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Patrick is, admittedly, a flirty drunk. He always has been, but it just seems to have gotten worse as he gets older. Then again, having a (sort of) boyfriend like Pete Wentz makes it hard to not be turned on like, constantly. Pete’s really hot - not even Patrick is immune to that charm.
That charm that has him fumbling outside his (their) hotel room with the keycard. He maybe had one too many down at the hotel bar with Joe, bored and not paying attention while wishing that Pete was with them too. When Joe decided he was going to turn in, Patrick agreed and fought a boner while they rode up the elevator. He had been thinking about a certain tattooed man and his cock for far longer than acceptable, especially with Joe sitting next to him chatting.
Joe went one way to his and Andy’s room, Patrick went the other, and can barely get the stupid card in the slot. He could blame it on the cognac (as he recently learned Hennessy to be), why his fingers were shaking and his vision blurry. Then again, all he could think about was the sleeping man on the other side of the door and that was enough to get his blood pumping.
He felt a little crazy thinking about it, about how strong Pete is in a way he’s never known before the last few months. Patrick already thinks about him a lot, in the brief moments of absence they have from each other. There aren’t a lot of those, considering they work together and practically (almost but not really but also most of the time) live together.
More and more, he finds he doesn’t mind being so occupied. Every aspect of their lives is already intertwined, and Patrick has to say, he blushes every morning he wakes up to Pete already looking at him. Being in love is turning out to be... nice. Simple. Things just feel good in a way he really can’t articulate but he’s sure Pete could. Its possible that’s just what being happy feels like, but Patrick can’t ponder it for too long before that infuriating little light turns green instead of red and lets him in.
He stumbles when he rushes in, but stops short, cursing when the bright yellow light of the hallway floods the pitch-black room. He pushes the door shut with both hands, fighting the pressure of the door closer above his head. Face hot, Patrick quickly locks it and turns back to the room. He swears he hears a sigh, and flinches in the dark. He definitely just woke up Pete.
If he didn’t then, he definitely does when he takes exactly two wobbly steps into the room and brings his thigh directly into the corner of a table. He curses again, louder this time, and knows that’s it. Pete is absolutely awake, Patrick can hear him moving under the blankets.
As quietly as he possibly can in his unbalanced state, Patrick toes off his shoes and strips down to his tee shirt and boxers. He knows Pete hasn’t slept well in a couple of days, and that was the whole reason Pete was upstairs while he drank with Joe and some guys he’s definitely met before but didn’t remember and still doesn’t. Pete parted them early in the night, pulling Patrick aside to give him a kiss goodnight with his fingers so sweetly on his chin, tilting his head back.
Now that he thinks about it, its actually Pete’s fault that Patrick is climbing up the mattress on his hands and knees. Pete kissed him so... lovingly that he felt it. He felt it on his lips when Pete said, “Love you, babe.”
Patrick will never say it out loud just how fast his stupid heart flutters when Pete calls him that. Babe has joined the ranks with Trick, and they’ve started to sound the same to Patrick.
Again, it's Pete’s fault for kissing him like that, then expect Patrick not to lay behind him, leaning up on his elbow while he peels the blankets from his chin. Pete grumbles incoherently, shuffling a bit until Patrick has a clear line to his neck to press his lips against, but Pete just grunts.
“C’mon, dude.” he huffs, pulling the blanket up again. Patrick tries not to completely deflate, realizing that this might not go the way he was hoping. “I was asleep, dick.”
“Sorry, panda. I was just thinkin’ ‘bout you.” Patrick whispers, slowly reaching his fingers up to his hair, scratching his fingertips over his scalp. “Are you upset?”
Pete’s head turns, looking back at him over his shoulder. He looks more pissed than upset. “A little!”
The nice fuzzy feeling Patrick had been enjoying turns icy. He drops his hand and leans back to snap, “Sorry I wanna be with you, I guess. Sorry I like being around you.”
Pete huffs, turning on his back. He rubs the ball of his palm in his eyes. Patrick just watches, red with embarrassment and annoyingly hard. Even in the wake of Pete’s supreme bitchiness, Patrick would still enjoy getting fucked sometime soon. It's kinda fun when Pete’s pissed at him too. He’s rougher when he’s mean.
“Well, I'm awake now.” Pete says expectantly, looking up at him with his hands folded on his bare chest. He shrugs with his arms, shaking his head. “What do you want?”
Patrick wishes he could curl up into a ball and just sink through the earth, hot shame radiating in his face. He leans over him, close enough to see him in the dark and drapes his arm across his stomach. His skin is warm to the touch from how buried in the blankets he was. Pete doesn’t lighten up, even as he says, “I was just thinking ‘bout you. Wanted to, you know, come up here and try to - to, like, be all... fl-flirty, I guess.”
“Flirty?” Pete repeats, eyebrows raised. “Busting your ass on a table was flirty?”
Patrick sputters a little, fighting the anxiety in his throat. “I’m sorry, Pete,” he curls down, makes himself small at his side so Pete has to lift his arm for him, and Patrick can put his head on his shoulder. “I just wanted to - to,” but instead of continuing, Patrick turns his head and kisses his chest above his nipple.
Pete scoffs above him. “Jesus, you’re such a slut. And you reek of booze. If you think I’m gonna give you what you want after all that, you’re fucking funny.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he grabs Patrick’s hand off of his stomach and moves it down, pressing his palm to his cock, “you don’t get to come up here acting like a slutty little brat and demand to be fucked into the mattress. I know you, I know that’s what you want. You wanna get fucked so bad, do it yourself.”
Patrick wants to hit him. He hates that Pete’s right, hates that Pete knows him so well, so intimately. He can’t even fight it, how disappointed he is. Still, he palms at his dick, warm and stiffening under his hand. He rubs him through his boxers, whining, “I said I was sorry.”
“Well,” Pete puts his hands behind his head, closing his eyes, “that’s what you get for being a drunk whore.”
Patrick huffs, sticking his hand down under his boxers and grabbing his cock. Pete hums to himself but doesn’t move. Patrick mumbles, “Not a whore.”
“Really?” Pete scoffs again and rolls his hips up into his hand. “Sure about that? Hey, you know what,” Pete moves his hand to grab him by the hair and pushes his head down, “why don’t you show me you’re a good boy and choke on it?”
Eager yet, Patrick jumps, positioning himself on his knees beside him. He didn’t waste a moment sliding his boxers down to his legs and getting them off entirely. He hears Pete laugh above him, mumbling something about him being a drunk slut again while pushing at his head. Patrick tries to push his hand away, and immediately regrets it.
Pete grabs his hair again, tighter now so Patrick winces, his eyes screwed shut. As Pete jerks his head back, he hisses, “What’s your fucking problem? Thought you wanted to blow me.” Pete almost looks like he’s actually mad, glaring at him in the dark. He should look silly, laid on his back looking down at Patrick like this, but not when he snaps, “That’s why you woke me up, right?
There’s a moment where Patrick wonders if this is justified. Pete’s pulling really hard on his hair, he can almost feel the skin on his forehead tugging. All Patrick did was wake him up. That didn’t seem like that great of an offense to warrant being yanked around like this, but still, he cowers.
“No, I mean yes, but - sorry. I’m sorry.” Patrick squirms, wiggling a bit for any kind of friction he can get. If he thought Pete wouldn’t scold him, he’d slip a band under his boxers, but he doesn’t wanna risk it. He’s already kinda in trouble. “I won’t do it again, I won’t push you away.”
Patrick hears the words as he says them and can’t stop himself. He trusts Pete, even when he sees the look on his face after Pete leans over to turn the bedside lamp on. He’s got a grin from ear to ear, devious and excited, his eyes dark. His hand returns to his head, this time cupping his chin and forcing Patrick to look up at him.
He doesn’t say anything, just stares at Patrick for a moment before his thumb brushes over his bottom lip. He tugs down so his mouth opens and slips his thumb onto his tongue, pressing down. Patrick doesn’t move, his mouth salivating around the digit.
Pete notices and laughs, saying, “Look at you, you’re drooling for it. Such a fucking slut.”
Patrick hates how his cock leaks in his boxers. He hates how he likes it when Pete pulls him by the chin down until his cheek bumps against the head of his dick and says, “C’mon already, be a good slut and put it in your mouth.”
When Pete moves his hand, Patrick does what he’s told and sinks down, his length filling his cheeks. Pete mumbles that he’s a good boy, his fingers sliding up into his hair, and Patrick fights a warm, good feeling in his chest, his lips curling into a small smile. He just shuts his eyes and tries to focus.
Patrick knows this part, how to bob his head and swallow when he can feel the head at the back of his throat. Slowly, he lets himself get lost in sensation, in the stretch of his jaw and the heat of his cock. Pete’s hand on the back of his head pushes down with steady pressure, urging him to take more until he can’t anymore. Patrick lets his palm guide him, his body reigniting when Pete moans above him and drips onto his tongue.
He tries to lift up, to properly blow him the way he wants to, but Pete doesn’t let go when Patrick moves. Breathing carefully through his nose as his throat opens and constricts around him, he attempts one more time to sit up to no avail. Pete scoffs above him, his fingers tightening in his hair again, but doesn’t say anything. Pete holds him still.
Patrick’s eyes water as he struggles to breathe, sucking in a sharp breath on accident when Pete lifts his hips at the same time he pushes his head down. That panicky feeling blooms in his chest as he starts to cough, choking around the crown of his cock down his throat. Pete still doesn’t let go, moaning now as Patrick gags.
Pain shoots down his neck from how hard he coughs, lurching so aggressively he feels it in his stomach. Spit pools in his cheek and slips out of his lips, threatening to bring up even more - and he would really not like that right now. He’s going to freak out in a moment, he can feel it bubbling up as tears start to fall. All he can do is try to look up, make eye contact with Pete who thankfully hasn’t looked away from him once.
Patrick gives him the most pleading look he can. He knows he must look pathetic, his mouth stretched wide and his face damp. He says around his cock, muffled and almost incoherent, simply, “Pete, please,” and chokes for it. Pete relents, pulling his head up by the hair. Patrick jerks away, throwing his elbow over his face as he coughs. He hears the awful noises he makes, wet gasps and disgusting belches from swallowing so much air.
Its gross and painful and fucking embarrassing, and Patrick realizes he could probably start actually crying when he feels Pete sit up behind him and put his hand on his back between his shoulders. His other hand grabs his upper arm, tugging it away from his face. He’s mumbling, “Look at me, look at me, baby,” and grabbing his chin to turn his head. Patrick flinches despite himself, averting his eyes for a moment.
He doesn’t know why, but Patrick can’t look. He didn’t do anything wrong, there was no reason to feel so... ashamed. Pete lifts his chin, forcing Patrick to finally meet his eyes, and Patrick finds his are shining. His face burns, but not for the same reason as before. Patrick blushes under tacky spit and drying tears. Amazed, Pete wipes at his face as he says, “You were so good, baby, I’m so proud of you, Patrick.”
Patrick hasn’t quite caught his breath yet, but he leans into him, like he could push his way into his arms. He manages a weird sort of side hug, clinging. Sometimes, Patrick has a hard time letting go of him. He grabs Pete's face and kisses him, all but throwing himself at him.
Thankfully, to his unbearable relief, Pete welcomes him, kissing him back and letting him crawl onto his lap. Patrick straddles him and presses against him, practically frantic as he licks into his mouth and whines for him. He can’t help it, his stomach is twisting like he’s going to throw up anyway and all he needs is Pete’s arms curling around his waist, pulling him down onto his legs.
“Okay, baby, I got you.” Pete says against his lips as he goes for Patrick’s shirt, tugging it up to his chest. Patrick lifts his arms and lets him pull it off, then reattaches to him, but this time, Pete doesn’t let him. He pushes Patrick back between his knees and leans back, grabbing his cock again.
Pete sees the dejected frown on Patrick’s face and laughs. He laughs and Patrick blushes hot as Pete snaps, “What, do you think you’re done? I said if you want to get fucked, do it yourself.”
Patrick simmers. He wants to pout and stomp his foot and have a meltdown. He doesn’t want to do it himself. His head is spinning a little bit, the way it does when his body is close to giving out. His limbs are heavy, cock hard between his legs, and he knows that he isn’t going to get why he wants unless he listens.
Sitting back, Patrick pulls his boxers off before making quick work of finding the lube in Pete’s duffle bag. He’s back on his knees in a moment, facing Pete until Pete tells him to turn around. Slowly fisting over his dick, he says, “Lemme watch you get yourself ready for me.”
This is what he means. Patrick doesn’t know how - or particularly like - how Pete could kiss him so sweetly before, just to turn on him like this. He just wants to be with Pete, let him consume his thoughts and his body and fill him, make him whole. Patrick thought Pete liked that, but it seems, he also enjoys making Patrick beg for it.
Which is fine, sometimes. Patrick would really like this to not be one of those times, but it seems too late. He just has to hold out for it.
Patrick gets on his knees between Pete’s spread legs, holding his hand as still as he can so he doesn’t miss and accidentally pour lube all over the bed. He’s sure he’d get made fun of over it and doesn’t know if he could handle it. He already kinda feels like crying, so he reaches behind himself, his arm stretched out along his back.
He hears an approving hum when Patrick’s fingers brush against his hole, on full display for Pete. He jumps at the cold, undeterred as he starts pressing his middle finger in. It burns, a sharp sting he’s grown accustomed to, and maybe even enjoys a little bit. It feels like lightning, like pressure he can’t understand.
Pete does that to him - makes him feel. Every time they’re here, whether Pete’s being mean or not, he wakes up and can’t believe it. Pete Wentz wants him, loves him, watches his finger slide in, moans that he has the prettiest little hole. Calls him babe and wakes up next to him and holds him so tight that he might pop one day.
“Pete,” Patrick gasps, hooking his finger and maybe being a little too rough on his rim as he works himself open, “Pete, please.”
“I don’t know what you want me to do.” Pete says dismissively, transfixed on his fingers when Patrick looks at him. His eyes finally flick up, deep brown with a hint of annoyance. “I’m not gonna keep repeating myself.”
Patrick whines, leaning forward on his forearm. The angle is no better as he slips another in, wasting no time scissoring his fingers. That burn goes deeper now, bringing him to life from the inside out as he moans into his arm. His shoulder is starting to ache, along with his lower back from his arched he is to reach. He’s already sore and getting tired, heavy.
It’s not fair, he thinks to himself, pressing a third finger in. Like this, he can’t get much of it in. He’s sure if he tried, maybe when he was sober and not on the brink of tears, he could do it. Impatient, Patrick gives up and pulls out.
When he looks back, Pete is still watching, jaw clenched. Patrick crawls up without a word, kneeling above his hips as he reaches under him for his cock. Pete’s hands return to behind his head, smug and grinning as Patrick holds himself open with his fingers and presses his tip to his hole.
It’s too tight and Patrick knows it, the blunt head of his cock tearing him in half, splitting him open. That burn he loves is getting hotter, his eyes shut tight. He moans when he feels Pete slide in, pushing past the muscle to finally fill him. Now it’s easy, Patrick can sink down on him.
It - it still kind of hurts, feels like he can feel Pete in his gut and maybe in his throat a little bit, but it’s what he wants. His body is throbbing, his vision blurring at the edges as his head falls back. He doesn’t even touch his cock, just rocks back and forth on his hips until he catches the angle right.
Patrick jumps, cum leaking down from his tip as he wiggles a bit, trying to take as much as he can. He loves Pete and Pete’s cock and everything about him, but damn if he didn’t kinda wish he could get deeper. They have toys at home, but it’s too risky to bring them on tour.
He’s so lost in how beautifully stuffed he is that Patrick almost doesn’t hear Pete say, “You’re such a tease, fucking slut,” before he’d being lifted off and shoved again. He winces when Pete pulls out, knocking him onto his back carelessly.
Pete’s pissed again, flushed red and tense as he gets on his knees and flips Patrick onto his stomach with ease. Patrick can’t help the excitement that bursts through him, letting Pete grab his hips and pull his ass up. He starts to get up on his hands, but Pete pushes him again.
With a solid hand between his shoulder blades, Pete keeps his chest on the bed and hisses, “Stay down. Wanna act like a brat, fine, I’ll treat you like one.”
In quick succession, Pete slaps his ass so hard it stings and immediately starts to push inside him. Patrick is barely done crying out from the slap before he’s choking on a gasp when Pete’s cock is suddenly in him again. His fingers hold his ass open, stretching the sensitive skin around his hole.
Pete doesn’t wait for him to get used to it and fucks into him relentlessly. Patrick could maybe use a little more lube, but the pull of the taut skin with every thrust, every time Pete’s cock drags in and out of him, is electric. He would smile if he could, his mind homing in on that icy sharp deep in him somewhere he can’t find on his own.
Patrick tries to lift his ass further, and Pete lets him. Pete’s hand squeeze his sides above his hips, repeating that he’s a slut and a brat, groaning that, “You’re just a drunk fucking whore, aren’t you? Say it, tell me.”
Patrick can barely get the words out, his face half buried in the sheets his fingers are curled into. He nods, mumbling in agreement, “‘m a dr-drunk whore,” but it gets lost in the mattress as Pete fucks him into it.
Pete doesn’t go on, grunting behind him as Patrick’s body warms and buzzes. He can feel the mess he’s making on the sheet, his cock leaking where it hangs between his legs. He could reach down and jerk off, but Pete is hitting his prostate every other thrust, fire trailing up his spine to the back of his neck so his skin tingles.
Its overwhelming, exciting and just - just good, he feels so good with a cock - Pete’s cock - sending him sliding across the blankets so he has to pull Patrick back towards him and hold his hips up, so he doesn’t melt. His eyes close, and all he can hear is the slap of skin on skin and Pete cursing and his own heavy breathing, cut with these high little squeaks Patrick never heard from himself before Pete fucked them out of him.
Yeah, this is what he wanted. Blissed out and reduced to a pile, a hole for Pete and Pete alone to fill and send his head to another place. Between Pete fucking him almost viciously, angrily, and the abundance of alcohol in his blood stream, Patrick can feel himself slipping away.
Suddenly, Pete’s is moving, pushing his legs further apart than they can comfortably go. Patrick’s groin stretches, the muscles straining and aching. Pete puts his weight on him, his hands flat on his back holding him down. His back hurts, his legs hurt, his hole is throbbing from the abuse, but Patrick’s eyes just roll back.
The angle is deeper now, hitting his prostate more consistently than before. His core is so tense, ready for release, lightning behind his eyes, and he erupts with bright white heat from his chest. He comes so hard, so aggressively that he can’t breathe, spilling onto the bed under him. His toes are tingling - maybe from the intensity of his orgasm or lack of blood flow from the position he’s twisted in. He doesn’t care. His ears are ringing, and it sounds like music.
“Fuck, did you just come without touching yourself?” Pete asks with a gasp, his pace faltering for a moment. Patrick can just nod, then whines when Pete pulls out.
Patrick finally opens his eyes as Pete moves, kneeling next to his head. Looking up, Patrick sees him staring down at him with big eyes, wild and beautiful like he’s as crazed as Patrick. Pete points his cock at his face as he jerks off, panting, “Open your mouth, brat.”
He does, dropping down onto his stomach directly into the mess he made. He tucks his elbows under his chest to lift his head, sticking his tongue out. Pete smiles above him, his free hand sliding into Patrick’s hair. He doesn’t pull this time and says with a moan, “Such a good boy, even if you are a fucking brat.”
Patrick whines as best he can with his tongue out, leaning closer so he can taste what drips from Pete. The hand in his hair gets a little tighter as Pete tilts his head back, cursing out loud. Patrick stares up at him and somehow doesn’t see it coming when a rope of hot cum lands on his forehead.
It drips through his eyebrow, threatening to slide into his eye as Pete comes on his face, barely aiming for his mouth. There’s so much more than he had expected, and he can feel it slipping down his cheeks and lips. Pete finishes in his mouth, milking his cock on his tongue.
Without thinking about it, Patrick licks his lips and smears his cum under his nose, gooey and viscus where he tries to catch it again. He doesn’t mean to play with it, but his tongue was already fuzzy before he came upstairs, and Patrick is losing use of his motor functions.
Pete grabs his chin as Patrick laps at his lips and cheeks where he can reach, and groans, “Look at you, so pretty covered in my cum.”
Pete drags his fingers through the mess, smearing it further as he brings it to his tongue. Patrick does what he can, keeping his mouth open so he can suck off what Pete feeds him. It’s salty and slimy and does not taste good, but Patrick is, as Pete says, a good boy and does what he’s told.
He doesn’t remember passing out, but he stirs and wakes up when he feels himself moving. Pete rolls him onto his back and there’s a warm, dampness on his face. Patrick jerks his head and blinks his eyes open, but Pete is swimming above and Patrick suddenly feels a little sick. He might throw up in the morning, but he doesn’t care as long as he doesn’t right now. This is too good. He loves it when Pete takes care of him.
“Easy, baby.” Pete mumbles, a sleepy smile on his face as he wipes Patrick’s cheek. “I got you, you’re okay. Lemme clean you up then get into the other bed.”
Patrick fades again and wakes when Pete is guiding him through standing up. He manages to get to his feet, but immediately stumbles onto the other bed. Pete catches him before he hits the floor, arms around his waist to unceremoniously dump Patrick onto the mattress, laughing as he does.
Patrick doesn’t bother putting clothes on, crawling under the clean, cold blankets and shivering. Pete turns the light off and slides in beside him, pulling Patrick under his arm. His head rests on Pete’s chest, the dark hair scratchy on his cheek. He loves it.
With a deep yawn, Patrick mumbles, “Sorry I woke you up.”
“What? Oh, babe,” Pete squeezes his shoulders, and kisses the top of his head, “No, don’t be. I’m sorry for snapping at you.”
Patrick’s heart races. He curls closer to his side, small and safe and warm, and yawns again through the words, “Love you.”
Pete hugs him again, says, “Yeah, I love you too, Trick,” and Patrick passes out with a smile, satisfied. He got what he wanted from Pete after all. He usually does anyway. Pete always gives him what he wants.