Fic snippet: "Fire Is the Devils' Only Friend"
So this is a 2500-word scrap that's been hanging around far too long, thought I'd share. Not really complete, not what I set out to write, but I like it anyway.
Pairing: 16 Candles-Pete/Dance, Dance-Pete
Warnings: vampires= sex, blood and death
These are non-profit, non-commercial works of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. These fictional stories are not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
The lead singer guy answered the door wide, making no effort to keep his face out of the sunlight. It was the first good news Peter had gotten since Pat- well, since Pat. Peter swallowed hard, then pushed past the guy, who looked even more like an older version of Pat up close.
"I hate to be all Inigo Montoya about this, but I'm here to kill your bassist. He- he- Fuck, Pat, he's dead and so the vampire who looks like me needs to be too."
Not-Pat looked sleep-rumpled the same way Pat did when Peter barged in for surprise breakfast runs. He even shook his head out to clear it the same way.
"Pete doesn't kill people, you must be wrong. Your friend is probably just sleeping it off, blood loss makes most people sleepy."
Peter flinched a little. "Yeah, I'm not the most observant guy around, but I think I can tell from dead. You guys played our prom last night, Pat follows your bass player into an alley, when I can't find him an hour later, he's fucking stiff and cold, you asshole, my best fucking friend, my- look, the only reason I'm not killing you too is 'cause you look just like him."
Lead singer dude flapped his hands. "Ok, we'll figure this out, sit down, ok? You can kill Pete in a few minutes if you need to. What's your name?"
Peter introduced himself grudgingly.
"Peter not Pete, and your friend went by just Pat? Teenage doppelgangers, ok, not the weirdest thing that's happened to us, but it's up there." Patrick-not-Pat sat down on the couch and gestured at the cushion next to him.
"What’s the weirdest?" Peter couldn't stop himself from asking.
"My best friend got turned into a vampire, and he's still my friend,” Patrick said simply. "Speaking of, how were you planning to kill him?"
Peter pulled the cross and pocket knife out of his hoodie pocket.
Patrick laughed a little meanly. "Yeah, so you have clue how to deal with them. Good for me, since I don't have to worry about Pete, but dangerous for you. And I'm not going to teach you how to kill a vamp until you hear from your friend and stop wanting to kill mine."
"If I hear from my friend, I'm going to need to know a lot more about vampires. Do you think he'll rise?" Peter felt his whole body shake with pins and needles. There might be some hope after all.
Patrick killed it quickly. "No, Pete is too young a vampire, he won't be able to turn anyone for a few decades, even if he wanted to."
Fuck.
Peter's phone rang with the ringtone for Pat's home line. He dropped the phone and then fumbled the catch trying to open it. By the time he got it to his ear, the call had gone to voicemail. Peter was too scared to call back; he hit play on the voicemail. Pat's mom's hysterical voice spilled out, Patrick crowding close to eavesdrop. Pat never came home last night. He never called. The news was reporting a dead teenager in an alley near the school. Did Peter know where he was?
Peter stared at his hands a few minutes. Patrick started speaking softly. "Before we talk to Pete, you need some basic safety training. Vampires aren't necessarily evil, but they don't have any impulse control. Kind of like toddlers, but with grown up desires. Pete’s like that too, he just knows it and tries to work around it.
"If a vampire wants something you don't want them to have, you have to be able to immediately distract them. Keep some garlic with you, and crush a clove if you need to buy time to escape. They have very good senses, especially smell, and garlic is so strong it hurts.
“If you are going to get bitten anyway, offer your wrist; it's pretty hard to kill someone like that. They can read your mind when you drink, so think about how much you want to live and they'll feel it.”
Patrick’s voice turned wry as he continued, “Vamps lose all inhibitions, and apparently prove that theory that everyone is inherently bisexual, so a good looking kid like you will find a way to keep a vamp from wanting to kill you. Remember they can only read you when they’re drinking, so if you know going in you aren't going to like it, make sure you get their fangs out of you first."
Matter-of-fact vampire prostitution advice must be part of Patrick's job description. His skin was as pale as Pat's, but he didn't blush at all or drop eye contact as he explained how Peter should be willing to trade his ass for his neck.
Patrick started walking towards the basement while Peter was lost in thought. He stayed behind, unsure if he was supposed to follow or not, still toying with his phone.
Patrick came back up a few minutes later with Pete's voice behind him screaming to lock the door.
Patrick locked and unlocked the door in one swift practiced motion. Pete must not have been able to tell the difference, because there was no reaction from the basement.
Peter followed Patrick up the stairs to a bedroom. It was a mess, posters hung crookedly on one wall, a pile of laundry that smelled godawful threatening to take over the left-hand side of the room, and the only furniture a small television set on a milkcrate and a double futon with a ratty blanket thrown over it.
Patrick flicked on MTV and flopped listlessly onto the futon. Pat's room had much nicer furniture, and his mom would have killed him for this kind of mess. It still made Peter sit on the floor automatically and drop his head onto Patrick's left knee, his hand going to Patrick's calf to rub it the way that always calmed Pat down when he was that tense.
Patrick's calf was just a bit thicker than Pat's. Peter thought that maybe Pat's would have filled out like that, too, if he'd had the chance. Patrick's hand tried to card through his hair, like he couldn't get his head around the fact that Peter's hair had way too much gel for that to be a possibility.
Patrick spoke slowly, quietly. "He's never even asked to bite me, in the six months he's been like this. He kicks me out if there's any doubt in his mind. I still can't believe. . ." Peter rubbed a little harder, until Patrick continued.
"If I actually leave the door locked, when he gets up in ten minutes because he's hungry or whatever, he'll be trapped in there and get frustrated and remember whatever it was that set him off all over again. But he-"
Peter looked up at Patrick's exhalation. Pete was in the doorway, his face blank, doing absolutely nothing threatening. Peter got a stronger fight-or-flight response than he had knocking on the door with nothing but a butterfly knife.
Peter looked him straight in the teeth, though, or as straight as he could with his head still resting on Patrick's knee, and said, "I had my own, you know. You shouldn't have killed him if you can't share yours."
Pete's eyes darkened at the word share, and Peter knew, just knew, what he was thinking. They had more in common than just looks, because Peter could tell, Pete was imagining Patrick spread out naked, the two of them working him to ecstasy under their mouths and hands, and oh please god let this Patrick not be against that idea the way Pat always had been.
Pete didn't push the issue, though, he just mirrored Peter's pose on the other side, colonizing Patrick's right knee and matching Peter stroke for stroke on his right calf.
"He tasted just like I thought you'd taste. He was scared, I mean, I don't think he'd ever been kissed before-" Peter sputtered at that, but Patrick's hand on his head stilled warningly, and Peter took the hint. Pete continued, "But he was flattered, I think, to have me pull him into the alley. And I just thought, I could have a little taste, and I wouldn't be betraying you, because he wasn't really you." Patrick's hand slowed down in Peter's hair; Peter figured he must be concentrating on Pete and tried not to resent it.
After a few minutes, Patrick's soft voice broke the stillness. "You've always been able to stop before." He said it as though to reassure Pete, but the accusation behind it was still there.
"I swear to god, Patrick, he fucking begged me. I wouldn't, you know I wouldn't, do you think I liked fucking watching you die? But he tasted so good, and every time I tried to pull away he begged me not to stop, and you know how I get caught up in the moment. I wasn't fucking thinking that this kid didn't know what he was asking for, he probably just wanted me to keep jerking him off, but by the time I figured that out he was gone."
Peter's jaw started shaking, but he ignored it. "I'm calling bullshit. When I found him, Pat had a big wet spot on the front of his pants. I bet he came before you even broke the skin."
Pete started belligerently, "Maybe he wanted a fucking second round, why the fuck were you not taking-"
Patrick's left hand came down over Peter's mouth, and judging by the sudden silence, his right hand was doing the same to Pete.
"He thought you were Peter here, and you'd been turned, and figured he could get turned, too." Patrick's voice was final, daddy settling the argument among the kiddies, but there was no way it hadn't cost him something to admit that. If that was what Pat had thought, then Patrick must have been thinking it too. Been thinking that his best friend didn't want him around forever, been willing to beg for that anyway.
Pete slithered out of Patrick's lap, told him, "Get the fuck away from me now, Patrick." Peter jumped up to let Patrick out, but Patrick stayed sitting.
Pete hissed, "I'm not fucking kidding! Get out!" Patrick got up slowly, making eye contact, as Pete stood shaking, his hands clenched into fists. Patrick had to cross Pete to leave the room, and he seemed intent on making it as much of a dance as possible. Just like Pat, always with the tension and no follow through, only the only trouble Pat ever got for it was Peter bitching about blue balls, and Patrick was about to get killed in front of Peter again.
Peter pushed Patrick out from between him and Pete, hard enough to make him stumble. Pete’s eyes followed Patrick out of the room, breathing through his mouth. Peter pulled Pete to him by the hips and started to mouth the spot behind his ear that Peter had liked the one time he actually got someone to kiss him back. This Patrick wasn't getting killed if Peter could be any kind of distraction at all.
Pete thrust against him, already hard, and Peter knew he wouldn’t be much of a distraction if he couldn’t keep up, so he muttered, “Tell me about Pat. How did he feel? What did he taste like?”
Pete slithered against him, hips twisting against Peter as he went to whisper in Peter’s ear, “So fucking nervous, thought it was a joke or something, but I made him forget. Every place I touched him, he made these fucking noises, little grunts, you know?” Pete punctuated this with a grind against Peter that made him grunt too.
“He didn’t much like having his ears kissed. His hands though, fuck, he fucking begged me not to stop sucking his fingers. Gorgeous hands, too, huh?” Peter kissed him to shut him up a minute, tongue thrusting into Pete’s mouth without much finesse, but Pete didn’t seem to mind. Patrick slunk out of the doorway, finally, and Peter wrapped a leg around Pete’s hips to keep him turned away. Peter's clumsiness struck, though, the angle sucked and they were going to fall over. Pete guided them to the bed, worked open the buttons of Peter’s shirt as he continued.
“You like his hands, too? How many times you jerk off imaging those hands instead of your own? Every fucking day? Stick a finger up your ass, wishing it was one of his?” Pete voice got a little bitter, even as he undid Peter’s belt and took off his jeans. Peter lay back, confused and now painfully hard. He used to stare at Pat’s hands sometimes, when he was writing or noodling on the guitar. Strong fingers, long and graceful, the nails impeccably clean and filed neatly. Peter had never done it, what Pete suggested, but he’d thought about it, even though it scared him a little. His train of thought was interrupted by Pete grabbing his dick, just a shade too hard.
“Why the fuck was he so desperate? You didn’t deserve your own Patrick, he should have been getting sucked off every night, you don’t have goddamn fangs in the way.” Pete jerked him almost viciously, obviously aware of just what would feel good and going just that little bit further, until Peter’s hips didn’t know to thrust into it or away from it.
Peter panted, “He wouldn’t fucking let me, asswipe, I tried, I kissed him and he fucking just stood there and took it, he didn’t even get pissed, just ignored me until I had to stop.” Pete’s hand gentled, and his other hand reached down to roll Peter’s balls around slowly.
Peter pulled Pete closer to taste his neck some more, closing his eyes and remembering the way Pat had tasted that day. He’d tried so hard to convince Pat to give him a shot, dropping soccer for chess club, texting him a million times a day, attending every single class so he wouldn’t miss a chance to have homework to talk about with Pat. It had hurt that Pat didn’t want him, but they’d been friends, best friends, and Peter would cut off his dick to have Pat back. Peter bit at Pete’s neck, wondering if he had Pat’s blood under the skin there.
Pete scooted away, down towards Peter’s dick, and said into the skin of his inner thigh, “I can make you feel what I feel, if I drink from you, you know. I can let you feel it, what it felt like to have him.”
Peter thrust up helplessly, pushing the thin skin over his femoral artery closer to Pete’s fangs. This was as close as he'd come to Pat, now. Maybe Pete could even take him all the way there.
Pairing: 16 Candles-Pete/Dance, Dance-Pete
Warnings: vampires= sex, blood and death
These are non-profit, non-commercial works of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. These fictional stories are not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
The lead singer guy answered the door wide, making no effort to keep his face out of the sunlight. It was the first good news Peter had gotten since Pat- well, since Pat. Peter swallowed hard, then pushed past the guy, who looked even more like an older version of Pat up close.
"I hate to be all Inigo Montoya about this, but I'm here to kill your bassist. He- he- Fuck, Pat, he's dead and so the vampire who looks like me needs to be too."
Not-Pat looked sleep-rumpled the same way Pat did when Peter barged in for surprise breakfast runs. He even shook his head out to clear it the same way.
"Pete doesn't kill people, you must be wrong. Your friend is probably just sleeping it off, blood loss makes most people sleepy."
Peter flinched a little. "Yeah, I'm not the most observant guy around, but I think I can tell from dead. You guys played our prom last night, Pat follows your bass player into an alley, when I can't find him an hour later, he's fucking stiff and cold, you asshole, my best fucking friend, my- look, the only reason I'm not killing you too is 'cause you look just like him."
Lead singer dude flapped his hands. "Ok, we'll figure this out, sit down, ok? You can kill Pete in a few minutes if you need to. What's your name?"
Peter introduced himself grudgingly.
"Peter not Pete, and your friend went by just Pat? Teenage doppelgangers, ok, not the weirdest thing that's happened to us, but it's up there." Patrick-not-Pat sat down on the couch and gestured at the cushion next to him.
"What’s the weirdest?" Peter couldn't stop himself from asking.
"My best friend got turned into a vampire, and he's still my friend,” Patrick said simply. "Speaking of, how were you planning to kill him?"
Peter pulled the cross and pocket knife out of his hoodie pocket.
Patrick laughed a little meanly. "Yeah, so you have clue how to deal with them. Good for me, since I don't have to worry about Pete, but dangerous for you. And I'm not going to teach you how to kill a vamp until you hear from your friend and stop wanting to kill mine."
"If I hear from my friend, I'm going to need to know a lot more about vampires. Do you think he'll rise?" Peter felt his whole body shake with pins and needles. There might be some hope after all.
Patrick killed it quickly. "No, Pete is too young a vampire, he won't be able to turn anyone for a few decades, even if he wanted to."
Fuck.
Peter's phone rang with the ringtone for Pat's home line. He dropped the phone and then fumbled the catch trying to open it. By the time he got it to his ear, the call had gone to voicemail. Peter was too scared to call back; he hit play on the voicemail. Pat's mom's hysterical voice spilled out, Patrick crowding close to eavesdrop. Pat never came home last night. He never called. The news was reporting a dead teenager in an alley near the school. Did Peter know where he was?
Peter stared at his hands a few minutes. Patrick started speaking softly. "Before we talk to Pete, you need some basic safety training. Vampires aren't necessarily evil, but they don't have any impulse control. Kind of like toddlers, but with grown up desires. Pete’s like that too, he just knows it and tries to work around it.
"If a vampire wants something you don't want them to have, you have to be able to immediately distract them. Keep some garlic with you, and crush a clove if you need to buy time to escape. They have very good senses, especially smell, and garlic is so strong it hurts.
“If you are going to get bitten anyway, offer your wrist; it's pretty hard to kill someone like that. They can read your mind when you drink, so think about how much you want to live and they'll feel it.”
Patrick’s voice turned wry as he continued, “Vamps lose all inhibitions, and apparently prove that theory that everyone is inherently bisexual, so a good looking kid like you will find a way to keep a vamp from wanting to kill you. Remember they can only read you when they’re drinking, so if you know going in you aren't going to like it, make sure you get their fangs out of you first."
Matter-of-fact vampire prostitution advice must be part of Patrick's job description. His skin was as pale as Pat's, but he didn't blush at all or drop eye contact as he explained how Peter should be willing to trade his ass for his neck.
Patrick started walking towards the basement while Peter was lost in thought. He stayed behind, unsure if he was supposed to follow or not, still toying with his phone.
Patrick came back up a few minutes later with Pete's voice behind him screaming to lock the door.
Patrick locked and unlocked the door in one swift practiced motion. Pete must not have been able to tell the difference, because there was no reaction from the basement.
Peter followed Patrick up the stairs to a bedroom. It was a mess, posters hung crookedly on one wall, a pile of laundry that smelled godawful threatening to take over the left-hand side of the room, and the only furniture a small television set on a milkcrate and a double futon with a ratty blanket thrown over it.
Patrick flicked on MTV and flopped listlessly onto the futon. Pat's room had much nicer furniture, and his mom would have killed him for this kind of mess. It still made Peter sit on the floor automatically and drop his head onto Patrick's left knee, his hand going to Patrick's calf to rub it the way that always calmed Pat down when he was that tense.
Patrick's calf was just a bit thicker than Pat's. Peter thought that maybe Pat's would have filled out like that, too, if he'd had the chance. Patrick's hand tried to card through his hair, like he couldn't get his head around the fact that Peter's hair had way too much gel for that to be a possibility.
Patrick spoke slowly, quietly. "He's never even asked to bite me, in the six months he's been like this. He kicks me out if there's any doubt in his mind. I still can't believe. . ." Peter rubbed a little harder, until Patrick continued.
"If I actually leave the door locked, when he gets up in ten minutes because he's hungry or whatever, he'll be trapped in there and get frustrated and remember whatever it was that set him off all over again. But he-"
Peter looked up at Patrick's exhalation. Pete was in the doorway, his face blank, doing absolutely nothing threatening. Peter got a stronger fight-or-flight response than he had knocking on the door with nothing but a butterfly knife.
Peter looked him straight in the teeth, though, or as straight as he could with his head still resting on Patrick's knee, and said, "I had my own, you know. You shouldn't have killed him if you can't share yours."
Pete's eyes darkened at the word share, and Peter knew, just knew, what he was thinking. They had more in common than just looks, because Peter could tell, Pete was imagining Patrick spread out naked, the two of them working him to ecstasy under their mouths and hands, and oh please god let this Patrick not be against that idea the way Pat always had been.
Pete didn't push the issue, though, he just mirrored Peter's pose on the other side, colonizing Patrick's right knee and matching Peter stroke for stroke on his right calf.
"He tasted just like I thought you'd taste. He was scared, I mean, I don't think he'd ever been kissed before-" Peter sputtered at that, but Patrick's hand on his head stilled warningly, and Peter took the hint. Pete continued, "But he was flattered, I think, to have me pull him into the alley. And I just thought, I could have a little taste, and I wouldn't be betraying you, because he wasn't really you." Patrick's hand slowed down in Peter's hair; Peter figured he must be concentrating on Pete and tried not to resent it.
After a few minutes, Patrick's soft voice broke the stillness. "You've always been able to stop before." He said it as though to reassure Pete, but the accusation behind it was still there.
"I swear to god, Patrick, he fucking begged me. I wouldn't, you know I wouldn't, do you think I liked fucking watching you die? But he tasted so good, and every time I tried to pull away he begged me not to stop, and you know how I get caught up in the moment. I wasn't fucking thinking that this kid didn't know what he was asking for, he probably just wanted me to keep jerking him off, but by the time I figured that out he was gone."
Peter's jaw started shaking, but he ignored it. "I'm calling bullshit. When I found him, Pat had a big wet spot on the front of his pants. I bet he came before you even broke the skin."
Pete started belligerently, "Maybe he wanted a fucking second round, why the fuck were you not taking-"
Patrick's left hand came down over Peter's mouth, and judging by the sudden silence, his right hand was doing the same to Pete.
"He thought you were Peter here, and you'd been turned, and figured he could get turned, too." Patrick's voice was final, daddy settling the argument among the kiddies, but there was no way it hadn't cost him something to admit that. If that was what Pat had thought, then Patrick must have been thinking it too. Been thinking that his best friend didn't want him around forever, been willing to beg for that anyway.
Pete slithered out of Patrick's lap, told him, "Get the fuck away from me now, Patrick." Peter jumped up to let Patrick out, but Patrick stayed sitting.
Pete hissed, "I'm not fucking kidding! Get out!" Patrick got up slowly, making eye contact, as Pete stood shaking, his hands clenched into fists. Patrick had to cross Pete to leave the room, and he seemed intent on making it as much of a dance as possible. Just like Pat, always with the tension and no follow through, only the only trouble Pat ever got for it was Peter bitching about blue balls, and Patrick was about to get killed in front of Peter again.
Peter pushed Patrick out from between him and Pete, hard enough to make him stumble. Pete’s eyes followed Patrick out of the room, breathing through his mouth. Peter pulled Pete to him by the hips and started to mouth the spot behind his ear that Peter had liked the one time he actually got someone to kiss him back. This Patrick wasn't getting killed if Peter could be any kind of distraction at all.
Pete thrust against him, already hard, and Peter knew he wouldn’t be much of a distraction if he couldn’t keep up, so he muttered, “Tell me about Pat. How did he feel? What did he taste like?”
Pete slithered against him, hips twisting against Peter as he went to whisper in Peter’s ear, “So fucking nervous, thought it was a joke or something, but I made him forget. Every place I touched him, he made these fucking noises, little grunts, you know?” Pete punctuated this with a grind against Peter that made him grunt too.
“He didn’t much like having his ears kissed. His hands though, fuck, he fucking begged me not to stop sucking his fingers. Gorgeous hands, too, huh?” Peter kissed him to shut him up a minute, tongue thrusting into Pete’s mouth without much finesse, but Pete didn’t seem to mind. Patrick slunk out of the doorway, finally, and Peter wrapped a leg around Pete’s hips to keep him turned away. Peter's clumsiness struck, though, the angle sucked and they were going to fall over. Pete guided them to the bed, worked open the buttons of Peter’s shirt as he continued.
“You like his hands, too? How many times you jerk off imaging those hands instead of your own? Every fucking day? Stick a finger up your ass, wishing it was one of his?” Pete voice got a little bitter, even as he undid Peter’s belt and took off his jeans. Peter lay back, confused and now painfully hard. He used to stare at Pat’s hands sometimes, when he was writing or noodling on the guitar. Strong fingers, long and graceful, the nails impeccably clean and filed neatly. Peter had never done it, what Pete suggested, but he’d thought about it, even though it scared him a little. His train of thought was interrupted by Pete grabbing his dick, just a shade too hard.
“Why the fuck was he so desperate? You didn’t deserve your own Patrick, he should have been getting sucked off every night, you don’t have goddamn fangs in the way.” Pete jerked him almost viciously, obviously aware of just what would feel good and going just that little bit further, until Peter’s hips didn’t know to thrust into it or away from it.
Peter panted, “He wouldn’t fucking let me, asswipe, I tried, I kissed him and he fucking just stood there and took it, he didn’t even get pissed, just ignored me until I had to stop.” Pete’s hand gentled, and his other hand reached down to roll Peter’s balls around slowly.
Peter pulled Pete closer to taste his neck some more, closing his eyes and remembering the way Pat had tasted that day. He’d tried so hard to convince Pat to give him a shot, dropping soccer for chess club, texting him a million times a day, attending every single class so he wouldn’t miss a chance to have homework to talk about with Pat. It had hurt that Pat didn’t want him, but they’d been friends, best friends, and Peter would cut off his dick to have Pat back. Peter bit at Pete’s neck, wondering if he had Pat’s blood under the skin there.
Pete scooted away, down towards Peter’s dick, and said into the skin of his inner thigh, “I can make you feel what I feel, if I drink from you, you know. I can let you feel it, what it felt like to have him.”
Peter thrust up helplessly, pushing the thin skin over his femoral artery closer to Pete’s fangs. This was as close as he'd come to Pat, now. Maybe Pete could even take him all the way there.