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Patrick—at any point in time—is the hottest person Pete has ever met. It kind of drives him insane because Pete doesn’t know what it is about Patrick that cuts right to the core of him and gets his dick hard, especially since Patrick is nothing at all like anyone else he has ever lusted after. But there’s something about this Patrick that’s so much hotter than all his previous iterations.
“You’re so fucking hot,” Pete tells him earnestly and Patrick rolls his eyes.
“I’m huge, Pete,” he replies bitchily.
Pete never has an answer for that. Patrick gets mean if Pete denies it, but Pete has a feeling he also wouldn’t be too happy if Pete agreed with him. And Patrick never believes him when he says he likes the way Patrick looks right now. But it’s true—Pete loves Patrick like this. He loves that he’s broad and round. He loves the give of Patrick’s soft stomach beneath his fingers. He loves the gentle slope of Patrick’s chin into his neck, the way his thighs billow outward when he sits, the way his guitar sits so far away from his torso that he has to reach a little further than he used to when he plays.
And Pete really doesn’t know why he loves it so much—just that he does. It ignites something deep in his gut. It hides just behind his teeth, making him crazy, impulsive, and so so so horny.
“Still,” Pete says, “You’re really fucking hot.”
Patrick blushes like he always does, and Pete watches it bloom in slow motion. It’s not just his cheeks, it’s his whole body. His face is the worst—the apples of his cheeks flame bright red and turn shiny, bleeding into a softer pink in the hollows before spreading to his chin and forehead. His neck and chest also darken prettily, the reddish hair disappearing in the flush. It finally fades just above his belly button, where he stretches pasty white to the ruddy jut of his hard cock.
“Wanna eat you out,” Pete says, just to watch the blush darken. Patrick makes a little noise in the back of his throat.
“Go for it,” he says, dropping his legs open.
Pete is there immediately, lying on his stomach in the vee of Patrick’s hips, a hand on each thigh to push him open. He digs his fingers in, enjoying how Patrick’s fat bulges around them. Patrick grunts above him, voicing his displeasure at Pete’s too-tight grip. Pete doesn’t ease up, though, and he knows Patrick secretly hopes he’ll leave little finger-shaped bruises on his pale flesh.
Pete ducks his face forward, tucking his nose into the crease where Patrick’s thigh meets his groin. Patrick’s flesh crowds around Pete’s face, immediately humidifying the pocket he’s tucked himself into. This is where Patrick’s smell is most concentrated and Pete can’t get enough of it. He inhales deeply, open-mouthed, and Patrick’s cock bobs against his cheek. Patrick smells like sweat and skin and something uniquely Patrick—a kind of musky man-smell that makes Pete throb. He dips his tongue into the valley of Patrick’s pelvis, tasting heat and salt. Patrick’s coarse pubic hair tickles his nose and lips and Pete kind of wishes Patrick hadn’t showered before this—he really wants to suck Patrick’s old sweat from his skin.
Pete withdraws from his little pocket, Patrick’s flesh folding back over itself, and his face feels wet from the humid musk. He noses his way across Patrick’s groin, pressing himself tight to the base of his cock. Here, he breathes deeply again, bouncing Patrick’s balls on his tongue. His scent is sharper here, more musky than sweaty without his fat rubbing against itself. Patrick makes these breathy little noises with every one of Pete’s inhales, and Pete can’t help himself—he thrusts his hips into the mattress, groaning long and loud at the delicious friction of the sheets against his cock.
Patrick’s hand is suddenly on the crown of Pete’s head, pushing him downward. Pete goes willingly. He drags his tongue over the sensitive skin behind Patrick’s sac, pressing teasingly over Patrick’s prostate. Patrick moans and kicks his legs, the abundant flesh under Pete’s fingers wobbling. Pete smiles against him, pressing a gentle kiss to the spot before trailing his tongue to Patrick’s hole.
Pete could lose himself here—he has before—in the tight furl of Patrick’s rim, in Patrick’s overwhelming musk. Pete laves his tongue over Patrick. He knows he’s making a mess; saliva coats his lips and chin and the pillowy flesh crowding his face smears wet on his cheeks. Patrick’s writhing against him, pushing himself onto Pete’s tongue. He’s whining loudly, and the beautiful timbre of his golden voice only excites Pete further. He ruts against the mattress as he licks, feeling more like a horny teenager than someone in his late twenties.
Pete pulls away and looks up at Patrick over the line of his cock and the swell of his belly. He’s red and shiny with sweat. His stomach and chest heave as he pants. His neck is craned on the pillow so he can see Pete between his legs, and the fat on his neck has billowed outward, cradling his chin.
“God, you’re so hot,” Pete tells him, punctuating his statement with a moan as his hips grind forward, his cock dragging against the sheets.
It’s like all of his poetic sensibilities have left him—he can think of nothing beautiful to say to Patrick right now, reduced only to his basest instincts by this gorgeous man beneath him. Patrick, unsurprisingly, flushes a deeper red and clenches the fist he’s still got knotted in Pete’s hair, groaning in equal parts embarrassed and flattered. Pete grins and squeezes his handfuls of Patrick’s thighs. He spits thick and wet right on Patrick’s hole and dives back in.
Pete works the tip of his tongue into Patrick, and Patrick is like a man possessed. He thrashes against Pete’s face, keening high and reedy in the back of his throat. Pete stays on him, licking him out and moaning into his hole, humping the mattress all the while. He tastes sweaty and musky, and Pete is overwhelmed by the sheer amount of Patrick against his tongue, in his nose, and under his hands.
Patrick pants and whines above him, and Pete knows he’s close. Patrick must’ve grabbed his own cock at some point while Pete’s been busy because a hand brushes the top of Pete’s head and the balls resting heavily against his forehead slap against his browbone with each downward stroke of Patrick’s fist.
When Patrick cums, he clamps his thighs around Pete’s head. Pete’s in heaven—all that quivering shaking fatty flesh trapping his hands and pressing his face tight to Patrick’s body. Patrick clenches around Pete’s tongue and his cock jerks against Pete’s forehead. He gasps in time with each rhythmic flutter of his rim. Pete moans against him, still working his tongue inside Patrick’s hole.
Finally, with an oversensitive and breathy sigh, Patrick’s thighs fall away from Pete’s face and he pulls Pete away from his hole by his grip on Pete’s hair, his hand dropping away as soon as Pete’s tongue leaves him. Pete follows the intention, though, awkwardly rising to his hands and knees between Patrick’s spread legs. From this vantage point, Pete has the great pleasure of seeing Patrick in his post-orgasmic bliss. He’s pink all over, sweat shining on his neck and face, and his chest is heaving with his heavy pants. Pearly cum streaks his big belly, some of it pooling his navel and clinging to the coppery hair of his happy trail. He’s got one hand resting on his diaphragm, and Pete’s eyes linger on the rapid rise and fall of his fingers with each of his labored breaths. His other arm is thrown over his eyes, baring the hairy tangle of his armpit. Pete kinda wants to stick his face in it—wants to breathe in more of that Patrick smell he can’t get enough of.
Pete straddles Patrick’s wide stomach, sitting heavily. Patrick lets out a quiet oof and peeks out from below his arm, but he doesn’t otherwise move. He also doesn’t stop Pete when he presses their lips together in a sloppy kiss, though he makes a vaguely disgusted noise. He lets Pete lick into his slack mouth and Pete knows how much he likes the taste of himself on Pete’s tongue.
“You look so good like this,” Pete mumbles into Patrick’s mouth between kisses. Patrick makes an embarrassed noise, but he’s too boneless for his usual protests.
“Can I try something?” Pete asks. Patrick cracks open an eye, wary and appraising.
Finally, he says, “Do whatever you want.” He’s relaxed, his voice low and slow, and Pete squirms happily on top of him. Patrick breathes a laugh at that, a small and beautiful smile tugging at his lips.
It takes some maneuvering and an accidental knee to Patrick’s oversensitive cock but eventually, Pete’s where he wants to be. He’s straddling one of Patrick’s thick thighs at an angle, his erection rubbing against a padded hip. Patrick watches him with only mild interest, having long since resigned himself to Pete’s unusual sexual proclivities. Pete grabs Patrick’s belly with both hands and Patrick makes a confused embarrassed noise.
“Love you like this,” Pete says, “Gonna show you.”
Pete hefts Patrick’s stomach up and slots his hard cock in the valley of Patrick’s hip. The skin is sweat-slick and Pete slides against it without friction. He releases Patrick’s stomach and lets it return to its natural position hanging over Patrick’s hips. The abundant flesh jiggles as it settles into place and Pete groans, dropping his head forward at the sheer eroticism of it. Patrick whines abashedly, but he’s staring straight at Pete with wide eyes and pink cheeks.
Pete thrusts experimentally, his cock sliding easily against Patrick’s damp hip. He’s cushioned on all sides by soft fat. It almost feels like he’s inside Patrick—like he’s discovered a new velvet-soft hole to fill—and Pete feels himself unravel around the edges. He’s lost in the sensation of fucking Patrick like this, watching his round stomach wobble with each thrust and listening to his pretty, breathy grunts.
Pete fucks the crease where Patrick’s belly meets his hip for as long as he’s able. He wants to stave off his orgasm for as long as possible. He wants to come apart completely against Patrick’s soft body and wants Patrick to believe just how much his body drives Pete crazy like this.
It’s only a matter of minutes before Pete finishes with a strangled cry, spilling against Patrick’s hip. Pete thrusts through his orgasm, his cum mingling with Patrick’s sweat to further slick the way, and Pete slides through this blessed pocket of Patrick’s body effortlessly. He works himself to the point of overstimulation, reluctant to leave this soft crevice. Eventually, Pete can’t take it anymore and, with a disappointed whine, he pushes at Patrick’s stomach until he can withdraw his spent cock.
“Fuck, Pete,” Patrick says, his voice strained. His face and torso are red with renewed exertion and arousal, white streaks of drying ejaculate from his own orgasm standing out starkly against his pinkened flesh.
Pete doesn’t answer; he’s too busy lifting Patrick’s stomach again and shoving his face against his hip. Now, in the aftermath of Pete’s orgasm, this crease of flesh—this pocket where Patrick’s fat presses up against itself—smells like the both of them. Pete drags his tongue through his mess, tasting the heat and salt of their combined fluids. He grazes his teeth over stretch marks until Patrick hisses, and then he soothes the sting with gentle kisses. He doesn’t stop until Patrick’s clean of sweat and cum and the only thing wetting his skin is Pete’s saliva.
When he finally emerges from the valley of Patrick’s hip, Pete rests his cheek against the soft flesh of his stomach and says, “You’re so fucking beautiful.”