."
"Make it worth your while, sailor," Brian replies, cocking his hip, and Pat laughs and ducks his head.
"Okay, okay," Pat says. He doesn't blush, not this long between eating, but he looks like he would, his body canting towards Brian in that way somewhere between shame and desire and bravery.
Brian has to kiss him then, he has to. But then it’s time to go live, and they break to do their final check, and there's no time to get nervous that it's going down tonight.
—
The stream passes without incident, as much as they can these days. They'd wrangled Jenna to help with chat moderation last week, which had literally only taken presenting the steep increase in viewership to Tara and waiting for her to stop cackling "what? what?!" long enough to sign off on the schedule change.
When they're done, Jenna cuts the stream and they all let out a collective sigh of relief. Pat moves to coil up the controllers and Brian gets up to put away the mics, but Jenna waves them both off. "Get out, both of you," she says. "You've been ‘on’ for over two hours; I've got this."
"Are you sure?" Pat asks, as Brian shoots her a grateful look from his side of the couch. Jenna has the audacity to wink at him.
"Yeah, no problem," she chirps. "You guys didn't even spill any drinks this time, it's fine."
"If you're sure," Pat starts, but he's already getting to his feet. "I'll owe you."
"Nah," Jenna replies, grabbing Pat's mic to swing it out of his way. "I'll just take an hour on Friday and get a head start on my weekend. I'm hiking Breakneck."
"Thanks, Jenna!" Brian says, sidling around the couch. He gives her a one-armed hug where she sits, and she oofs and lays her head against his arm before shooing him away.
—
It's tricky to get both Laura and Jonah out of the house, but this is something he doesn't want to do at Pat's, so it was worth weedling Jonah to go out with some music friends and to pay off Laura to go see a late night movie, just to get the apartment to themselves.
Brian unlocks the door and holds it open for Pat. "Please, come inside," he says, and Pat smiles slightly as he crosses the threshold. Brian's not sure if it's purely symbolic or if whatever power that repels Pat regains its strength between invitations, but he's noticed that it puts Pat more at ease if he's explicit.
"Didn't know it was that kinda party," Pat murmurs as he takes off his jacket, and Brian kisses him lightly when he's bent over to shimmy it off his arms.
"Mm. You're welcome to," Brian says, and Pat lets out a scandalized huff of laughter as he clams up again, ducking his head instead of returning the volley. Cute.
"What's the, uh, what's the plan tonight?" Pat asks instead, unlacing his boots. Brian just toes off his kicks and shoves them into the shoe rack with his foot. "Kinda feels like you have one."
Brian can feel himself smile, despite his best attempts to stay mysterious about it. "Yeah, I kinda do," he elides, and slips his hand into Pat's. He brings it to his lips, holding it in both hands. "I honestly don't know if you'll dig it," he says, "but I thought maybe we could try something a little, um, challenging, tonight?"
Pat's face does a couple interesting things before settling on cautiously trusting. "Dunno," he says, biting his lip. "Who's being 'challenged' here?"
"Oh, you," Brian replies. "Definitely you."
Another fleeting microexpression of fear and desire. Pat swallows. "Walk me through it?" he says, finally. "I'm a little… uh, I'm a little peckish, so I don't know how much I can take, but we can try."
Brian starts walking Pat through the apartment. "Yeah, about that..." he says, drawing it out. He stops in front of the open bathroom door. "It's an emotional challenge, not a physical one."
Pat eyes the bathroom dubiously, then his lips quirk up on one side. "Y'know I'm not literally into piss, right? That's just a schtick?"
Brian laughs. The lady doth protest too much, but, he'll unpack that later. One thing at a time. "It's not that, I promise," he replies. "Different bodily fluid."
He can feel the way Pat closes off a little, like a castle pulling up its drawbridge. Brian puts his hand on the side of Pat's face—he's cool, but not cold—and directs him to really look down at Brian. "Hey," he says, "Just trust me for like five minutes, okay? Let me set some stuff up first."
Pat searches his eyes, as if scrying Brian's motivations, trying to determine if Brian's going to disregard their tenuous bite-related peace. He must sense how serious Brian is, because he presses his lips together and nods.
"Okay," Brian says, letting his relief and his delight show on his face. "You, get naked and get that cute butt in the tub. Get as comfortable as you can."
"While naked and in a bathtub," Pat echoes, faintly disbelieving.
"I'm just gonna get a few things," Brian continues. "Sit tight."
He kisses Pat one more time before he goes into his room, listening for Pat shuffling around behind him. Under the blankets on his bed is a little cocoon, the hot water bottle he begged Jonah to fill before he left still faintly warm when Brian pulls out the two blood packs and wraps them in a towel. They're weirdly, appropriately, body temperature, and Brian congratulates himself as he strips down, then brings the towel-wrapped packs and his bottle of lube into the bathroom. You know: be prepared.
Pat's done what he'd asked when he returns, his long legs bent up in Brian's bathtub and his head resting against the tiles. He turns his head when Brian enters, gesturing expansively at his naked form as if to declare himself for inspection.
"Perfect," Brian praises, and Pat scoffs. There's a fine line with Pat; you can't compliment him for doing what he considers the bare minimum, even if it actually takes a lot more effort for Pat to do. Brian's proud, anyway.
He sets the towel bundle down on the toilet seat, and the lube on the corner of the tub, then he washes the grime of the subway his hands. Pat watches that part in amusement. "I think I'm putting the clues together," he says.
"Maybe," Brian replies, and gets in the tub as well. It's a small tub, but Pat's narrow, so Brian kneels with his legs on either side of Pat's hips and there's practically enough room, with the bonus of being able to feel Pat's dick chub up against his ass when Brian settles back on his heels. "Okay, uh, ground rules? You're gonna have a lot of questions and I promise I'll answer them, so don't just say no right away."
"The more you talk, the most ominous this sounds," Pat says. "Is banana still a thing?"
Brian pauses. "Do you want banana to be a thing?"
"Are we doing something where banana is on the table?!" Pat says, his voice rising—partly from the joke, partly from the thready insecurity seeping in. "Because I'm not sure if I'm a banana kind of guy."
Brian reaches out and puts his hand over Pat's mouth, but strokes Pat's cheek with his thumb as he does. "You don't have to be a banana guy for this," he promises, and Pat's eyes crinkle. "No is fine."
"Mmkay," Pat replies, muffled. He kisses Brian's thumb when he runs it along Pat's blunt teeth before withdrawing.
There's no smooth, sexy way to introduce the elephant in the room, so Brian just reaches over and grabs the towel-wrapped blood packs. He unwraps them under Pat's watchful eye, and can feel the way Pat tenses underneath him when he catches sight of the familiar foil packaging.
"What the fuck, Brian," Pat says, low and urgent.
"Don't freak out," Brian reminds him.
"What the fuck," Pat repeats. "Brian, whose fucking blood is that?"
"It's not mine," Brian assures him, or tries to; Pat sits up in the tub, bristling with agitation.
"That's—that makes it worse, actually!" Pat spits, reaching out for the blood packs. He recoils when he senses the warmth seeping from them. "How the fuck did you get blood," he hisses.
"Hey, hey, it's okay," Brian says, shifting the packs so he can free one hand and wrap it around Pat's neck. He's all tendon. "Hey. It's fine. Samrit helped me, okay? It's his sister's."
Pat stares him down, unblinking. Unbreathing.
"I just asked," Brian continues. "I didn't want you to starve yourself again, so I… asked for help. And he gave it to me. I didn't even pay. Nothing shady, I promise."
Pat's eyes narrow, proud and ashamed at the same time. "I didn't ask for your help," he mutters. "This—this isn't your responsibility. You should have told me."
Brian shrugs one shoulder. "Yeah, probably. But it’s... here, okay, if we needed to use birth control, we'd split the cost, right?" He's thought about this argument quite a bit. "I don't want you to lock yourself away in a castle every two weeks. That's on me. So it's only fair that I pitch in."
The bristling of Pat's anger is palpable, and Brian is uncomfortably aware of how strong Pat is. He briefly imagines Pat just fuckin' deadlifting him right out of the bathtub, which would be thrilling under other circumstances. He puts his hand, warmer than usual from the gentle heat of the blood, on Pat's chest, right over the stillness of his heart. "I mean it. If it helps, think of it as me paying my dues for being greedy. I want you to be able to suck my dick more often than on the new moon and the full moon, okay?"
Brian calls his shot; he licks his lips and leans in, telegraphing, and Pat tips his head in answer, so Brian closes the distance and lays a kiss on Pat that quickly deepens to tongue and teeth. Despite his anger, Pat kisses with a barely constrained hunger, penned in on all sides by shame and fear—shame that he feels a need at all, fear that he needs too much.
"I'm still pissed that you didn't tell me what you were doing," Pat mutters against his lips when they part. He settles back against the wall, and runs his hand through his hair. "You could have… you could've just fuckin' disappeared, if you'd gone to the wrong person."
"That's pretty much what I got from Samrit, yeah," Brian replies. He reaches over and puts one of the blood packs on the toilet, nestled in the towels to stay warm. "I had to promise I wouldn't go anywhere else."
"You're gonna keep doing this, huh."
Brian smiles as he toys with the plastic spigot on the blood pack in his hands. "That's the plan. If you'll let me. Samrit and I worked it out."
Whatever's going on in Pat's head, it plays out in a series of shadowed emotions flitting across his face: shame, anger, hunger, guilty relief. Brian clings to that one, like getting a tax return, or a Christmas bonus: things are going to be okay, but not because you worked hard or suffered or were lucky. Just because you deserve it, and someone finally gave it to you.
"So," Brian says. "Yes, no? Banana, or bone apple tea?"
Pat's mouth twists, like he's fighting a smile. He doesn't look at Brian when he nods, and reaches for the blood pack in Brian's hands.
"Oh, no, nuh-uh," Brian says, pulling it closer. "What do you think you're doing?"
Pat pauses. "Uh, I'm gonna eat, so I don't get all bitey while we're fucking the daylights out of each other? I mean, I presumed."
"Oh, Patrick," Brian chides. He cracks the plastic spigot open. "This is a farm-to-table experience."
"We're in a bathtub," Pat says.
"And for a very good reason!" Brian says, with a cheerful tilt of his head towards the bag he's holding like it's the next object for bidding on in The Price is Right.
But from here it's… well, it's a bit of a leap to get where he thinks this is going. He drops the Pleasantville Chipper for a second and puts his hand back on Pat's chest, dragging his attention back to Brian's words instead of the smell of blood emanating from the bag.
"Hey, look, uh," he says, "Real talk, I don't know what I'm doing. Like, ever. So if you have any objections to me, um, helping you drink this, you should let me know before I get my gross mortal hands all up in your food."
Pat's expression goes from cautious to surprised. "Wait," he says, "...you want to… feed me?"
"I mean, that sounds…" Brian laughs, suddenly awkward, "...that sounds kinky in a different way than I was thinking, but, yeah? I mean, fundamentally, yeah?"
"I don't..." Pat starts, then knits his eyebrows and stares at the unassuming bag of blood in Brian's hands. "I mean, I'm not against it?" he tries, voice high on a question. "I just, fuck," he laughs, "You're so fucking weird."
"Weird good?" Brian asks, and Pat puts his hands over his grinning face. His fangs are cute little nubs, barely distinguishable from Brian's own human canines, and Pat runs his tongue over the points.
"Weird good," Pat confirms, and Brian feels a little knot of anxiety uncurl in his stomach as he laughs and rubs his face.
"Okay, good," he replies, and—God, he really does have no map, just a compass pointing vaguely orgasmward and a hope in his bones—he dips his index and middle finger into the inky warm wet of the blood pack. Pat inhales sharp when he pulls them out again, both their gazes fixed on the bright crimson blood creasing the lines of Brian's fingers.
Brian leans in and kisses Pat, bending his head against the cold tile as he delves into Pat's mouth, and Pat takes just as deeply. Brian's breathing hard when he withdraws, his heart thudding in his chest. He hopes Pat can hear it. "You hungry?" he asks, teasing.
Pat's eyes are deep and black, unblinking when he stares back at Brian from a few scant inches away. "I could eat," he says.
Eyes still locked, Brian brings his fingers to Pat's mouth, catching the metallic scent of them as Pat parts his lips and lets Brian ease inside of him. A soft sound escapes Pat as he gives in and his eyes slip closed, as Brian's fingers slide over his tongue. He can feel the muscle surge under his touch.
Pat closes his lips around Brian's knuckles, squeezing Brian's fingers into the space between his fangs. Suctions pull at his fingertips as Pat gingerly sucks, the look on his face sheer pleasure. For a few long seconds, Brian's breathing is the loudest sound in the bathroom.
"Yeah?" Brian breathes, pulling his fingers out so Pat can swallow, and Pat's eyes slip open and refocus. Instead of answering, Pat takes Brian's wrist and pulls Brian's hand to his mouth again, dragging his tongue up the underside of Brian's index finger before taking just that one in his mouth again. Pat's tongue twines around it as he sucks his finger clean.
"S'soapy," Pat murmurs around Brian's finger on his lips. "Be better if it tasted more like you."
"It was either soap or subway," Brian says, smiling. Pat lets him take his hand back and Brian considers his options, before rubbing his hand up his neck and into his hairline. Pat's saliva is cool where it transfers to his skin. "How about that?"
Pat bites his lip, catching it in one fang. "It's—uh. You smell the most like yourself, uh… under your arms, and…" he trails off, ducking his head, but not before Brian can see his gaze drop to Brian's dick, to the obscene spread of his thighs across Pat's stomach.
Brian's breath catches in his stomach. "Pat, you dirty bird," he murmurs, and Pat huffs. His eyes flick up to track the motion of Brian's hand down his chest, skimming over his nipples, over the folds of his stomach, into the hair curling thick at the base of his dick. Brian spreads his fingers, nestles his hand in the earthy human scent trapped there. He can feel Pat's chest expand as he breathes it in. "This do it for you in a sexy way," Brian asks, "or a vampire way?"
Pat licks his lips. "Yes," he answers, simply.
Brian strokes himself a few times, teasing himself as much as Patrick, before coming back to coat his fingers with more blood. This time he tips out more, letting it pool in the crevice between his fingers, curling them to keep it from dripping off his fingertips, and Pat meets him halfway. He sucks Brian's fingers into his mouth, and Brian twists his hand to drag them over his tongue.
Pat moans around Brian, lips pulling downwards as his face crumples, sucking the flavour of the blood, of Brian, from Brian's skin. The tips of his fangs scrape Brian's knuckles as he bobs his head. It looks—and feels—exactly as it's intended: Pat's wicked wanting mouth swallowing Brian's fingers, his throat working, the hollowing of his cheeks, the darkness of his pupils through his lashes as he locks eyes with Brian. Something dark and desirous sings in Brian.
When Pat releases him again, Brian's fingers are completely clean but for the way the blood stubbornly clings to his cuticles. His heart thuds in his ribs from the thrill and the knife-edge of danger as he tips more blood into his hand. Pat watches him through the beat of hesitation before Brian reaches up to paint it across his collarbone this time instead.
Pat surging up to fix his mouth to Brian's skin tips him backwards, suspended in Pat's arms, unshakably strong as they wrap around him. Pat licks up the smear of blood along the ridge of Brian's collarbone, sucks a bite into the soft fatty muscle where bicep and chest meet. Brian hisses as Pat's fangs nip his skin without puncturing it.
Pat tears himself away, darting a questioning look up at Brian. Brian licks his lips. "You gonna be good?" Brian asks.
Pat's lost for a few seconds, visibly considering his answer. Red creases the corners of his mouth. "Yeah," he says, voice thick. "More. Please."
Brian cups Pat's head in his hand and presses a fervent kiss to his forehead, then to the side of his nose. Pat nuzzles into his lips. "God, I love you so fucking much," Brian murmurs into Pat's skin, and Pat whines as his fingers slot into the notches of Brian's ribcage.
Brian grins as he bloods his fingers again, leaning back to drag them red and wet across his nipple. Pat makes a hungry noise as he licks across the smear, following Brian's bloodstained fingers to the other nipple, kissing across his chest until he can lave his flat tongue over it. His hand comes up to roll the first one in his fingers as he bites and sucks the second, twin points of delicious pain that rocket down through Brian's core.
"Hell, Pat," Brian says, writhing up bent-back as Pat lays a particularly wicked—but bloodless—bite on him. "This part's supposed to be for you."
"Mmhmm," Pat answers. When he finally lets up, it's hard to tell what blood's on the outside of his skin and what's been summoned to just under the surface. His whole chest is rosy and pink. Pat lays a fond kiss right over Brian's heart.
"Don't get distracted yet," Brian says, into the crown of Pat's head.
Pat's arms squeeze him lightly. "M'just happy," he says, before resting his chin on Brian's chest to look up at him. The look on his face is so—it's so soft, the gentle laugh lines around his eyes, the adoring tilt of his smile. It makes Brian feel almost shy, to have the privilege of seeing this side of Pat. Like entering a sanctum.
Brian dips his fingers again and brings them to Pat's mouth; Pat takes them in readily, turning his head to lay his ear against Brian's heartbeat. He refreshes the blood a few times just like that, letting Pat meditatively suckle it from his fingers, listening to Brian's heart, Brian's lips pressed to his forehead. Pat's hands roam up and down Brian's back, tracing the invisible ley lines of his pulse.
Pat lifts his head when Brian eventually doesn't return with more, blinking slowly as Brian holds his gaze. Cautiously, Brian brings his fingers to his own neck—watches Pat's lips part, watches his eyes drop to where Brian drags his fingers across the skin, leaving behind a trail of blood.
He can almost feel Pat war with himself, Pat's fingers divoting Brian's back as he goes tight with desire. "Brian, I—" he starts, before his mouth twists helplessly and he lets out a short, needy whine, high in his nose.
Brian tips his head back, showing off his neck. "Come on," he coaxes, "I know you can do this."
Pat jaw works a few times, past his pursed lips, like he's sucking on his own fangs. Slowly, glacially, he rises to run his lips up Brian's sternum, up the hollow of his throat, breathing in the scent of Brian's skin mixing with the headier one of blood. Brian inhales hard from sheer horny adrenaline when Pat's tongue drags up the column of his throat, his every internal working part jamming up and turning over when Pat's mouth closes over the muscle there and sucks.
Heedless of the blood still on his fingers he buries his hand in Pat's hair, holding him tight as Pat teases up the side of his neck and down his shoulder, playing with tongue and teeth both. The drag of fangs over his neck is—it's so—Brian doesn't have words for it, for how it thrills him at the same time it scares him, how he trusts Pat while respecting that trust isn't the issue. It all comes out with a jumbled noise: half-gasp, half-moan as Pat bites lightly at the thickest part of Brian's shoulder.
"More," Pat mumbles into his skin, and Brian nods as he, with hands just slightly trembling, lifts the blood pack to his neck and pours some right onto himself. He can feel some spill over his shoulderblade and down his back, but the rest is caught in Pat's mouth as he licks it up. It's Pat's turn to moan as blood pours freely into his mouth, the illusion close enough at least for horseshoes, for Pat to bite and suck and feel life.
Pat's hands scrabble at him, twisting at his sides with the need to hold Brian still; Brian, though, isn't going anywhere. He just hangs on, fingers tangled hopelessly in Pat's hair as Pat works him over with a careful, deliberate hunger, not once biting down or in, but across his skin, scoring the flesh with lines of cold fire, tracing the path after with his tongue.
When Pat pulls away, he's breathing deep through his mouth as if to catch the scent. Brian swallows down the rising desire to beg for more; he leans back a bit farther and bows his shoulders, tipping a spill of blood into the hollow of his collarbones and letting it drip down the center of his chest. Pat's mouth is on him before the first drip reaches the middle of his sternum, licking up the barest hint of cleavage between Brian's pecs. Imperfect, his tongue leaves another red mark across his chest. On the upside, Pat presses a copper-scented kiss to the side of Brian's mouth, and Brian feels his smile curl under Pat's lips.
He pours more, and Pat's mouth tracks across his chest as multiple rivulets spill down his chest like a river delta, getting diverted by the fine, random spattering of Brian's chest hair. Pat gets most of them, licking up the length of Brian's torso; one he has to catch with his thumb.
The fourth pour is where gravity wins, a couple tributaries wending past Pat's mouth and disappearing down low, where skin gives way to hair. They both pause, looking down at the ones that got away, and incidentally where Brian's dick juts up hard and red between them.
"Hey Pat: suck my dick," Brian orders, teasing, and Pat groans even as he leans back on his elbows so Brian can shimmy up into range. Pat's mouth goes to his thigh immediately, licking up where a droplet winds over and into the shadow of his groin. He follows it with a few gentle bites, taking the big muscles of Brian's quads in his teeth. Brian can feel his pulse thud in his inner thigh, so close to Pat's fangs. Pat must be able to hear it, or feel it too somehow, because he kisses the place where it's the closest to skin, his eyes closed in concentration.
Pat's hands drops to Brian's ass, his long fingers kneading Brian's glutes as he presses sloppy kisses up trembling thighs. Brian arches, shameless for the attention—he's got an ass to be proud of, sue him—and Pat obliges, his fingertips wrapping around and in, groping Brian with intent. At least—intent to what, Brian's not sure until one of Pat's fingertips ghosts over his hole, and Brian can't help it: he breathes in, sharp, surprised, lets it out as a desiring noise as Pat does it again more purposefully.
Pat's gaze, looking up at him past the long blood-streaked expanse of his torso, is sinful. He runs his open lips up the side of Brian's dick as he presses in with the pad of his finger. It's too—it's dry, obviously, but the very much welcome pressure of it is overwhelming, like Brian could feel every goddamn whorl of his fingerprint if he focused, and he's fuckin' focusing. There's nothing else he feels but the way Pat's fingertip edges slowly into him, pulling and tugging at a hole that couldn't possibly let him in despite how much Brian suddenly, desperately needs it.
When Pat's mouth curves wicked and wet up the underside of the head of Brian's dick, Brian breaks. He whines, rocking back into Pat's grip. "If—if you're changing your mind about it, I'm so—I'm so fucking game."
Pat can't actually suck his dick with his fangs out—they've tried—but Pat makes a go of it anyway, letting lips and tongue suck at just the head of Brian's dick as Brian whines and makes a fool of himself. "Don't wanna mess up your plan," he murmurs, when he comes up for—well, not air, but he's breathing anyway, the full sensory experience.
"Plan's done," Brian gasps, as he feels Pat's broad first knuckle plug up against his hole. "Please mess up the plan."
It's torture, the way Pat has to stop touching Brian in order to get out from underneath him. "How d'you want it?" he asks, when he's got his hands braced under him and Brian back in his lap.
"I want—" Brian starts, as all the possibilities for his night spiral out ahead of him in infinite ways. "I want—however you want," he settles on. "However you feel, y'know, comfortable."
Pat licks over his fangs as his eyes sweep over Brian, wanting. "Behind you," he decides, "on your, uh, on your knees. Please."
"Ooh," Brian croons, getting to his feet so he can turn around and Pat can fold his legs back up under him. "Gettin' a little rough with it, Patrick."
Pat laughs as he runs his hand down Brian's back, then shuffles forward so he can take Brian in his arms and hold him, back-to-chest. "It's a classic," he defends himself, and kisses Brian's shoulder. "And, uh, I'll feel better if I can't get at your throat."
That makes Brian's stomach do a confusing lurch, a pleased-to-be-prey dichotomy that makes his head spin. "I—wow, okay—" he manages, breathless on a laugh, as Pat kisses up his neck, behind his ear. Together they wiggle around until Brian's leaned a little more over the edge of the tub, Pat kneeling behind.
"Hey, gimme the bag?" Pat asks, and Brian laughs incredulously as he looks over his shoulder.
"Oh, you are not using blood as lube, Pat Gill," Brian chides, though he passes him the blood pack. "I have read that Hannibal fanfic, and I feel like it may have set some unrealistic expectations for how this works."
Pat takes a swig of blood, straight from the bag. "You read fanfic?" he asks.
"Nope, that was a total lie," Brian confesses, "Simone was trying to gross me out but, hah, joke's on her, apparently, because which one of us is covered in blood in a bathtub now?" He gets down on one elbow in the well of the tub, arching his back, and Pat makes an approving noise as he grabs one of Brian's asscheeks and spreads 'em.
Pat goes silent for a few conspicuous seconds, distracted, and Brian wiggles his butt. "I know what you're thinking," Brian says, "and you should stop figuring out how to ask for it with nice respectful words and just do it."
Pat snorts; it's hard for Brian to see over his shoulder at this angle but he can imagine the way Pat ducks his head, hides behind his hair so Brian can't seen the way embarrassment and desire mingle on his face. Brian has a good imagination and plenty of material from which to extrapolate, though. He hums as he feels Pat's lips alight on his tailbone, kissing down the last few vertebrae to the dimple just above his butt.
The spill of liquid over his hole is surreal—too copious for spit, too warm for lube, too viscous for water. His brain goes wow, that's super fucking uncomfortable at the same time his dick's like oh, hell yeah, and then Pat's mouth is on him. He runs his tongue over Brian's balls, flat over his hole, laying another kiss at the crest of him before going back in for a detail pass. Brian groans and holds his head in his hands as Pat does it again, pouring and licking the blood from him, mirroring the noise Brian makes.
By this time, the blood pack is empty enough that Pat can put it down in the tub next to their knees. Brian hears the click of his lube, then feels Pat's knuckle press against him, smearing a generous amount of lube on his hole before he slides his finger in, fucking effortlessly.
Brian's breath catches in his throat and comes out as a whine, because—because God, the feeling of Pat finally inside him goes way the fuck deeper than just the physical. He buries his face in his bent arms and makes, just, some kind of noise, because Pat slows.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Yuh-huh," Brian answers, thin-voiced, following it up with canting his hips so Pat picks up the pace again.
Pat's meticulous, when he gets down to brass tacks; he spends what feels like for-fucking-ever curling just one finger inside Brian, despite how Brian shifts around fitfully trying to get more. "Stop tryin' to drive," Pat teases him, once, before leaning in to nip at his asscheek. He follows it up with his tongue alongside his finger, coaxing a frankly embarrassing whine and a string of muttered curses out of him, Brian holding on to the lip of the bathtub in his effort to not completely run the show.
He gets to two fingers eventually, a deep and thorough two that feels like all of Brian's insides are melting to one point of straining contact deep in the core of him. "God, fuck, Pat," he gasps, full on clenching the tub in one hand and and the faucet in the other as Pat wrecks his—hah—wholeass shop with his long, knobbly fingers. "Yes, please, okay, can we please move on, or I'm gonna come on your goddamn hand."
"It's not even my whole hand," Pat muses, twisting his fingers in a way that makes Brian whimper.
"You can't—you can't—put your money where your mouth is, motherfucker, fuck, fuck," he curses, and Pat laughs as he slips his fingers free and Brian can catch a fucking breath.
Brian hears the undignified wheeze of his lube bottle again—look, they've been through a lot together in the past few weeks, the brave soldier—and then Pat's fingers are on his hole again, flat, impossibly wide. Three—four? Definitely wide enough for four. Brian's ass doesn't know how to count. "I bet I could," Pat says, hooking two of those fingers and tugging on the rim of Brian's hole. Brian groans.
"Big words from someone who, ah, fuck, Pat—" More fingers inside him, drenched and slippery. "—didn't want to top until like. Seriously. Like, ten minutes ago."
"I'm finding my feet again," Pat replies, his voice warm and teasing and—god, Brian just, Brian is just really ready, ready for the curtain to rise on opening night and—
Pat's thighs bump up against the back of Brian's, and the, the weight of his dick squares up between Brian's cheeks, heavy against him. Brian's whole perception narrows to the places where they meet, on the blunt head of Pat's dick catching on his hole and slowly, slowly edging inside, on the prickle of stretching even more.
If Pat was meticulous with his fingers, he's fucking exact with his dick. It's a few shallow breaths before he even seems to consider rocking forward a bit, coaxing and teasing Brian's body to open up around him. It takes everything Brian has not to push back, not to run Pat's show, not to go so fast and rob him of his fuckin' homecoming, literally. And it's, it's so much better for it, when Pat slowly pulls Brian back onto him, rises to meet him in turn, inching slowly into the reconfiguration of Brian's body around him.
"God, Brian," Pat whispers as he leans over Brian's back, as the last inch of him slides home. One arm comes up to wrap around Brian's chest, fingertips on his throat, while the other runs down Brian's hip and onto his thigh. Brian makes a choked sound and hangs his head, breathes through the feeling of fullness until it blossoms slowly into an ache for more.
Pat's lips are on his spine, between his shoulderblades. "Can I keep drinking from you?" he asks, and Brian's heart does a little stutter-step at the innocuousness of the question, of how carefully and surgically precise Pat's tone is, how Brian's whole fuckin' consciousness ascends at the realization that Pat is playing along with the fantasy. He nods, yeah, yes, and Pat retrieves the blood pack and pours its last dregs to pool between his shoulderblades.
He can feel droplets roll down his ribcage, no longer warm, chased by Pat's tongue which has taken on its own warmth in exchange. He fixes his mouth to Brian's skin and sucks, nips gingerly at the places where more than just skin covers his bones. And all the while moving in him still, an instinctual rocking motion.
Pat picks up speed as Brian's body opens to him, as Brian relaxes into it and pressure transmutes to pleasure. It's been—hell, it's been a long time for Brian, not just Pat but before, too, but the feeling is as familiar and as intimate as sleeping in your own bed. Pat's preferred pace is slow and purposeful, long deliberate thrusts that force Brian's breath out in a groan every time Pat fucks into him.
And it's—it's so fucking good, after so long, to feel that. To finally give that over to Pat and see what he does with Brian's body, because what he does is hold it with such care and affection as he leans over Brian's back and hooks his chin over Brian's shoulder, moving them together like one creature. His hands roam over Brian's body, over his chest, down his thighs, cradling the soft curve of his stomach, running down his arm to squeeze their fingers together. Brian loses track of it, honestly, lost in the feeling of Pat moving in him.
And Pat's so careful, too; he's stopped biting even playfully, his mouth closed against Brian's shoulder. As they pick up pace he takes away even that, just his forehead pressed against Brian's shoulderblade. And, yeah, when Brian pushes back and Pat pulls away entirely and fucks into him hard in return, it startles a cry from Brian that starts deep in him and comes out square, pleading.
Pat pauses, cautious, and Brian practically shakes with how much he needs that, again. "Yeah, yeah, please," he says, and then Pat's off, those same precise thrusts but deep, and fast, and hard. Tension pools low in Brian's gut, pulling in from his whole body, a pleasant kindling burn sparked every time Pat gets him just right.
Brian gets his hand on himself, strokes unnecessarily as he stumbles toward the inevitable. But—
Pat's mouth descends on him again, scraping hard and violent over the meat of Brian's shoulder. It's enough, even through the haze of impending orgasm, to make Brian's stomach drop. It's wrong, he thinks, wrong in some indescribable way—oh, fuck, it can't be now, like this—the realization breaking over him like a bucket of cold water just before Pat realizes it too and makes a choked noise, his cry muffled against Brian's skin.
"Fuck, Brian," Pat bites out, lucid but frayed. The breath of his words is hot and wet against the back of Brian's neck. "I want to—I want to bite you so bad, I can't—I can't—I don't want to—"
"God, Pat, okay," Brian gasps, thinking fast. "No, okay, just—can you—tell me how you'd do it?"
"Brian… I can't," Pat answers. Brian can feel Pat's tongue run over his shoulderblade, following the path of where some blood must have dripped down earlier. At the end, he sucks a mark into Brian's shoulder, his fangs pressed to flesh.
"No, Pat, you can," Brian promises. He levers himself up to get one hand on the lip of the bathtub, dislodging Pat's mouth. "Talk me through it, like you said."
Pat goes silent, frustrated by the weight of his words, by the enormity of Brian's request. Brian can feel the way his body trembles with the strain as he half-kisses, half-nips his way back up to Brian's neck.
"Come on," he demands. "Tell me. Anything. How are you going to do it, Pat."
Pat wraps his arms around Brian's body and hauls him up to sit back on Pat's thighs, holding Brian close to his chest. In this position there's no room to thrust up into him, and all movement stops, just Pat as he runs his hand down Brian's blood-tacky chest.
He feels it, when Pat puts his lips to the side of Brian's neck and inhales. Brian holds his breath in empathy. "...I'd do it right," Pat confesses, stumbling on his tongue. Brian can feel the whisper of fangs on his skin. "This time. I'd do it right. I'd—"
Pat's voice hitches and he takes a breath. Brian stills, waiting. "I'd get you out of this bathtub. Off your knees," he continues, so quiet. Every word sounds like he's dragging it out of a safe at the bottom of the ocean. "I'd wash the stench of a stranger's blood off of you. Take you… take you to my bed."
Mmmhmm, Brian encourages. He runs his hands down Pat's arms, until he can lace their fingers and hold their hands to his chest. "Then what, Pat?"
Pat puts his forehead to Brian's shoulder and wipes his eyes on him, then presses his mouth to Brian's neck again. "I'd lay you out. Put my mouth all over you. I'd… make you come, first," he whispers. "I'd make you come so hard that… that you don't want to fight me, after, that it just… that it just feels good. And I'd—I'd take you in my arms, hold you against me so I can—fuck—so I can feel your heart beating in my chest."
"How," Brian repeats, tipping his head. Pat's mouth mashes against his neck, lips dragging up the tendons that stretch up the side.
"Right here," Pat replies, and opens his mouth so that his fangs scrape, wide, over the join of Brian's neck and shoulder. Brian can't help it; he moans, and his hips buck. Pat's arms close around him tighter, immobilizing him. Pat kisses him, instead. "Right here, Brian. I… I'd bite you right here, and—"
Pat's voice breaks, and he moans under his breath. "And I—fuck, God—as your—as your blood filled my m-mouth... I wouldn't feel anything other than—than gratitude, Brian. Just, so… so fucking thankful, and so in awe of you, and how beautiful you are, how alive—"
Pat's voice breaks again, and it doesn't come back; he just buries his face against Brian's shoulder and sobs with need. Brian releases Pat's hands and reaches up behind him to tangle his own hands in Pat's hair, holding him close.
"Good, Pat—thank you," Brian soothes him. His own hands are shaking. Pat makes a broken noise into his shoulder. "Ssh, it's okay, babe; you did good. Do you want me to make you come now?"
Pat nods, crossing his arms over Brian's chest. "Yes—please—thank you," he chokes out.
"Okay, let's—let's get out of this fucking bathtub, yeah?" Brian asks, and Pat manages a weak laugh, yeah. They clambour out of the bathtub, a disaster of sticky limbs, not even standing completely before Pat drags Brian back down to ride him right there on the floor.
They both hiss as Pat slides back home, Brian's back arching as he reaches up and grabs the towel rack for stability. "Mngh, god, Pat," Brian moans, rolling his hips to seat himself as far as he can.
"Yeah—yeah—" Pat gasps.
"You still hungry, baby?" Brian asks, and Pat's whole face contorts as he nods. Brian reaches up and grabs the second foil bag of blood, cracking open the plastic spigot with his teeth. Pat makes a protesting sound, but Brian just spits out the cap and settles him with a hand on his chest. "Just let me take care of you, babe, I got this."
He offers the open bag to Pat, who… doesn't take it right away. He eyes flick from the bag to Brian and back again, a shadow of hesitation passing over his face. "What's wrong?" Brian asks.
"Nothing," Pat says, quickly, quietly, and reaches up for the bag. Brian lifts it out of his reach, pushing Pat back down with the hand on Pat's chest, and even though Pat could so clearly overpower Brian, he lets himself be laid down. Brian leans in, presses down hard on Pat's unbeating heart, until Pat's lips purse and he makes a tch noise. Brian lets up a bit so Pat can take in a breath to speak. "It's fine," Pat says, "It's just—after saying all that, I—"
Pat slams his mouth shut so hard it makes his teeth click. Brian can see the places where self-disgust creases around his nose, the corners of his eyes.
He considers the spigot of the bag, for a few short seconds. Probably not long enough to fully consider the ramifications of lifting it to his lips—
—but he does it anyway—
—the meat-dark scent of it hitting the back of his throat first as he takes a big swig and holds it in his mouth.
"Holy shit, Brian," Pat breathes, and Brian slides his hand up Pat's chest to press down on his throat. Pat stays where he's put, shock and desire warring on his face. Brian quickly compartmentalizes the copper taste and the viscosity of it on his tongue, the way his body wants so badly to reject it even as adrenaline sings through him. That it used to be inside someone and now it's inside him and he's—he's going to put it inside Pat, probably, he's going to let Pat lick the blood of someone else from his teeth.
God.
Brian leans in again, lower, bringing his face within a few inches of Pat's mouth. Pat's face is wild, eyes dark and teeth bared as he breathes in the scent. Brian smiles, and feels the spill of blood from between his teeth roll down his chin.
Droplets of red patter against Pat's lips, his fangs, His hips stutter up into Brian. Brian twists his hips down to match, riding him back down, more blood spilling from his mouth. Pat's eyes close, his mouth opens, compelled by need. He's whining in the back of his throat.
Brian leans in the rest of the way, until their mouths are almost touching, and lets the rest of the blood fall freely from his mouth into Pat's. Pat writhes under his hand, a roiling body of potential energy, and it's—god, it's even messier than before, if it's even possible. Most of the blood lands in his open, desperate mouth, at least.
Pat makes a choked noise as he swallows, and sucks the rest off his teeth. He doesn't have to move far to lick up Brian's chin, not one clean movement but many, frantic, uncoordinated, until Brian tips his head down and Pat licks into his mouth. Their lips crash together in something like a kiss, in name and appearance but not in the act, not whatsoever. Pat's tongue delves into Brian's mouth like he wants to climb inside him, his hands coming up from Brian's hips to hold him hard by the sides of his head.
Brian, for his part, just fuckin' hangs on, as best he can, keeping his own tongue and lips out of the way of Pat's fangs. He can feel Pat restrain himself from really biting, not like the first time, and when the taste of blood is gone from Brian's mouth, Pat only grunts under his breath and pulls away. His eyes are black holes in the stark white visible all around the edges, wide-eyed and trembling.
"Brian, I—" he starts, but Brian just takes another pull from the bag and rears back so Pat's dick slides sloppy inside him. Pat looks stricken as Brian starts to ride him again, like he literally couldn't look anywhere else, gaze trained on Brian's lips as he parts them and lets blood spill down his front.
Pat lets out a noise—guttural, unthinking—and sits up, rocking Brian back on his lap. His arms circle Brian around the waist as he bends his body to lick up the rivulets of blood that drip down Brian's chest. Brian grinds down, fucks himself deep and slow, and feels Pat's dick leap and harden inside him with every pass of his tongue over Brian's chest. Pat licks up, and up, up the sides of Brian's neck where he hesitates and breathes in deep before pulling back a little to look up at Brian with his fathomless eyes, lost and waiting.
Brian kisses him lightly, nipping his bottom lip and feeling the way it makes Pat shiver underneath him. Then, he tips his head back to take another swig, holding it inside again as he presses his mouth to Pat's, sealing their lips. His free hand comes up to grab Pat by the hair at the scruff of his neck, tangling his fingers in it, holding Pat's head at a killer angle so the blood can flow from Brian to Pat.
Pat doesn't even try to fight the hold; if anything, he holds Brian more tightly himself. Brian can hardly move but to grind, forward and back, rubbing his dick against Pat's abs. Pat licks into his mouth, chasing the blood from Brian's teeth, sucking on his lips when Brian pulls away to gasp, "gimme some room to move, geez."
Pat's eyes crinkle as he smiles, all fang. His lips are creased with red, sticky in the corners and down his chin where it's all spilled to hell. Red on his pale skin and dark hair makes him look truly a monster out of legend, though one that looks abashed when he releases his hold and settles his hands on Brian's hips instead.
"Feel free to give me a hand," Brian instructs, as he takes another mouthful of blood. Pat's hands tighten on his hips, just this side of painful, as Pat lifts him up with vampiric strength and slides him back down. Brian can't help it; he throws his head back and grunts around the copper mouthful as Pat's dick bumps up into him, feeling blood seep from the corners of his mouth and trickle down his neck.
Pat's mouth is there in an instant, sucking fanged and precise up the whining column of Brian's throat. He keeps fucking up into Brian, lifting and slamming Brian down onto him, grazing over that place inside him that makes Brian want to go limp even as his core paradoxically tightens towards its end. With no small amount of willpower, he tips his head forward into Pat's waiting mouth, and lets the blood spill from between their lips as he moans into the kiss.
And that's how he comes, and that's how Pat comes too, before or after or at the same time; Brian doesn't know, but what he does know is that the cord winding inside him, as Pat controls Brian's every movement—as Pat uses his body—tightens until it snaps, and the space between their bodies is wet-white-and-red. Eventually Pat's rhythm fails as well and he just tucks his face into the crook of Brian's neck, mouth open and sharp where it scrapes over Brian's clavicle.
Only Brian needs to do something as mortal as catch his breath. Lips mashed against the cool skin of Pat's temple, Pat's hair in his mouth, laughing a little as he reaches up and fishes it out.
But for the brown flakes of blood, Pat looks almost fully human as he looks up into Brian's eyes, only the dimple of a receding fang distending his lip as he smiles crookedly up at him. "You're—fuck," he murmurs, kissing Brian's slack lips. "You're so—how did you—"
Brian smiles as Pat peppers his face with kisses, his beard rasping over Brian's spit-pink skin. "Lucky guess," he murmurs back, turning his head so Pat's next kiss catches him right on the lips again, and they kiss easy and simple. Pat's hand alights on Brian's chest, seeking his heartbeat as it slows.
It's gross, though; it's so fucking gross in the ebbing aftermath of orgasm that Brian pulls away eventually, grimacing at the lingering taste in his mouth, at the inescapable tang of drying blood in his nose. "Okay, I—I'm sorry, I super have to brush my teeth, don't be offended."
Pat laughs and offers his hand to steady Brian as he rises to his feet, shaky as a newborn deer and tingling from the rush of sensation to his legs. "Do you, uh, want this," Brian asks when he's standing, indicating the blood.
Pat reaches up and takes it, but just rests it on his chest as he lays back and looks at Brian's ass as he leans over the sink. Brian kicks his foot back and runs his toes over Pat's stomach and Pat, ticklish, catches his ankle and pulls it to his mouth to kiss over the fine bones.
In the mirror, Brian is—well, Brian doesn't look too closely at the state of himself. Pat's licked him from tip to tail, pretty much, but there’s still red in all of his creases, bits of his hair matted with it. Brian rinses his mouth, and gives it a quick scrub with his toothbrush. Then he pours himself a glass of water and gargles, spits, drains it, refills it again, and sits back down on the bathroom floor, his back against the counter and his legs over Pat's torso.
"Cheers," he mumbles, tapping the blood bag, and Pat smiles as they both drink their respective drinks. Pat crushes his quickly and pitches it up into the bathroom sink, but Brian savours his. "So," he says, between sips, "Verdict?"
"Oh my God," Pat groans, tipping his head back on the floor as if to direct his fondest regards heavenward. "You?"
Brian considers his options. The unvarnished truth—that it was hot but gross, like most sex acts are when you really think about them—is too tactless. He reaches over and takes Pat's hand, bringing the relatively clean back of it to his lips. "A cookie is a sometimes food," he says, and Pat throws his other arm over his face and lets out a laugh.
"Thank you," he says, with feeling, peeking out from under his arm. He takes his hand away from Brian's lips and runs his fingertips over his cheek, pulling lightly at the fine hairs there as dried blood flakes away at his touch. Then, quieter: "I don't know how to say…"
"Then don't," Brian says, stealing Pat's hand back so it lies flat on his cheek instead. "It's fine. D'you wanna help me wash this man outta my hair, though?"
Pat laughs again, more of a snort really, and they untangle themselves long enough to get back into the blood-brown bathtub. They kiss chastely under the stream, Pat's fingers gently rubbing soapy circles into Brian's hair, sated and sleepy and warm. The water sluices rusty around their feet before running clear.
—
It's Brian's house and he should be a better host, but he's still in bed first. Pat insists on cleaning up the bathroom himself, bleach and everything, so Brian lets him, humming a freestyle accompaniment to some lofi beats to ogle your boyfriend doing domestic chores to.
He tries, but he's sleepy from the sex and the emotional rollercoaster and the hot shower, so his awareness of Pat moving naked through his apartment stutters in and out until, some unknowable time later, the bed dips and Brian blinks his eyes open just in time to see Pat crawl up into his personal space and lay his head on Brian's chest.
His heart does a curious thump-thump at the unabashed affection, and Pat exhales on a quiet laugh as he presses his ear to Brian. He doesn't say anything though, just runs one hand down Brian's arm until he can lace their fingers and pull them to his lips, the barest touch of a kiss.
They lay like that for a bit, Brian's other hand twisting idly at a lock of Pat's hair, so long that Brian considers the possibility of actually falling asleep with Pat just lying on top of him, in the cradle of his legs. Pat seems content to. He's warm, too, almost warm enough that Brian doesn't miss the comforter squished up over to one side of their bodies.
Pat's lips slide over his bare chest, pressing a string of kisses over his sternum, his collarbones, up his neck. Moving rucks their bodies up together, curling Brian's legs around Pat's waist as he leans up over him. Pat brushes his nose against Brian's, who smiles.
"What are you angling for, Pat Gill," Brian murmurs, and Pat grins, open and unashamed.
"Just this," Pat replies, and leans in to lay the same soft, shallow kiss to Brian's lips. It's unhurried. Aimless. Brian finds himself unable to keep from smiling, from drinking in the rare experience of Pat with all his walls down.
"Mm. It's almost as if we experienced a whole new level of intimacy just now, and you're feeling vulnerable and like you need to be reassured we're still good," Brian says, when Pat moves away.
Pat snorts, dropping his head to bonk into Brian's cheek. "Jesus, yeah, put me on blast," he says, though his tone is warm. He goes back on his knees between Brian's legs, and runs his hands up the splay of his thighs, his thumbs slotting into the groove of his inner hip as if they were always meant to be there. He strokes there, meditatively, watching the twitch of Brian's muscle as it stretches.
Brian doesn't mind being on display—has made a life of it, honestly—and he relaxes into it, letting his body fall loose and open under Pat's gaze. It's not sexual, even though it is, their naked bodies pressed together, the almost unbearable intimacy of being seen. Pat's eyes on him are like a second pair of hands as they roam up Brian's body, his real ones following in their wake. His fingertips trace up Brian's soft stomach, over the ladder of his ribs, over the soft skin on the undersides of his triceps, until they pause over the pulse thrumming in Brian's wrists.
Pat brings one wrist to his mouth, then the other, kissing them tenderly, then lays them down at Brian's sides. His hands travel back up Brian's arms and over his shoulders, delicately skimming over the thin skin on either side of his neck. He pauses there, completely still and listening, feeling, eyes distant even as they're trained to that point. Brian tips his head, just a little, and Pat's hands circle his throat—not applying pressure in the least, just putting his whole hands on Brian's neck to feel the beating of life underneath, the slow intake of his breath.
Brian wraps his legs around Pat's waist, aligning their bodies again. "You know, I—" he starts, then stops, biting his lip. God, the eye of this needle is so fucking narrow. He's terrified, but he can't let it rest. "We, uh, we did it out of order, Pat, the showering and the making me come parts, but, we got the part where we hold each other in bed right."
The utter lack of surprise on Pat's face betrays that he'd been thinking the same thing. Brian licks his lips, watching Pat's eyes track the motion. "I'm not gonna ask," Brian continues. His voice is—fuck, his voice is wet, catching on the words. He can't say them quiet enough into the space between them. "If this is it, forever, I swear it's fine."
"Brian," Pat murmurs, but Brian moves one of his thumbs to slide over Pat's lips.
"I love you," Brian says, simply, and watches the way it deepens the fine creases around Pat's eyes. "I love you," he repeats, and, "I trust you. Whatever you want, it's yours."
He can see the tears well up in Pat's eyes, like clouds billowing on the horizon before the storm rolls in, but Pat blinks them away and ducks his head. He presses a kiss to Brian's palm, the heel of his hand, the thin skin of his wrist, where he stops and inhales slowly before rising to his hands over Brian.
He stays like that a long time, just looking down at Brian, lit in soft gold from Brian's bedside lamp, rumpled and warm and flushed. His hair is still limp from the shower, curling at the ends as it dries. Brian categorizes every detail of him, of this moment, in the time it takes Pat to speak.
"Okay," he says, and Brian's stomach swoops from low in his gut to somewhere around his lungs.
"Okay?" he echoes, and Pat nods.
"Okay," Pat says again, and shifts so that he can cradle Brian's head in one of his hands. It happens to stretch Brian's neck just so, and he can again feel the weight of Pat's gaze on him as it drops to his exposed throat.
"You're sure?" Brian asks.
Pat sucks his lip between his teeth. The fingertips of his other hand play lightly down the tendons of his neck. "Never," he says, his mouth twisting in a momentary smile. "But I… I'm not… I'm not hungry, and I… still want…"
Pat's eyebrows comes together as he considers, exactly, what he wants. Or perhaps, how to say it. Brian waits. He waits as long as it takes. Eventually, Pat says, "I want to be who you think I am. I want it… more than anything. I want to be able to do this for you."
"I want you to be able to share this with me," Brian asserts, gently, and Pat's eyes close as an unknowable expression passes over his face.
"Brian, I—" Pat starts, then swallows. His fingertips press into the base of Brian's skull. "I'm sorry, I… I'm just… I wish… I knew you before; I'm sorry it's like this," he manages, stumbling over the words.
Brian reaches up and takes Pat's face in his hands. It's a mess of arms and hands and faces but somehow they manage; somehow Brian manages to pull Pat down, to whisper I love you in the space before their lips meet.
And that's how it happens. No fanfare, no violent crashing together of bodies; Pat's kissing him, then he's kissing down Brian's jaw, down his neck, and then his mouth is open and his fangs are against Brian's neck, and then they're in.
Like the moment immediately after you've stubbed your toe, every nerve in Brian is utterly silent for what feels like whole seconds before it all comes flooding in: that sharp pain, that flood of endorphins on its heels, that spike of primal adrenaline that makes his hands claw into Pat's shoulders and a cry tear itself from his lungs. It's—God—it's everything, a wall of released anticipation, of need, of love, of despair, all flooding him at once. He can feel his blood spill, hot and wet, from Pat's mouth—can hear Pat make a noise into his flesh the likes of which he's heard only once before.
Pat has him by the wrists, Brian realizes only as they're pressed into the pillow on either side of his head. The weight of Pat's body pushes Brian's thighs apart. Pinned like a butterfly, spread out for Pat. It's all he can do to just lie there and force his body to relax, to choose to lie down in the lion's mouth. To stare directly into the sun in all its agonizing glory, as he can feel—he can fucking feel—Pat drink his blood from where it gushes freely from two points of interstellar pain.
"Oh, God," he gasps, as Pat bites into him again. He can feel his flesh part under Pat's fangs, the unmooring of his life as it bleeds from him. It hurts—it hurts so fucking much, the kind of pain that blanks out everything else, but brings with it an entire universe of sensation, revealing itself before Brian like every door in an infinite hallway slamming open and revealing even more infinite experiences beyond. "Pat, I—" he tries; he curls his fingers around Pat's hands on his wrists and tries to convey the everythingness of how it feels, but it turns out all his mouth knows how to say after that is I love you, I love you, Pat, I—
The anodyne rush of eternity comes for him faster this time, hits even harder, breaking over him like a wave that shoves him under the surface of the water and keeps him there, gasping for breath and unsure if the ocean in all of its brutal magnificence will release him or keep him forever. It's out of his hands.
He floats. Or—he sinks. Either way, he is—
Pat's.
—
He must be making noise when Pat releases him, when Pat licks over the mess of open wounds on his neck and coaxes them to close, to stop the ebb of life from him, because Pat's making a shh noise when he takes Brian in his arms.
"Ssh, you're okay," Pat says, and under the weight of his body Brian realizes that his own is shaking, big heaving sobs as he tries to take in breath and can't because his every muscle is trembling. Pat moves only to grab the comforter and throw it over them both, then holds Brian close and lets him shake and stutter until his breath catches on a rhythm again.
"Talk to me, please," Pat says, low and urgent, and it makes a fresh wave of hot tears spill down Brian's face when he realizes that he feels—god, he feels amazing, the overwhelming feeling in his body that's crowding out everything else is the incandescence of sheer happiness, burning through him.
"Pat—it's—good—" is all he can manage, hiccuping around the words, and he can feel all the tension explode out of Pat as he melts against Brian's side.
"Jesus, Brian," Pat swears, and then that's it; they just lie together, Brian fizzing with happiness like an antacid dropped in water, until he has the wherewithal to flop his arm up over Pat and they settle out of the suspicious wet spot pooling under Brian's shoulders.
"Need—black sheets," Brian mumbles, yawning.
Pat kisses his shoulderblade, where he's turned Brian to be his little spoon. "An' rubber ones, probably," he adds.
"You 'n your pee thing again," Brian says, and Pat's laughter is a gift.
Brian should… Brian should probably at least wipe himself down with a washcloth, even if they're being gross and already falling asleep in bloodstained bedsheets. Pat might want to rinse his mouth. But neither of them move, and the digital clock on Brian's bedside table ticks over past midnight before Pat stirs again, taking a breath to speak.
"Are you okay," he asks. "Was it… was it what you wanted."
Brian has to rub his eyes, and wipe the sleep from his mouth before he can answer. Pat's tense in the silence. "Of course, Pat," he says, slow and soft. "You're everything."
It's not what he wants to say. It's not half of how happy he is, how proud, how loved he feels; it's not a fraction of how close he feels to Pat in this moment. But the words for that feeling pale in comparison, getting stuck in his mouth as his mind fights to wrestle him down into a deep replenishing sleep.
Pat exhales into the back of his neck, his face pressed against the short curling ends of Brian's hair. "Thank you," he breathes, and that's that.
—
He wakes up to sunlight, and the sensation of falling into Pat when he sits down on the edge of the bed. Brian blinks his eyes open, regretting instantly the stabbing pain, like a hangover, that pierces the fog of sleep.
"Hey, tiger," Pat says, reaching over to flip Brian's bedhead out of his face. Brian moans and buries his face in the pillow, only for Pat to withdraw and do something that causes a quiet cracking noise to reach Brian's ears. When Brian hazards a look back, Pat's holding out a bottle of green Gatorade.
"No," Brian grumbles, to Pat's laughter.
—//—
BDG Unravels The Best Dressed Vampires in Video Games is doing well in the metrics when Pat and Brian pull up to Brian's childhood home in South Carolina. Pat's managing the social media while Brian drives, because it's not like Brian needs Pat to navigate these particular streets.
Brian turns off the car, cutting the headlights so they don't shine into the front window. Then he just puts his head in his hands, willing the world to stop shimmering with the illusion of movement you get after you've driven for hours.
Pat reaches over and rubs his back, catching on a knot that's been forming since somewhere in Virginia. "You gonna make it?"
Brian groans and nods, though it makes the whole visual experience worse. "Just tense. I'll be fine when we get inside."
Pat's fingertips play over the jutting-out bones of Brian's shoulderblades. "D'you need a hand," he asks, quietly, as if they're not the only people within earshot.
Brian considers it. It's been weeks since a bite's knocked Brian on his ass, especially now that Pat's gotten a handle on it, and though he's kind of dehydrated from the drive, it's probably not enough to matter. Not enough to stop his heart from skipping a beat with a Pavlovian hunger, anyway.
"Do you mind?" he asks, and Pat shakes his head as he runs his hand down Brian's arm to take him by the wrist.
He sighs when Pat's fangs pierce his wrist, the memory of pain, of fear, so distant that it feels like it happened once to someone else. It's just relief, pinging through his brain on a wave of endorphins that cuts anchor on all the aches—all the tension, the nerves—washing it away and leaving only the after-image of pleasure like a shadow imprinted under his skin.
Pat's done in less than a minute, licking up the polite little trail of blood before it curls down Brian's forearm. "Thanks, babe," Brian murmurs.
Pat pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his mouth, shooting Brian a crooked, fanged grin before leaning over the center armrests to give him a kiss. "Any time. Ready to go?"
"That's my line," Brian grouses, smiling as he fumbles a little dreamily with his seatbelt. The November air will snap him out of it, but for now he enjoys the sensation of floating, the tremendously tiny world consisting only of him and Patrick.
Outside the car, his mom is already throwing open the door, letting Moose bound over the porch to greet them. Brian sighs again, though with a smile this time. It'll be fine.