Never Enough (1/1)
Title: Never Enough
Author: new_evolution
Rating: NC-17
Summary: A strange way of resolving an argument.
Disclaimer: Don't own, didn't happen, don't sue.
Author's Notes: My first attempt at this particular pairing. Probably really implausible, but hey, it's slashfic.
Thwack.
Pete falls away, clutching his nose, while Patrick looks slightly dumbfounded, glancing back and forth between Pete and his own fist, as thought he's not sure what he just did. Pete is breathing heavily, blood dripping from the spaces between his fingers. His eyes flash with anger and fear, like those of a cornered wild dog.
Patrick isn't sure if he should apologize or not. He hates to backtrack so quickly after they were just at each other's throats. On the other hand, punching him in the face seems like going too far. The hell with it, Patrick thinks, and opens his mouth, but Pete is out of the room before he can even say anything.
He tries again later, when he thinks Pete may have calmed down a little. This guess turns out to be incorrect, as Pete won't answer his phone. Patrick gives up after six tries. Goddamned caller I.D.
Much as it tries his patience, he decides to leave him alone until practice the day after tomorrow. Two excruciating days later, he walks up behind Pete as they're both entering the practice space.
"Hey." He places a hand on Pete's shoulder. "I'm sorry, okay?"
Pete shrugs off his hand and starts walking faster.
Practice would be a joke, if anyone were willing to laugh at it. Pete won't say anything to Patrick directly, but relays messages through Andy and Joe. After a few rounds of this, Andy mutters, "This is fucking ridiculous," throws his sticks down, and stalks out of the room. Joe stands around for a moment, looking uncertain, and starts to put his guitar back in its case.
Patrick stares at him with pleading eyes. "Don't tell me you're leaving too."
"No point in continuing without everyone here, is there?" He shifts his focus to Pete. "I'll see you guys when you decide to act your age."
Pete watches him leave, then turns to Patrick. "This is all your fault."
"I thought you weren't talking to me," Patrick responds dryly.
Pete's only reply is a quick "Fuck you" before he goes.
---
Over the next few days, Patrick finds that there isn't much to do when your best friend won't take your calls. The boredom, combined with intermittent periods of depression and anger, gets to be too much. Eventually he comes to the decision that it might be best to call in an intermediary.
Andy flatly refuses. "Leave me out of your little bitch-fights, dude."
"Come on, please? I don't know what else to do. If he keeps ignoring me, I might have to come to his house and kill him."
"Now that I could help you with."
"Just try and convince him to at least hear me out, okay? Please?" He's already said that, but he figures a little groveling never hurt anyone.
Andy sighs. "Okay, fine. But you owe me."
---
Andy's subsequent conversation with Pete does not go especially well.
"No. Hell no. Not if you paid me in strippers."
"You do realize you're being a little bitch, right?"
"So now you're against me too?"
"Nobody is against you, Wentz. He's been trying to apologize for days now."
"Should've thought of that before he punched me."
Andy is about to say that he's almost completely sure Pete deserved it, but he realizes that will get him nowhere. "Look, I wouldn't have a problem with this if it were just between the two of you, but you're fucking up the band. Do you want this all to end? Because that's what'll happen if you don't pull your head out of your ass long enough to hear what he has to say."
Pete finally starts to relent. "I'll think about it."
"Don't strain anything." Andy hangs up.
---
Patrick comes home the next day to find Pete standing in the middle of his living room. He nearly freaks out before he remembers giving him the extra key.
"Trick, hey, listen, I've thought about it a lot, and--"
Patrick shoves him onto the couch. "Sit down and shut the fucking hell up."
For quite possibly the first time in his life, Pete is speechless.
Patrick stands over him and yells. "I am absolutely, one-hundred-percent sick of your shit, do you hear me? It could've been over the same day if you hadn't decided to pull your little fucking drama queen routine. And you know what, I'm not sorry anymore. Not in the least, because you were asking for it, you fucking cunt. The only thing I regret is not aiming lower."
Pete waits meekly until the tirade stops. He stands up, mumbles, "I'm sorry," and tentatively goes to hug Patrick, but to his great surprise, he finds his shirt being yanked over his head and tossed aside.
"I'm going to teach you a lesson," Patrick says, his voice now low and frightening. "Don't act like a bitch if you don't want to be treated like one." He snaps his fingers and points. "Pants off. Now." Pete is too stunned to do anything but obey. "Now mine." Pete reaches for the hem of Patrick's shirt, but his hand is slapped away, so he moves it downward to the button fly of his jeans. "Up against the wall," Patrick orders.
Pete walks over to a blank area of wall space and braces his hands against it. Patrick advances on him slowly, speaking again in that scary voice. "Let's make sure we've got everything straight," he says. "What are you?"
"A--" Pete swallows. "A bitch."
"And what do you want me to do to you, bitch?"
"Fuck me." Pete's mouth seems to be completely disconnected from his brain, but as soon as the words leave his lips, he realizes that, yes, he does want this. There is something strangely beautiful about Patrick in this state; he's standing taller, and his eyes seem to glow with a preternatural fire.
Patrick smirks. "Glad we're on the same page."
He shoves two fingers into Pete's mouth, and Pete obediently coats them with spit. Even though he knows what's coming, he still gasps when the fingers are jabbed into his ass. Could be worse, he thinks, at least he's not leaving me completely unprepared.
It isn't long before the fingers are removed and he feels the tip of Patrick's cock, already leaking precum, poised at his entrance.
"Are you ready?" Patrick asks in a near-whisper.
"No."
"Good." Patrick lances into him, thrusting relentlessly, their hips colliding and separating. It hurts--god, does it hurt--but Pete can feel himself growing hard. He wants to jack himself off, but Patrick's hands are on top of his, pinning them to the wall. Pete gradually becomes aware that he is making noise, not a moan so much as a long, high-pitched wail. He squeezes his eyes shut and bends his head downward, torn between wanting this to be over and wanting it to never stop.
Mercifully, Patrick brings a hand down and starts rubbing his cock with long, hard strokes, dry and rough and painful, but Pete comes anyway, so hard that his knees feel weak and he has trouble staying up. Patrick senses this and pulls him down, repositioning Pete onto his hands and knees. Several more thrusts--Pete loses count--and finally Patrick's legs tense up, and Pete feels his release inside him.
Patrick pulls out and stands up, and Pete drops to the floor, curling into the fetal position. Patrick surveys him, and suddenly pity takes the place of rage and arousal. Pete is trembling uncontrollably, his eyes still closed, and he looks achingly frail and helpless.
Furthermore, Patrick notices, he is bleeding on the carpet.
"Are you--" He tries to think of the right way to word his question. "Was that your--"
"Virgin," Pete says quietly, and starts to cry.
"Oh god." Patrick kneels beside him. "Pete, don't...."
Pete lifts himself up, only to promptly collapse into Patrick's arms.
They stay on the floor until Pete's sobbing trails off. He sniffles and looks up at Patrick. "You're not wearing pants."
Patrick can't help but smile. "I know."
"And your shirt and hat are still on." Pete starts to laugh through his tears, and Patrick follows suit, half from the absurdity of the situation and half from sheer relief.
Finally Pete stands up, offering a hand to Patrick, and they start gathering their clothes.
"Ow, fuck." Pete winces at the pain of trying to walk. "Let's never fight again."
"Okay," Patrick agrees, and can't resist adding, "Bitch."
Pete slaps him on the ass.
Author: new_evolution
Rating: NC-17
Summary: A strange way of resolving an argument.
Disclaimer: Don't own, didn't happen, don't sue.
Author's Notes: My first attempt at this particular pairing. Probably really implausible, but hey, it's slashfic.
Thwack.
Pete falls away, clutching his nose, while Patrick looks slightly dumbfounded, glancing back and forth between Pete and his own fist, as thought he's not sure what he just did. Pete is breathing heavily, blood dripping from the spaces between his fingers. His eyes flash with anger and fear, like those of a cornered wild dog.
Patrick isn't sure if he should apologize or not. He hates to backtrack so quickly after they were just at each other's throats. On the other hand, punching him in the face seems like going too far. The hell with it, Patrick thinks, and opens his mouth, but Pete is out of the room before he can even say anything.
He tries again later, when he thinks Pete may have calmed down a little. This guess turns out to be incorrect, as Pete won't answer his phone. Patrick gives up after six tries. Goddamned caller I.D.
Much as it tries his patience, he decides to leave him alone until practice the day after tomorrow. Two excruciating days later, he walks up behind Pete as they're both entering the practice space.
"Hey." He places a hand on Pete's shoulder. "I'm sorry, okay?"
Pete shrugs off his hand and starts walking faster.
Practice would be a joke, if anyone were willing to laugh at it. Pete won't say anything to Patrick directly, but relays messages through Andy and Joe. After a few rounds of this, Andy mutters, "This is fucking ridiculous," throws his sticks down, and stalks out of the room. Joe stands around for a moment, looking uncertain, and starts to put his guitar back in its case.
Patrick stares at him with pleading eyes. "Don't tell me you're leaving too."
"No point in continuing without everyone here, is there?" He shifts his focus to Pete. "I'll see you guys when you decide to act your age."
Pete watches him leave, then turns to Patrick. "This is all your fault."
"I thought you weren't talking to me," Patrick responds dryly.
Pete's only reply is a quick "Fuck you" before he goes.
---
Over the next few days, Patrick finds that there isn't much to do when your best friend won't take your calls. The boredom, combined with intermittent periods of depression and anger, gets to be too much. Eventually he comes to the decision that it might be best to call in an intermediary.
Andy flatly refuses. "Leave me out of your little bitch-fights, dude."
"Come on, please? I don't know what else to do. If he keeps ignoring me, I might have to come to his house and kill him."
"Now that I could help you with."
"Just try and convince him to at least hear me out, okay? Please?" He's already said that, but he figures a little groveling never hurt anyone.
Andy sighs. "Okay, fine. But you owe me."
---
Andy's subsequent conversation with Pete does not go especially well.
"No. Hell no. Not if you paid me in strippers."
"You do realize you're being a little bitch, right?"
"So now you're against me too?"
"Nobody is against you, Wentz. He's been trying to apologize for days now."
"Should've thought of that before he punched me."
Andy is about to say that he's almost completely sure Pete deserved it, but he realizes that will get him nowhere. "Look, I wouldn't have a problem with this if it were just between the two of you, but you're fucking up the band. Do you want this all to end? Because that's what'll happen if you don't pull your head out of your ass long enough to hear what he has to say."
Pete finally starts to relent. "I'll think about it."
"Don't strain anything." Andy hangs up.
---
Patrick comes home the next day to find Pete standing in the middle of his living room. He nearly freaks out before he remembers giving him the extra key.
"Trick, hey, listen, I've thought about it a lot, and--"
Patrick shoves him onto the couch. "Sit down and shut the fucking hell up."
For quite possibly the first time in his life, Pete is speechless.
Patrick stands over him and yells. "I am absolutely, one-hundred-percent sick of your shit, do you hear me? It could've been over the same day if you hadn't decided to pull your little fucking drama queen routine. And you know what, I'm not sorry anymore. Not in the least, because you were asking for it, you fucking cunt. The only thing I regret is not aiming lower."
Pete waits meekly until the tirade stops. He stands up, mumbles, "I'm sorry," and tentatively goes to hug Patrick, but to his great surprise, he finds his shirt being yanked over his head and tossed aside.
"I'm going to teach you a lesson," Patrick says, his voice now low and frightening. "Don't act like a bitch if you don't want to be treated like one." He snaps his fingers and points. "Pants off. Now." Pete is too stunned to do anything but obey. "Now mine." Pete reaches for the hem of Patrick's shirt, but his hand is slapped away, so he moves it downward to the button fly of his jeans. "Up against the wall," Patrick orders.
Pete walks over to a blank area of wall space and braces his hands against it. Patrick advances on him slowly, speaking again in that scary voice. "Let's make sure we've got everything straight," he says. "What are you?"
"A--" Pete swallows. "A bitch."
"And what do you want me to do to you, bitch?"
"Fuck me." Pete's mouth seems to be completely disconnected from his brain, but as soon as the words leave his lips, he realizes that, yes, he does want this. There is something strangely beautiful about Patrick in this state; he's standing taller, and his eyes seem to glow with a preternatural fire.
Patrick smirks. "Glad we're on the same page."
He shoves two fingers into Pete's mouth, and Pete obediently coats them with spit. Even though he knows what's coming, he still gasps when the fingers are jabbed into his ass. Could be worse, he thinks, at least he's not leaving me completely unprepared.
It isn't long before the fingers are removed and he feels the tip of Patrick's cock, already leaking precum, poised at his entrance.
"Are you ready?" Patrick asks in a near-whisper.
"No."
"Good." Patrick lances into him, thrusting relentlessly, their hips colliding and separating. It hurts--god, does it hurt--but Pete can feel himself growing hard. He wants to jack himself off, but Patrick's hands are on top of his, pinning them to the wall. Pete gradually becomes aware that he is making noise, not a moan so much as a long, high-pitched wail. He squeezes his eyes shut and bends his head downward, torn between wanting this to be over and wanting it to never stop.
Mercifully, Patrick brings a hand down and starts rubbing his cock with long, hard strokes, dry and rough and painful, but Pete comes anyway, so hard that his knees feel weak and he has trouble staying up. Patrick senses this and pulls him down, repositioning Pete onto his hands and knees. Several more thrusts--Pete loses count--and finally Patrick's legs tense up, and Pete feels his release inside him.
Patrick pulls out and stands up, and Pete drops to the floor, curling into the fetal position. Patrick surveys him, and suddenly pity takes the place of rage and arousal. Pete is trembling uncontrollably, his eyes still closed, and he looks achingly frail and helpless.
Furthermore, Patrick notices, he is bleeding on the carpet.
"Are you--" He tries to think of the right way to word his question. "Was that your--"
"Virgin," Pete says quietly, and starts to cry.
"Oh god." Patrick kneels beside him. "Pete, don't...."
Pete lifts himself up, only to promptly collapse into Patrick's arms.
They stay on the floor until Pete's sobbing trails off. He sniffles and looks up at Patrick. "You're not wearing pants."
Patrick can't help but smile. "I know."
"And your shirt and hat are still on." Pete starts to laugh through his tears, and Patrick follows suit, half from the absurdity of the situation and half from sheer relief.
Finally Pete stands up, offering a hand to Patrick, and they start gathering their clothes.
"Ow, fuck." Pete winces at the pain of trying to walk. "Let's never fight again."
"Okay," Patrick agrees, and can't resist adding, "Bitch."
Pete slaps him on the ass.