Belated Birthday Smut
Title: Shattered Innocence My Big Gay HP/FOB Crossover
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sirius Black/Pete Wentz
Summary: In what was meant to be the greatest year of his life, reigning over Hogwarts as a seventh year, Sirius Black was met with his downfall - a dark-eyed, grinning man with the deadliest of secrets and the most fatal of plans.
Disclaimer: I own neither any of J.K. Rowling's works or Pete Wentz. Also, after writing a Harry Potter crossover fic, I no longer possess my own dignity.
Author's Note: Fall Out Boy/Marauder's-Era Harry Potter AU crossover.
Dedication: For megyal, who only wanted smut for her birthday and I, being the terrible spouse I am, ended up writing it days late.
Prologue
Chapter One: Ashes, Ashes
Chapter Two: Set Up
Chapter Three: Desire
Chapter Four: Lock
Chapter Five: Transit
The morning light was playing the part of a sweet lover as it brushed its bright fingertips gently across Sirius’s pale forehead, smoothed with the peace of slumber. It was whispering without words, using instead the particles of dust drifting lazily through the air to speak in silent voices; soft-skinned and smiling-lipped sentiments to the sleeping boy, beckoning him to consciousness. Sirius, though beginning to awake behind the lids of his eyes, was perfectly content to remain laying in the bed that he knew, by the comfortingly cool touch of silk against his skin and the deep mattress folding around his form in a welcoming embrace, was not his own. There was none of the telltale confusion of just-waking when he couldn’t recall where he was or how, exactly, he had come to be there. He knew perfectly well that he was sprawled out, quite selfishly, across Peter’s lush bed, the tumultuous events that had led him there with coaxing stares, and, by the ache between his thighs that was just throbbing enough to be a reminder of the evening’s events, what scenes had been played out beneath the sheets that were currently coiled around him.
Dawn’s fingertips kept on pampering him, smoothing over the line of his jaw and the curve of his still-swollen lower lip. When Sirius finally allowed himself what may have been a tiny bit of a dramatic sigh and his eyelashes mournfully lifted themselves from his pale cheeks, surprise shattered the heavy, comfortable weight of drowsiness blanketing his body and mind.
“Ah, at long last, Sleeping Beauty chooses to arise,” said the sunlight; the man who was most certainly not Peter and whose touch was as soft as the butter light as it moved over Sirius’s skin.
The stranger looked absolutely magnificent, like a docile lion with a crown of radiance as the light hit his cinnamon hair, breathing gilded life into the strands and convincing them to shine. The glowing pieces of his hair framed the man’s pale face in a golden halo, making the imploring blue of his eyes seem dull in comparison. No, definitely not Peter, with skin like unadulterated white marble and a touch like dandelions drifting in the spring breeze.
Sirius wanted to murmur poetry to him or say how lovely he looked bathed in amber light, but when his lips moved, pressed against the pillowcase, all he could manage was a raspy, “who the bloody hell are you?” It was decidedly less graceful than he had hoped.
“I,” he paused for a moment, creating a silence just long enough for Sirius to release a soft moan as the backs of the blonde’s fingernails slid over the dark bruises littering his neck. Sirius was terribly embarrassed with himself when he arched into the gentle hands. “Am here to take you to breakfast.”
It took quite a bit of persuasion for the morning messenger to rouse Sirius from his bed of silk and sweaty memories, but the gentlest of hands and the perfect words murmured against the right patches of sensitive skin managed to get the boy stumbling into a pair of boxers and futilely smoothing his rampant strands of mussed black hair in a few minutes’ time.
“I dare say it took you long enough,” Peter said in a drawl that sat comfortably on his tongue, awaiting them downstairs and seated at the head of a table that looked like it should be groaning beneath the weight of the feast splayed out across it. Sirius would have bet money that Peter hadn’t lifted a single finger in the preparation of the meal and could have kicked himself for not thinking to at least put some trousers on, for Merlin’s sake.
“My sincerest apologies,” the stranger replied, voice dry and biting as he sat across from Sirius, not bothering himself with the modesty to avert his appreciative gaze from the boy’s pale, bare chest.
Peter’s eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of a curve to his brows. “Trying to play with my new toy while I’m not looking, Patrick?”
Patrick - a name now to accompany the face and those damnable fingertips - laughed in response, and though the sound was cold enough to frost over the rims of the crystal glasses adorning the table, Sirius was starting to understand that the verbal duel, as acidic as it may sound, was probably more like a healthy sport for the two men. It terribly confused him, either way, and despite the fact that he would have salivated over the cup of cider sitting in front of him were it not for the miserable drought in his mouth, Sirius felt painfully obliged to watch the battle unfurl in favor of satisfying his awful thirst. He still couldn’t place his finger on this Patrick fellow; he seemed entirely too meek and sweet and adorable to possibly hold his own against someone like Peter, but Sirius was becoming accustomed to surprises in light of recent events.
Still, he was highly inclined to predict Peter as the victor, for obvious reasons. All of which he had gladly moaned about the previous night.
“What?” Patrick scoffed, the clean angles of his features looking sharp enough to break skin as he pointed his glare at an unflinching Peter. “Do you think I’d really bother with some over-eager virgin pet of yours? Look at him!” Another short laugh and a gesture in the direction of a very wide-eyed and insulted Sirius, “Swooning and sated. I might as well let you keep him for a few months, at least have him taught how to properly suck a cock, and then give it a try. He’s just a pretty face, Peter. But then again,” he paused for an aristocratic sip from his cider, “I don’t suppose all of us can be so easily satisfied by such mediocre fare.”
With that, Sirius’s wounded pride was quite ready to fight back. “Hey, you better watch what you-”
“Sirius, be a dear and shut up,” Peter said kindly, silencing the enraged set of the boy’s dark brows and the firm line of his jaw. “Patrick’s just got his panties in a twist.”
“Yes, well, at least I’ve got enough dignity left to still wear underwear,” the blonde retorted with a pointed look shot directly at Peter, who simply smirked around the grape he was sliding past his lips.
“Don’t act as if that fact hasn’t been convenient for you, Patrick,” he grinned, and Sirius was seriously trying to examine the newcomer, now that his temper was beginning to die down. With the pale, rounded cheeks of a stereotypical ‘baby face’ and the fragile wisps of strawberry hair falling into his midday eyes, Patrick didn’t look anything like the man Sirius would have imagined spouting volatile words and racy secrets. He certainly didn’t look like the type to fall in with someone like Peter.
“I hope the chafing gives you blisters,” Patrick shot back flatly.
----------------
“I… who the hell are you?” Sirius blurted out, watching Patrick’s reflection closely in the mirror he was situated in front of, borrowed shirt that smelled maddeningly of Peter half-buttoned.
“That’s a dangerous question to be asking, Sirius,” Patrick replied, a hint of a grin toying with the corners of his lips as if it couldn’t decide whether or not it wanted to be born. “You should know by now that asking things like that around here could get you killed.”
“Get me killed?” Sirius gracelessly snorted, turning to face the man as he finished up the buttons on his (Peter’s) shirt. “Spare me the melodrama, yeah?”
Patrick’s angelic face lifted slowly, catching the sunlight now swelling in the room, and though the white hues weren’t as flattering as the gentle dawn had been on his skin, Sirius still couldn’t stomach how innocently gorgeous the redhead (blonde? He couldn’t decide) was. When he spoke, eyes fixed firmly on Sirius’s and pinning him down with their unfaltering stare, Patrick let each word move slowly off the tip of his tongue as if their careful speed would lend them weight as they sank in. “What on earth makes you think that I’m joking?”
Sirius ran his tongue over his dry lips, eyes locked on Patrick’s and he couldn’t muster the will to try searching for the key. “People don’t just kill other people for asking questions,” he replied tentatively, lacking conviction in his own words.
“You clearly haven’t spent enough time around Peter yet,” Patrick said, the grin itching to escape from his perfect mouth again. “I thought he might be trying to train you up.”
“Train me for what?”
“There you go again,” Patrick sighed, flexing his hand absently and finally releasing his hold on Sirius’s grey eyes to examine his knuckles shifting beneath his blanched skin. “Asking questions that are only going to get you into trouble.”
“You people are fucking insane. The lot of you.”
“Why yes,” Patrick replied, airy and bemused as he grinned at his own reflection in his shiny nails, “I suppose we are.”
___________
[[[ Author’s Note: The following is completely irrelevant to the plot of this story, and has been added for the simple purpose of rocking megyal’s world. It’s smut, kind of. So, happy birthday, Marie, and I hope evil!Patrick and evil!Pete makes you really happy!]]]
“Pete?” Patrick called as he traversed the threshold into Peter’s house an hour later, sans one recently-deflowered, sexually confused teenage boy. The rooms were swollen with resonating silence - the kind of nervous calm and trembling quiet that was impossible to achieve when Peter Wentz was within a twelve-mile radius. “Pete, darling, I know you’re hiding in here somewhere.” Maybe it was best to make sure the place was vacant, Patrick figured, as he made his way down the hall, jonesing for a clandestine cup of Pete’s delectable raspberry tea if the man really wasn’t there to hex him for taking it. “Pe- oh. There you are.” Patrick effortlessly slid from sleuthing mode to a casual ‘hey, not suspicious at all’ demeanor with a shoulder leaning comfortably against the kitchen doorframe.
“Closing in on my tea, are we?” Pete grinned wolfishly; the type of predatorial smirk that fell naturally onto his features so frequently, fitting handsomely, as if his face had been chiseled specifically to wear the expression.
“The furthest thought from my mind, I assure you,” Patrick fired back, his own battle tactics running more along the lines of slick smiles and flashing eyes, teeth displayed like a sweet threat while his tongue drew blood. It really was difficult to make a confident bet on one of them, were a true war ever to emerge.
“Where’s the kid?” Pete asked, nasal voice sounding bored in retaliation to Patrick’s achingly easy response. Pete couldn’t possibly allow his ruffled feathers to show over just a pinch of jealousy for Patrick’s whiplash tongue because, in espionage society, envy is tacky. In Pete’s (entirely separate and subjective) code of conduct, envy is weakness. And we all know how tactless vulnerability is.
“Oh, you mean your underage doe-eyed whore? The whelp is safely back at daycare and still not walking right, baby. Don’t you worry your pretty little head over it.”
“I’ll try my very best,” Pete replied in a way that deviously said ‘I am currently formulating a plan that is 99% likely to be detrimental to your health.’ “Come over here.”
“Honey, when the day comes that I take orders from you, I will gladly get on my hands and knees and kiss the ground at your feet. However, until that time is upon us, you can lick my ass.”
Across the room, Pete’s jaw clamped shut.
“That can be arranged,” he said sternly, trying to stare down Patrick down with all that he was worth, but the other man held firm. The tentative marble floor buffer zone between them was barely clinging to life. “Come. Over. Here.”
Patrick was actually rather impressed with how level Pete was managing to keep his voice. He could see the rage, tangible and thick and darkening the color of Pete’s veins beneath caramel skin, as it built inside of him. Every moment passing silently was a determined struggle for power, and even though the possibility of getting nailed by Pete, especially when he was pissed and bound to be rough, was an enticing one, there still wasn’t a chance in Hell that Patrick was going to be the one to call an armistice.
Luckily, Pete seemed more than willing to sacrifice a small piece of his dignity to cross the kitchen boldly, fist the fine strands of Patrick’s cinnamon hair in his hands, and jerk the man into him while his mouth sprang in for the attack. Patrick was near to humming with delight into the kiss that was going to have his mouth red and raw the next day, immensely pleased that, despite Pete’s long night of tutoring his new toy in the bedroom, Patrick was still able to light his fire.
Here, there were no violent altercations to determine who received power. Pete demanded what he wanted with hands that slid hard over soft skin without the slightest hint of desperation and Patrick matched his stride fluently. His pale fingers splayed out over the back of Pete’s bronzed neck, hooking him into the snapping teeth and whipping tongues that were just as skilled at this task as they were at debating.
It was a very complicated matter, for two such men to give in to one another completely without letting up an inch. Peter and Patrick seemed to have mastered the balance to this truce drawn taut and they apparently had the same idea simultaneously, Pete stepping back at the exact moment that Patrick’s foot moved forward. They traveled across the kitchen, seamlessly walking together, having communicated silently through the electric messages sent between ravenous fingertips and sighing skin that the closest bedroom was way too far for them to be troubled with getting to. With Pete pinned against the countertop, marble pressed sharply into his hip and Patrick holding his angular face between his palms, they were both right where they wanted to be.
One of the many advantages of Peter’s fierce, passion-fueled magic was gladly exhibited at times like these, belt buckles clinking softly as they were undone and clothes making the muffled whisper of fabric on skin as they snaked off of their respective bodies. Patrick and Peter didn’t have to trouble themselves with halting their kiss to help the growing state of dishabille, merely appreciate each newly-displayed expanse of skin with tongue-stifled moans and hungry hands.
Patrick pressed his hips forward, Pete’s bucked back. With a slow, purposeful grind of his groin into Peter’s, Patrick found his back bowing and throat straining with the effort of holding back a moan while Peter merely choked his by clamping his teeth down on the delectable lower lip conveniently at his expense.
Sweat was just beginning to lend some smooth grace to the friction of their contrasting bodies when Peter decided to make good on his threat from before and slide out from between the pliable softness of Patrick and the unyielding pressure of the counter. In the same movement, he had the other man shoved up against the cabinets, and the way his pale thighs spread instinctively to maintain balance and his back being to Peter showed off the delicate curve of his ass had Peter sinking to his knees unthinkingly.
Patrick gasped when he felt a warm hand snake up the back of his leg just as a damp mouth was pressed against the small of his back, his fingers curling into the glossy marble counter that would offer only a slippery hold for his groping hands. Peter’s hands spread his cheeks, and as his tongue made a precise line down the flesh hidden between them, Patrick bent over the counter in forfeit, his breath heavy and hot against the frigid stone.
It was strange, how two such men fell into silence in such moments.
Peter’s hands were splayed out across Patrick’s perfect ass, his tongue slithering inside of it to perform wicked, wet deeds, and Patrick’s mouth had fallen open, the unforgiving marble bruising his lips and his teeth scraping against the stone. The redhead was almost glad for the uncomfortable angle of the cabinets pressing against his groin, or else he may have fallen victim to orgasm already, screaming bloody murder.
Patrick twisted when the tip of Peter’s tongue swiped over his prostate, mewling softly against the marble and spreading his legs wider. Peter only groaned against his entrance at the offering, barely able to stand the suspense any longer.
Thinking that his tongue would have to be preparation enough (a spit and a prayer will get you there), Peter staggered to his feet, a wave of dizziness taking over him that forced him to take a rough hold of Patrick’s hips for support. He couldn’t bring himself to afford Patrick the courtesy of a pause before he thrust into him with a shudder and a lurch, clinging to the trembling body in front of him as if he could meld their skins together.
With each violent rock of Peter’s hips, Patrick’s hipbones slammed into the biting edge of the marble and he had to pull his lower lip, already swollen from Peter’s harsh teeth, into his mouth and clamp down on it to keep from crying out. Peter, grunting softly with every movement, only tightened his fatal clamp on Patrick’s battered hips and pushed in harder.
It was when Peter leaned down, attracted by the pool of sweat gathered on the milky crease of Patrick’s neck and shoulder, and started suckling the sea-salt white flesh that Patrick’s back curled into a perfect, graceful arch and his fingers dug a little deeper in the stone, his body lit by the coiling pleasure where Peter had hit his prostate.
One hand dragged itself away from the somber black marble purchase it had found and traced down the hard lines of the counter to find his neglected cock, and Patrick had the numbed sense to refuse himself a whimper when Peter promptly pinned his arm. He was offered considerable relief, however, when Peter’s deft hand, so dark against his own pale skin, slid around his length and began moving in time with Peter’s agonizing thrusts. The nail of his thumb curved beautifully into the leaking slit of his cock just as his vicious teeth closed around the hot skin on the side of Patrick’s neck, and Peter delighted in the lovely way Patrick’s soft, warm body writhed beneath him as he came, jerking into his hand and clawing at his counter.
With a few more thrusts to elicit some decadent, throaty pleas and some twitches from Patrick’s ravaged body, Peter came, leaning heavily on the heaving tableau of blank fair flesh beneath him. He was still trying to stop struggling for air when Patrick’s breathy voice, muffled by the sweat-slick crook of his elbow and the now-warm slab of marble, broke the gasping silence.
“How’s that for virgin schoolboy, you cunt.”
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sirius Black/Pete Wentz
Summary: In what was meant to be the greatest year of his life, reigning over Hogwarts as a seventh year, Sirius Black was met with his downfall - a dark-eyed, grinning man with the deadliest of secrets and the most fatal of plans.
Disclaimer: I own neither any of J.K. Rowling's works or Pete Wentz. Also, after writing a Harry Potter crossover fic, I no longer possess my own dignity.
Author's Note: Fall Out Boy/Marauder's-Era Harry Potter AU crossover.
Dedication: For megyal, who only wanted smut for her birthday and I, being the terrible spouse I am, ended up writing it days late.
Prologue
Chapter One: Ashes, Ashes
Chapter Two: Set Up
Chapter Three: Desire
Chapter Four: Lock
Chapter Five: Transit
The morning light was playing the part of a sweet lover as it brushed its bright fingertips gently across Sirius’s pale forehead, smoothed with the peace of slumber. It was whispering without words, using instead the particles of dust drifting lazily through the air to speak in silent voices; soft-skinned and smiling-lipped sentiments to the sleeping boy, beckoning him to consciousness. Sirius, though beginning to awake behind the lids of his eyes, was perfectly content to remain laying in the bed that he knew, by the comfortingly cool touch of silk against his skin and the deep mattress folding around his form in a welcoming embrace, was not his own. There was none of the telltale confusion of just-waking when he couldn’t recall where he was or how, exactly, he had come to be there. He knew perfectly well that he was sprawled out, quite selfishly, across Peter’s lush bed, the tumultuous events that had led him there with coaxing stares, and, by the ache between his thighs that was just throbbing enough to be a reminder of the evening’s events, what scenes had been played out beneath the sheets that were currently coiled around him.
Dawn’s fingertips kept on pampering him, smoothing over the line of his jaw and the curve of his still-swollen lower lip. When Sirius finally allowed himself what may have been a tiny bit of a dramatic sigh and his eyelashes mournfully lifted themselves from his pale cheeks, surprise shattered the heavy, comfortable weight of drowsiness blanketing his body and mind.
“Ah, at long last, Sleeping Beauty chooses to arise,” said the sunlight; the man who was most certainly not Peter and whose touch was as soft as the butter light as it moved over Sirius’s skin.
The stranger looked absolutely magnificent, like a docile lion with a crown of radiance as the light hit his cinnamon hair, breathing gilded life into the strands and convincing them to shine. The glowing pieces of his hair framed the man’s pale face in a golden halo, making the imploring blue of his eyes seem dull in comparison. No, definitely not Peter, with skin like unadulterated white marble and a touch like dandelions drifting in the spring breeze.
Sirius wanted to murmur poetry to him or say how lovely he looked bathed in amber light, but when his lips moved, pressed against the pillowcase, all he could manage was a raspy, “who the bloody hell are you?” It was decidedly less graceful than he had hoped.
“I,” he paused for a moment, creating a silence just long enough for Sirius to release a soft moan as the backs of the blonde’s fingernails slid over the dark bruises littering his neck. Sirius was terribly embarrassed with himself when he arched into the gentle hands. “Am here to take you to breakfast.”
It took quite a bit of persuasion for the morning messenger to rouse Sirius from his bed of silk and sweaty memories, but the gentlest of hands and the perfect words murmured against the right patches of sensitive skin managed to get the boy stumbling into a pair of boxers and futilely smoothing his rampant strands of mussed black hair in a few minutes’ time.
“I dare say it took you long enough,” Peter said in a drawl that sat comfortably on his tongue, awaiting them downstairs and seated at the head of a table that looked like it should be groaning beneath the weight of the feast splayed out across it. Sirius would have bet money that Peter hadn’t lifted a single finger in the preparation of the meal and could have kicked himself for not thinking to at least put some trousers on, for Merlin’s sake.
“My sincerest apologies,” the stranger replied, voice dry and biting as he sat across from Sirius, not bothering himself with the modesty to avert his appreciative gaze from the boy’s pale, bare chest.
Peter’s eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of a curve to his brows. “Trying to play with my new toy while I’m not looking, Patrick?”
Patrick - a name now to accompany the face and those damnable fingertips - laughed in response, and though the sound was cold enough to frost over the rims of the crystal glasses adorning the table, Sirius was starting to understand that the verbal duel, as acidic as it may sound, was probably more like a healthy sport for the two men. It terribly confused him, either way, and despite the fact that he would have salivated over the cup of cider sitting in front of him were it not for the miserable drought in his mouth, Sirius felt painfully obliged to watch the battle unfurl in favor of satisfying his awful thirst. He still couldn’t place his finger on this Patrick fellow; he seemed entirely too meek and sweet and adorable to possibly hold his own against someone like Peter, but Sirius was becoming accustomed to surprises in light of recent events.
Still, he was highly inclined to predict Peter as the victor, for obvious reasons. All of which he had gladly moaned about the previous night.
“What?” Patrick scoffed, the clean angles of his features looking sharp enough to break skin as he pointed his glare at an unflinching Peter. “Do you think I’d really bother with some over-eager virgin pet of yours? Look at him!” Another short laugh and a gesture in the direction of a very wide-eyed and insulted Sirius, “Swooning and sated. I might as well let you keep him for a few months, at least have him taught how to properly suck a cock, and then give it a try. He’s just a pretty face, Peter. But then again,” he paused for an aristocratic sip from his cider, “I don’t suppose all of us can be so easily satisfied by such mediocre fare.”
With that, Sirius’s wounded pride was quite ready to fight back. “Hey, you better watch what you-”
“Sirius, be a dear and shut up,” Peter said kindly, silencing the enraged set of the boy’s dark brows and the firm line of his jaw. “Patrick’s just got his panties in a twist.”
“Yes, well, at least I’ve got enough dignity left to still wear underwear,” the blonde retorted with a pointed look shot directly at Peter, who simply smirked around the grape he was sliding past his lips.
“Don’t act as if that fact hasn’t been convenient for you, Patrick,” he grinned, and Sirius was seriously trying to examine the newcomer, now that his temper was beginning to die down. With the pale, rounded cheeks of a stereotypical ‘baby face’ and the fragile wisps of strawberry hair falling into his midday eyes, Patrick didn’t look anything like the man Sirius would have imagined spouting volatile words and racy secrets. He certainly didn’t look like the type to fall in with someone like Peter.
“I hope the chafing gives you blisters,” Patrick shot back flatly.
----------------
“I… who the hell are you?” Sirius blurted out, watching Patrick’s reflection closely in the mirror he was situated in front of, borrowed shirt that smelled maddeningly of Peter half-buttoned.
“That’s a dangerous question to be asking, Sirius,” Patrick replied, a hint of a grin toying with the corners of his lips as if it couldn’t decide whether or not it wanted to be born. “You should know by now that asking things like that around here could get you killed.”
“Get me killed?” Sirius gracelessly snorted, turning to face the man as he finished up the buttons on his (Peter’s) shirt. “Spare me the melodrama, yeah?”
Patrick’s angelic face lifted slowly, catching the sunlight now swelling in the room, and though the white hues weren’t as flattering as the gentle dawn had been on his skin, Sirius still couldn’t stomach how innocently gorgeous the redhead (blonde? He couldn’t decide) was. When he spoke, eyes fixed firmly on Sirius’s and pinning him down with their unfaltering stare, Patrick let each word move slowly off the tip of his tongue as if their careful speed would lend them weight as they sank in. “What on earth makes you think that I’m joking?”
Sirius ran his tongue over his dry lips, eyes locked on Patrick’s and he couldn’t muster the will to try searching for the key. “People don’t just kill other people for asking questions,” he replied tentatively, lacking conviction in his own words.
“You clearly haven’t spent enough time around Peter yet,” Patrick said, the grin itching to escape from his perfect mouth again. “I thought he might be trying to train you up.”
“Train me for what?”
“There you go again,” Patrick sighed, flexing his hand absently and finally releasing his hold on Sirius’s grey eyes to examine his knuckles shifting beneath his blanched skin. “Asking questions that are only going to get you into trouble.”
“You people are fucking insane. The lot of you.”
“Why yes,” Patrick replied, airy and bemused as he grinned at his own reflection in his shiny nails, “I suppose we are.”
___________
[[[ Author’s Note: The following is completely irrelevant to the plot of this story, and has been added for the simple purpose of rocking megyal’s world. It’s smut, kind of. So, happy birthday, Marie, and I hope evil!Patrick and evil!Pete makes you really happy!]]]
“Pete?” Patrick called as he traversed the threshold into Peter’s house an hour later, sans one recently-deflowered, sexually confused teenage boy. The rooms were swollen with resonating silence - the kind of nervous calm and trembling quiet that was impossible to achieve when Peter Wentz was within a twelve-mile radius. “Pete, darling, I know you’re hiding in here somewhere.” Maybe it was best to make sure the place was vacant, Patrick figured, as he made his way down the hall, jonesing for a clandestine cup of Pete’s delectable raspberry tea if the man really wasn’t there to hex him for taking it. “Pe- oh. There you are.” Patrick effortlessly slid from sleuthing mode to a casual ‘hey, not suspicious at all’ demeanor with a shoulder leaning comfortably against the kitchen doorframe.
“Closing in on my tea, are we?” Pete grinned wolfishly; the type of predatorial smirk that fell naturally onto his features so frequently, fitting handsomely, as if his face had been chiseled specifically to wear the expression.
“The furthest thought from my mind, I assure you,” Patrick fired back, his own battle tactics running more along the lines of slick smiles and flashing eyes, teeth displayed like a sweet threat while his tongue drew blood. It really was difficult to make a confident bet on one of them, were a true war ever to emerge.
“Where’s the kid?” Pete asked, nasal voice sounding bored in retaliation to Patrick’s achingly easy response. Pete couldn’t possibly allow his ruffled feathers to show over just a pinch of jealousy for Patrick’s whiplash tongue because, in espionage society, envy is tacky. In Pete’s (entirely separate and subjective) code of conduct, envy is weakness. And we all know how tactless vulnerability is.
“Oh, you mean your underage doe-eyed whore? The whelp is safely back at daycare and still not walking right, baby. Don’t you worry your pretty little head over it.”
“I’ll try my very best,” Pete replied in a way that deviously said ‘I am currently formulating a plan that is 99% likely to be detrimental to your health.’ “Come over here.”
“Honey, when the day comes that I take orders from you, I will gladly get on my hands and knees and kiss the ground at your feet. However, until that time is upon us, you can lick my ass.”
Across the room, Pete’s jaw clamped shut.
“That can be arranged,” he said sternly, trying to stare down Patrick down with all that he was worth, but the other man held firm. The tentative marble floor buffer zone between them was barely clinging to life. “Come. Over. Here.”
Patrick was actually rather impressed with how level Pete was managing to keep his voice. He could see the rage, tangible and thick and darkening the color of Pete’s veins beneath caramel skin, as it built inside of him. Every moment passing silently was a determined struggle for power, and even though the possibility of getting nailed by Pete, especially when he was pissed and bound to be rough, was an enticing one, there still wasn’t a chance in Hell that Patrick was going to be the one to call an armistice.
Luckily, Pete seemed more than willing to sacrifice a small piece of his dignity to cross the kitchen boldly, fist the fine strands of Patrick’s cinnamon hair in his hands, and jerk the man into him while his mouth sprang in for the attack. Patrick was near to humming with delight into the kiss that was going to have his mouth red and raw the next day, immensely pleased that, despite Pete’s long night of tutoring his new toy in the bedroom, Patrick was still able to light his fire.
Here, there were no violent altercations to determine who received power. Pete demanded what he wanted with hands that slid hard over soft skin without the slightest hint of desperation and Patrick matched his stride fluently. His pale fingers splayed out over the back of Pete’s bronzed neck, hooking him into the snapping teeth and whipping tongues that were just as skilled at this task as they were at debating.
It was a very complicated matter, for two such men to give in to one another completely without letting up an inch. Peter and Patrick seemed to have mastered the balance to this truce drawn taut and they apparently had the same idea simultaneously, Pete stepping back at the exact moment that Patrick’s foot moved forward. They traveled across the kitchen, seamlessly walking together, having communicated silently through the electric messages sent between ravenous fingertips and sighing skin that the closest bedroom was way too far for them to be troubled with getting to. With Pete pinned against the countertop, marble pressed sharply into his hip and Patrick holding his angular face between his palms, they were both right where they wanted to be.
One of the many advantages of Peter’s fierce, passion-fueled magic was gladly exhibited at times like these, belt buckles clinking softly as they were undone and clothes making the muffled whisper of fabric on skin as they snaked off of their respective bodies. Patrick and Peter didn’t have to trouble themselves with halting their kiss to help the growing state of dishabille, merely appreciate each newly-displayed expanse of skin with tongue-stifled moans and hungry hands.
Patrick pressed his hips forward, Pete’s bucked back. With a slow, purposeful grind of his groin into Peter’s, Patrick found his back bowing and throat straining with the effort of holding back a moan while Peter merely choked his by clamping his teeth down on the delectable lower lip conveniently at his expense.
Sweat was just beginning to lend some smooth grace to the friction of their contrasting bodies when Peter decided to make good on his threat from before and slide out from between the pliable softness of Patrick and the unyielding pressure of the counter. In the same movement, he had the other man shoved up against the cabinets, and the way his pale thighs spread instinctively to maintain balance and his back being to Peter showed off the delicate curve of his ass had Peter sinking to his knees unthinkingly.
Patrick gasped when he felt a warm hand snake up the back of his leg just as a damp mouth was pressed against the small of his back, his fingers curling into the glossy marble counter that would offer only a slippery hold for his groping hands. Peter’s hands spread his cheeks, and as his tongue made a precise line down the flesh hidden between them, Patrick bent over the counter in forfeit, his breath heavy and hot against the frigid stone.
It was strange, how two such men fell into silence in such moments.
Peter’s hands were splayed out across Patrick’s perfect ass, his tongue slithering inside of it to perform wicked, wet deeds, and Patrick’s mouth had fallen open, the unforgiving marble bruising his lips and his teeth scraping against the stone. The redhead was almost glad for the uncomfortable angle of the cabinets pressing against his groin, or else he may have fallen victim to orgasm already, screaming bloody murder.
Patrick twisted when the tip of Peter’s tongue swiped over his prostate, mewling softly against the marble and spreading his legs wider. Peter only groaned against his entrance at the offering, barely able to stand the suspense any longer.
Thinking that his tongue would have to be preparation enough (a spit and a prayer will get you there), Peter staggered to his feet, a wave of dizziness taking over him that forced him to take a rough hold of Patrick’s hips for support. He couldn’t bring himself to afford Patrick the courtesy of a pause before he thrust into him with a shudder and a lurch, clinging to the trembling body in front of him as if he could meld their skins together.
With each violent rock of Peter’s hips, Patrick’s hipbones slammed into the biting edge of the marble and he had to pull his lower lip, already swollen from Peter’s harsh teeth, into his mouth and clamp down on it to keep from crying out. Peter, grunting softly with every movement, only tightened his fatal clamp on Patrick’s battered hips and pushed in harder.
It was when Peter leaned down, attracted by the pool of sweat gathered on the milky crease of Patrick’s neck and shoulder, and started suckling the sea-salt white flesh that Patrick’s back curled into a perfect, graceful arch and his fingers dug a little deeper in the stone, his body lit by the coiling pleasure where Peter had hit his prostate.
One hand dragged itself away from the somber black marble purchase it had found and traced down the hard lines of the counter to find his neglected cock, and Patrick had the numbed sense to refuse himself a whimper when Peter promptly pinned his arm. He was offered considerable relief, however, when Peter’s deft hand, so dark against his own pale skin, slid around his length and began moving in time with Peter’s agonizing thrusts. The nail of his thumb curved beautifully into the leaking slit of his cock just as his vicious teeth closed around the hot skin on the side of Patrick’s neck, and Peter delighted in the lovely way Patrick’s soft, warm body writhed beneath him as he came, jerking into his hand and clawing at his counter.
With a few more thrusts to elicit some decadent, throaty pleas and some twitches from Patrick’s ravaged body, Peter came, leaning heavily on the heaving tableau of blank fair flesh beneath him. He was still trying to stop struggling for air when Patrick’s breathy voice, muffled by the sweat-slick crook of his elbow and the now-warm slab of marble, broke the gasping silence.
“How’s that for virgin schoolboy, you cunt.”