(no subject)
Title: Paradise By The Dashboard Light
Pairing: Mikey/Pete/Gabe, mentions of Mikey/OMCs&OFCs, Gabe/OMCs&OFCs, Pete/OMCs&OFCs, Gabe/Mikey
Rating: nc17
Wordcount: 4322
Summary: Mikey can be really aggravating when he gets drunk, but Pete and Gabe know how to deal with it.
Warnings: mentions of intoxicated driving, semi-public sex.
Prompt used: verbal humiliation for kink bingo
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is 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.
Pete breathes and smells perfume and tequila, sweat and cleaning products. He’s waiting in the line for the unisex bathroom on a Friday night, has been waiting for about five minutes, and there's no telling how much longer it will be. He stopped drinking a hour and a half ago, and the club closes in an hour, he’ll definitely be sober enough to take everyone home. But what makes him sober is the alcohol making it’s way from his brain and blood to his bladder, and he's about to burst. Another minute goes by and he officially hates everyone in front of him. Half of them aren’t even in the line for a toilet, they just want a place to suck someone off or eat someone out or a flat surface to snort coke. Not that he blames them, he’s done all those things. He just wishes they’d hurry up so he could piss.
It’s a good thing he’s nearly sober, he muses, sighing as he finally darts into a stall and unzips his jeans, because there’s not a chance that Gabe and Mikey are. The three take their rock-paper-scissors for Designated Driver seriously, and the winner is always the loser. The two that make it out alive use their right until it’s worn out.
Tell the truth, Pete’s not that upset about being the one that only got to have a few drinks. He likes being drunk, but he doesn’t revel in it like his boys do. Gabe is made to be intoxicated, he smokes up before he showers so he can go to work stoned, and it’s about one day a week that he doesn’t get high before the long drive home. Gabe's lucked out, has a cushy secretary job -Pete doesn’t know exactly what it entails but the only skill Gabe needs to have is the ability to type quickly, and he’s online instant messaging enough that he’s got that down cold-and no one ever notices. Mikey’s better at drawing the line between work and play, mostly because he works a fast moving job where they’d notice stoned hesitation and fire his ass, but he’s the first to pull out the beers the moment he get home.
Also they’re both brilliant at this kind of bar, they deserve to be drunk here. Pete would rather go to a real bar any night, listen to rock or metal, jump into a tiny fifty person pit and get a few bruises and have the band on stage throw water at the crowd until everyone is itchy from the combination of water and sweat sliding down their skin. Gabe and Mikey are different. They want to dance. They want R&B and techno, flashing lights and floors sticky from spilled drinks rather than nosebleeds. They compromise a lot, trade back and forth between who’s humouring who. It’s not that bad, it’s not like Pete hates being here, it’s not like Mikey or Gabe hate being there. It’s just a matter of preference.
He can’t help but groan as he finally gets to piss. It’s like collapsing to the floor after doing a hundred push-ups, relief of the highest order. Nobody hears him anyway, the stall next to him has a couple fucking. There’s a pair of jeans around one set of ankles, and high heels with nothing dropped on the other, but in this bar it’s not safe to assume any gender.
Part of the reason bars like these aren’t his favourite is because he doesn’t know how to pick up in them. At a bar that revolved around bands, if you want to have sex with a girl you just have to protect her from the biggest guys in the pit, and then prove your credentials by naming a dozen other bands you’ve seen that month. If you want to make out with a guy you get a bit too close when you talk to him about what you’re gonna go see next week, and if he doesn’t inch away you’re safe to move in. Sometimes you get a punch in the face for it, but it’s rare enough that it’s worth the try. At this kind of bar it’s impossible to tell the fag hag straight girls from the lesbians, and talking to a guy in a seafoam polo shirt about metalcore probably won’t impress him.
Gabe’s pretty good at it. He can pull off cocky like no other, he’ll approach anyone he thinks is hot head on and three sentences in he’ll either have the person eating out of his hand or telling him he’s a fucking loser. When it’s the latter Gabe just moves on to the next, without letting any of the words actually touch him.
Mikey is the best he’s ever seen at this game. And Pete’s spent a lot of time in bars and clubs and house parties and dorm parties, seen a lot. Mikey knows how to get the best playmates. He’s got a third eye for picking out the cougar or twink that will get him loaded for the privilege of writhing against him on the dance floor. It’s the perfect ending to all worlds, Mikey gets drunk for nearly free, he only has to buy his opening cooler so he has something to draw people’s eyes to his mouth, he gets to grind against someone while listening to the music he likes. And if the man or woman has a car, he gets to go home with someone and get laid.
At least, usually he does. If he’s DD he can’t unless he drops them off at home first. The other obstacle is if Mikey’s not DD, sometimes he doesn’t make the best choices in who he wants to go home with. Pete doesn’t gender-block, or weight-block. He doesn’t care if Mikey goes home with a fat chick, or a tranny. That’s up to Mikey. He just doesn’t want his best friend to go home with someone that clearly wants to murder him with an icepick.
Which is what tonight appears to be. Mikey’s got two coolers threaded between the fingers of his left hand, a row of empty shots on the tiny table. Pete watches as Mikey lifts the coolers to his face, tilts his head back and opens his mouth wide before pouring the alcohol in. He manages to get it all into his mouth, which is pretty impressive considering how drunk he is. He must be hammered out of his skull, it’s the only reason he’d be with this guy. Mikey’s using his free hand to slowly stroke up and down the guy’s thigh, and when he guy grins he’s missing a tooth. Pete doesn’t generally ugly-block either. There’s this girl he sees at every concert that had a front tooth knocked out -no doubt in a concert- and can’t afford to get it replaced. Pete doesn't want to fuck her, any possible interest died the day he saw her wearing a White Stripes shirt. But there's still potential, because at least she tries, combs her hair and wears band shirts and funky carved leather belts. This guy is wearing a stained white baseball cap, three layers of jackets, and his long uncombed hair matches nicely with his unshaven face. In short, Pete’s never seen someone more likely to be a meth dealer in his life. He pulls out his cell and calls Gabe as he’s scanning the bar. He’s going to need reinforcements.
Five minutes later Gabe’s stumbling through the front doors, waving his stamped hand. He’s disheveled and one of his buttons is misbuttoned, but he’s here for them and Pete is grateful.
“You said Mikey’s going home with a crackhead?” The front door is smack in the middle of the club, separating the bar and sitting area from the dance floor, so the press of his body to shout in Pete’s ear isn’t strictly necessary. He can feel how hard Gabe is, and wants to apologise for it, in other circumstances might even make out with him for a few minutes. Tonight is not that night, they’ve got a job to do.
“You be the judge,” Pete snorts and gestures to where Mikey is sitting with Sir Slimebag.
“Dude, is he roofied?” Gabe’s a lot more of a hookup snob than they are, but for once Pete’s ready to copy the grimace on Gabe's face.
“You alright with going home? If we try to drag him away, he’ll just end up going back to him. The call of a raspberry cooler is strong.”
“Better I use my hand than Mikey get herpes.”
Pete smirks at Gabe’s statement and they go over. He leans so Mikey has no doubt Pete's talking to him before asking “Can I talk to you for a sec?”
It’s a mellow opener, but it works. Pete wants to avoid the rough stuff for as long as he can. Mikey sways as he’s moving from sitting to standing. He gets caught on the chair as he’s trying to push it back against the matted carpeting, it starts tilting instead of pushing back, leaving Mikey bent half under the table and swaying. The creep doesn’t even help him move the chair, just stares at him like he’s a slab of meat until Mikey manages to gropingly reach behind him and pull it back himself. Pete wants to punch Mr Meth in the face for it, but getting kicked out of the bar before they can convince Mikey to follow them will only result in Mikey having no choice but to go home with him, so Pete refrains.
As Mikey passes by, Mr Meth grabs his ass. He can feel Gabe tense up beside him, so he puts his hand on his back. Gabe tends to have less restraint than he does, and Pete’s not exactly known for holding back.
“Dude, we’re going now. Let’s go to coat check.”
“Okay, you guys have a nice night. I’m gonna stay here. Barry’s here.”
Pete shakes his head. “Designated Driver says you’re coming too.”
“Fuck you, I am not. You’re DD, not my mom.”
Gabe tries next. “Dude, come home with us. You're gonna get kidnapped and beheaded if you go off like this.”
“Barry wouldn’t, he’s nice.” Pete seriously hates how Mikey’s definition of humanity changes when he’s at the bar.
“He might. But we won’t, you know that for sure, right? So come with us.”
“I want to get fucked, I'm not going home with you two.”
Pete is pretty much expecting this. He knows two am drunken Mikey reasoning, just like he knows smoked out Gabe reasoning, just like they probably know his own been awake for three days and teetering on the edge reasoning. They all know how to deal. He doesn’t need to say anything true, like you’re probably too drunk to get it up, or use your hand, you moron. Instead he says what is most likely to drill into drunk and horny Mikey’s mind. “You're an idiot. Gabe's bi too, and I'm gay above the waist. We’ll entertain you. Come on, two bodies versus one? It’s not even a question.”
If Gabe cares that Pete’s offering his body he doesn’t make any mention of it. Pete can almost see the math work it’s way through Mikey’s head; that two people are more than one person, which means that there is more touching. He knows before Mikey opens his mouth that he’s going to agree.
Pete doesn’t let his guard down. It’s only step one. Until Mikey’s inside the apartment, nothing’s certain. Mikey says something slurred about just needing to say goodbye to Barry, but Gabe swerves around that minefield by curling his arm low around Mikey’s waist and telling him just wave in a sultry voice. Gabe’s arm stays as Pete gets everyone’s coats. The walk to the car is short enough that they don’t bother to put them on. Pete hates the way the denim sticks to him when he’s sweaty and Gabe and Mikey are occupied.
Getting Mikey into the car nearly kills them. It’s a moderately new SUV type thing, Pete doesn’t know jack shit about cars, just got it because it looked like it had enough room to take a bunch of people to a venue for a group concert if needed. Which is does, Pete’s managed eight people in the five seater. Unfortunately it’s also got a step up. In the end Gabe has to crawl into the back and pull on Mikey’s arm as Pete stands on the street making sure Mikey doesn’t topple the other way.
Mikey’s silent in the back seat as Pete and Gabe climb in the front, and it lures Pete into a false sense of security. He pulls out his keys and tries to start the car three times before it works. He glances in the rear view mirror and decides to let the guy on the opposite side of the tiny parking lot go first. He’s not one hundred percent sober yet, so the fewer chances he gives himself to fuck driving up the better. As he waits he fiddles through the radio stations until he finds Nu Metal. Three hours in a techno club gives him full rights to Korn, even if it wasn’t already his right as driver to pick the music.
They're almost out of the lot when one of the myriad of green lights goes off behind the wheel. Pete takes a second to try to figure out if that means check or your oil or adjust your mirrors or one of a hundred other things that seem to blink at him constantly when a buzzer goes off. Pete knows exactly what that means; it’s an open door. He doesn’t even glance at Gabe, just arches backward and attempts to grab Mikey by the hair before he can tumble out of the moving car.
“Stop the car!” Gabe screeches at him. Pete says something back, distracted as he is it’s probably nothing better than ‘no shit Sherlock’. Gabe waits until the car is stopped before he jumps out and pulls the open door wider. He shoves Mikey into the middle of the backseat and climbs in beside him.
“Tell me you have child locks.”
Pete has no idea where to even start pressing buttons for that function. “Just sit beside him and make sure he doesn’t crawl out the other side, asshole.”
“I don’t need a ride home,” Mikey explains in a tone that makes it clear he thinks they’re both idiots. “I’m gonna go back to the club. I don’t need to go home. I need to get laid.”
“Dude, we told you, we’ll get home and have a few more coolers and then we’ll take turns sucking you off.” Pete wonders if Gabe’s banking on the fact that one more cooler will probably make Mikey pass out. Pete’s pretty sure Gabe knows he’s only sucked someone off once before. He doesn’t remember the conversation, but Pete’s both a blabbering drunk and a black out drunk, so it’s very likely that he’s informed Gabe a dozen times.
“Pete won’t. He’s got stupid rules.” Pete’s both impressed at Mikey for remembering and pissed that his memory fucks up their safety plan.
“I’m gonna go find boyfriends to go home with.” Mikey sloppily reaches over Gabe, and when he can’t get his arm at the right angle for the door handle he starts scooting to the other side.
“Pete, for fucksakes, come back here!”
Pete turns the car off. There’s no sense in idling and wasting gas if they’re going to be spending the next twenty minutes restraining Mikey. And fuck it, before they go to the bar next time Pete’s going to tell Gabe to use scissors so they can make sure Mikey’s DD. He’s not doing this again in three days time. He slams the door with maybe a bit more force than necessary and climbs into the back.
“Mikey, I’m so sick of this. Can’t you go one night without getting laid?” On one hand, coming from Gabe it’s grossly hypocritical. On the other, he’s got a point. Pete would really like to go home, have a shower, jerk off and go to sleep. Instead he has to be a physical barrier to Mikey getting some sexually transmitted disease.
“If you won’t let me fuck them, then I’m gonna fuck you,” Mikey murmurs. Pete watches as Mikey crawls onto Gabe’s lap, fingers struggling for a moment with the buttons of his shirt before he gives up and just sticks his hands underneath the cloth. Mikey’s straddling him, grinding and moving his hips in a circular motion. Pete sees Gabe’s hands move to Mikey’s ass and knows this is going to happen. Not that he blames Gabe, he’s hard too. Now he really needs to go home and jerk off.
Gabe’s sucking a hickey onto the left side of Mikey’s neck, and Pete doesn’t feel bad about inching in closer. This is making out, Pete can handle this. Mikey’s sweating, his size too small girl’s baby doll shirt darkening and sticking to his skin. He wants to taste it, wants to see if it tastes like salt or alcohol. He curls his fingers around the bottom hem and tugs up, briefly interrupting Gabe from the mark he’s leaving. Pete angles Mikey a bit away from Gabe so there’s room to get to his chest. He bites his nipple and when Mikey hisses moves his head up and latches on a few inches closer to his collarbone.
Gabe groans and Pete looks and sees Mikey’s got his hand inside Gabe’s jeans. “I’ll suck you,” he offers, voice thick.
“Pete, lean against the door. Mikey, put your head on Pete’s thigh. Be a good boy.” Pete’s not sure what world he got transferred into that following Gabe’s orders is the best thing to do, but he’s not about to stop now. He scoots back and has only a second to arch his hips and put his jeans down before Mikey’s crunchy hairsprayed head is resting on him. The canvas of the seat is cool and itchy against his ass.
Pete has never put lube in his car. That doesn't mean he's surprised when Gabe pulls it out from one of the pouches attached to the backs of the front seats. He's not sure who smuggled it in, but figures he can't get upset about Mikey or Gabe having sex in his car when he's about three seconds from having sex in his car. Pete doesn't like hypocrites.
“Get your legs up,” Gabe demands. Mikey doesn’t try to strip, just pushes the denim until it’s gathered at his knees, then brings his legs to his chest. It’s a fluid movement for someone so drunk; visual proof that Mikey’s had a lot of drunken sex. It should be almost pathetic, but instead it’s blisteringly hot, and Pete knows he’ll be gnawing at himself for thinking so the next time he has a down-swing.
Pete watches as Gabe gets onto his knees on the backseat. Pete’s store of condoms is in the second cupholder, but it’s possible whomever brought the lube brought stashed those too. He probably had a few in his pocket anyway, Pete did catch him mid-fuck twenty minutes ago. He doesn’t watch Gabe slide it on, dicks are kind of gross looking.
And then Mikey is tugging hard on his shirt, mouth wide in a frozen O. Pete looks over and Gabe is flush against Mikey, holding him, resting the top of his ass on his thighs. It doesn’t look like the most comfortable position for Mikey, but there’s no question that he’s hard. Pete isn’t flexible enough to kiss Mikey, so he strokes his hand over the stiffened hair and hopes Mikey knows.
“You drunken little whore. You’d go home for anyone that gave you a shot, wouldn’t you? Suck anyone’s cock for a few drops of vodka.” Pete winces. It’s uncomfortably true, and it doesn’t seem like the sort of thing you’d bring up during sex. He wouldn’t ever want anyone to call him out on his mood swings. But Mikey doesn’t argue, or shut off into safe mode. Instead he groans and thrusts his hips out, impaling himself further on Gabe.
“Fuckin’ dirty boy. You’re never good, are you? Just want your drunken ass hammered into by anyone that wants to.” Gabe punctuates himself by pulling back and pushing in again.
“You’d be anyone’s bitch, wouldn’t you? Tell me you wouldn’t Mikey. Try to tell me you wouldn’t.”
It’s another thrust before Mikey groans out ‘yeah’, and that’s when Gabe breaks. He starts fuck Mikey in rough quick movements, each hard enough to make Mikey’s head scrape across Pete’s thigh.
“Stupid sloshed whore. What do you want more, a cooler in your mouth, or a cock in your ass? I bet you couldn’t pick, could you?” Pete tunes out on Gabe’s words for a minute, the ‘drunks’ and ‘bitches’ filtered out so he can listen to Mikey’s moaning. Pete doesn’t look at Mikey’s dick, but he knows he’s not jerking off. One his his hands is curled into a fist on his chest, the other is still balled around Pete’s Ed Hardy shirt, tugging each time Gabe shoves forward or says something particularly crude.
“Fuck,” Gabe says harshly, head dropping forward until Mikey nearly kicks him in the face with his Converse. He stills for a moment before pulling out, the glide making Mikey bite his lip. “I’m just gonna,” he starts before opening the door and tossing the full condom out of the car. As far as littering goes, it’s the most disgusting of the things Pete’s seen tossed. But it’s the outside of a bar, and it’s probably no worse then someone vomiting in the parking lot, really.
“Suck him off, fucking whore. You don’t want to come until your belly’s full of jizz, do you? Come and vodka, that’s what nice little whores like you are made of.” Pete wants to commend Gave for keeping up the dirty talk after finishing. It takes a good person to continue trying to make the other horny after they’re done. Still, Pete doesn’t remember signing up for this. He wasn’t going to make Mikey do anything, he just wanted to jerk off!
On the other hand, when Mikey rolls into his side so he can take Pete into his mouth, Pete’s not exactly about to push Mikey off him. Pete doesn’t even try to take hold of Mikey’s hair to guide him, the hairspray is a barrier even a bullet couldn’t penetrate. He doesn’t need to anyway. Mikey knows how to do this too, long slow bobs of his head. Mikey pulls off and swirls his tongue around the head of his cock like it’s a goddamn lollipop before sinking back down. Pete groans as Mikey doesn’t stop sinking, keeps going until his nose is in his pubes. Logically it’s probably because the alcohol has deadened Mikey’s reflexes, which is probably a bad thing. Pete doesn’t give a fuck about logic, he just wants Mikey to keep doing it.
“Make him come. He wants to Mikey, can you feel him fucking your mouth, he’s so fucking desperate.” Pete wants to be offended at Gabe’s words, but he really can’t manage to care, “make him fucking come like the whore you are, drink him like a fucking beer bong, do you want to chug his cock, dirty whore, I bet you’d like it better if it was tequila flavoured, you’d swallow him in a second-”
It’s not Gabe’s words that finish him off. It’s the way Mikey moans around his cock, like every word is going directly to his dick. The vibration crawls down his skin and he grips onto Mikey’s stiffened locks as he shoots into his throat.
“Good job. Pretty fucking good, for a slut.” It’s the first time Gabe’s said it, and it seems to be a key word for Mikey. He lurches sideways and bites into Pete’s pelvis and comes, rutting against the middle seat. The sharp pain of Mikey's teeth is nothing compared to the happiness of his afterglow.
It’s a few minutes before he comes out of his state of bliss. It’s more a jostling out of, Gabe zipping up his pants in the corner and tossing the discarded shirt to Mikey who pulls it on roughly indicating that it’s time to get back into the driver’s seat, than it is Pete actually coming down from his orgasm. Pete generally considers his prolonged happy state after sex a blessing, it’s better than wanting to fall asleep, or becoming hyper. But right now it’s a bit of a pain. Both Mikey and Gabe will mock him if he starts singing along to the radio.
He opens the door and jumps out, climbs into his seat and turns on the car. It’s only when he looks back to check if there are any cars trying to pull out behind him or if it’s safe to go that he notices the stain.
“Son of a bitch. Are there any napkins in that pocket Gabe?” He’s not his mother, fussy about every speck of dust, but he’d really like to get the ejaculate off the seat before it sets in.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got it.” And it’s a stupid thing to grin about, because it’s a sentence about getting come off a seat. But Pete can’t help but hear the undertone, that they’ve got anything when it comes to each other, and if that didn’t make him smile, well, he probably wouldn’t be human.
Pairing: Mikey/Pete/Gabe, mentions of Mikey/OMCs&OFCs, Gabe/OMCs&OFCs, Pete/OMCs&OFCs, Gabe/Mikey
Rating: nc17
Wordcount: 4322
Summary: Mikey can be really aggravating when he gets drunk, but Pete and Gabe know how to deal with it.
Warnings: mentions of intoxicated driving, semi-public sex.
Prompt used: verbal humiliation for kink bingo
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is 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.
Pete breathes and smells perfume and tequila, sweat and cleaning products. He’s waiting in the line for the unisex bathroom on a Friday night, has been waiting for about five minutes, and there's no telling how much longer it will be. He stopped drinking a hour and a half ago, and the club closes in an hour, he’ll definitely be sober enough to take everyone home. But what makes him sober is the alcohol making it’s way from his brain and blood to his bladder, and he's about to burst. Another minute goes by and he officially hates everyone in front of him. Half of them aren’t even in the line for a toilet, they just want a place to suck someone off or eat someone out or a flat surface to snort coke. Not that he blames them, he’s done all those things. He just wishes they’d hurry up so he could piss.
It’s a good thing he’s nearly sober, he muses, sighing as he finally darts into a stall and unzips his jeans, because there’s not a chance that Gabe and Mikey are. The three take their rock-paper-scissors for Designated Driver seriously, and the winner is always the loser. The two that make it out alive use their right until it’s worn out.
Tell the truth, Pete’s not that upset about being the one that only got to have a few drinks. He likes being drunk, but he doesn’t revel in it like his boys do. Gabe is made to be intoxicated, he smokes up before he showers so he can go to work stoned, and it’s about one day a week that he doesn’t get high before the long drive home. Gabe's lucked out, has a cushy secretary job -Pete doesn’t know exactly what it entails but the only skill Gabe needs to have is the ability to type quickly, and he’s online instant messaging enough that he’s got that down cold-and no one ever notices. Mikey’s better at drawing the line between work and play, mostly because he works a fast moving job where they’d notice stoned hesitation and fire his ass, but he’s the first to pull out the beers the moment he get home.
Also they’re both brilliant at this kind of bar, they deserve to be drunk here. Pete would rather go to a real bar any night, listen to rock or metal, jump into a tiny fifty person pit and get a few bruises and have the band on stage throw water at the crowd until everyone is itchy from the combination of water and sweat sliding down their skin. Gabe and Mikey are different. They want to dance. They want R&B and techno, flashing lights and floors sticky from spilled drinks rather than nosebleeds. They compromise a lot, trade back and forth between who’s humouring who. It’s not that bad, it’s not like Pete hates being here, it’s not like Mikey or Gabe hate being there. It’s just a matter of preference.
He can’t help but groan as he finally gets to piss. It’s like collapsing to the floor after doing a hundred push-ups, relief of the highest order. Nobody hears him anyway, the stall next to him has a couple fucking. There’s a pair of jeans around one set of ankles, and high heels with nothing dropped on the other, but in this bar it’s not safe to assume any gender.
Part of the reason bars like these aren’t his favourite is because he doesn’t know how to pick up in them. At a bar that revolved around bands, if you want to have sex with a girl you just have to protect her from the biggest guys in the pit, and then prove your credentials by naming a dozen other bands you’ve seen that month. If you want to make out with a guy you get a bit too close when you talk to him about what you’re gonna go see next week, and if he doesn’t inch away you’re safe to move in. Sometimes you get a punch in the face for it, but it’s rare enough that it’s worth the try. At this kind of bar it’s impossible to tell the fag hag straight girls from the lesbians, and talking to a guy in a seafoam polo shirt about metalcore probably won’t impress him.
Gabe’s pretty good at it. He can pull off cocky like no other, he’ll approach anyone he thinks is hot head on and three sentences in he’ll either have the person eating out of his hand or telling him he’s a fucking loser. When it’s the latter Gabe just moves on to the next, without letting any of the words actually touch him.
Mikey is the best he’s ever seen at this game. And Pete’s spent a lot of time in bars and clubs and house parties and dorm parties, seen a lot. Mikey knows how to get the best playmates. He’s got a third eye for picking out the cougar or twink that will get him loaded for the privilege of writhing against him on the dance floor. It’s the perfect ending to all worlds, Mikey gets drunk for nearly free, he only has to buy his opening cooler so he has something to draw people’s eyes to his mouth, he gets to grind against someone while listening to the music he likes. And if the man or woman has a car, he gets to go home with someone and get laid.
At least, usually he does. If he’s DD he can’t unless he drops them off at home first. The other obstacle is if Mikey’s not DD, sometimes he doesn’t make the best choices in who he wants to go home with. Pete doesn’t gender-block, or weight-block. He doesn’t care if Mikey goes home with a fat chick, or a tranny. That’s up to Mikey. He just doesn’t want his best friend to go home with someone that clearly wants to murder him with an icepick.
Which is what tonight appears to be. Mikey’s got two coolers threaded between the fingers of his left hand, a row of empty shots on the tiny table. Pete watches as Mikey lifts the coolers to his face, tilts his head back and opens his mouth wide before pouring the alcohol in. He manages to get it all into his mouth, which is pretty impressive considering how drunk he is. He must be hammered out of his skull, it’s the only reason he’d be with this guy. Mikey’s using his free hand to slowly stroke up and down the guy’s thigh, and when he guy grins he’s missing a tooth. Pete doesn’t generally ugly-block either. There’s this girl he sees at every concert that had a front tooth knocked out -no doubt in a concert- and can’t afford to get it replaced. Pete doesn't want to fuck her, any possible interest died the day he saw her wearing a White Stripes shirt. But there's still potential, because at least she tries, combs her hair and wears band shirts and funky carved leather belts. This guy is wearing a stained white baseball cap, three layers of jackets, and his long uncombed hair matches nicely with his unshaven face. In short, Pete’s never seen someone more likely to be a meth dealer in his life. He pulls out his cell and calls Gabe as he’s scanning the bar. He’s going to need reinforcements.
Five minutes later Gabe’s stumbling through the front doors, waving his stamped hand. He’s disheveled and one of his buttons is misbuttoned, but he’s here for them and Pete is grateful.
“You said Mikey’s going home with a crackhead?” The front door is smack in the middle of the club, separating the bar and sitting area from the dance floor, so the press of his body to shout in Pete’s ear isn’t strictly necessary. He can feel how hard Gabe is, and wants to apologise for it, in other circumstances might even make out with him for a few minutes. Tonight is not that night, they’ve got a job to do.
“You be the judge,” Pete snorts and gestures to where Mikey is sitting with Sir Slimebag.
“Dude, is he roofied?” Gabe’s a lot more of a hookup snob than they are, but for once Pete’s ready to copy the grimace on Gabe's face.
“You alright with going home? If we try to drag him away, he’ll just end up going back to him. The call of a raspberry cooler is strong.”
“Better I use my hand than Mikey get herpes.”
Pete smirks at Gabe’s statement and they go over. He leans so Mikey has no doubt Pete's talking to him before asking “Can I talk to you for a sec?”
It’s a mellow opener, but it works. Pete wants to avoid the rough stuff for as long as he can. Mikey sways as he’s moving from sitting to standing. He gets caught on the chair as he’s trying to push it back against the matted carpeting, it starts tilting instead of pushing back, leaving Mikey bent half under the table and swaying. The creep doesn’t even help him move the chair, just stares at him like he’s a slab of meat until Mikey manages to gropingly reach behind him and pull it back himself. Pete wants to punch Mr Meth in the face for it, but getting kicked out of the bar before they can convince Mikey to follow them will only result in Mikey having no choice but to go home with him, so Pete refrains.
As Mikey passes by, Mr Meth grabs his ass. He can feel Gabe tense up beside him, so he puts his hand on his back. Gabe tends to have less restraint than he does, and Pete’s not exactly known for holding back.
“Dude, we’re going now. Let’s go to coat check.”
“Okay, you guys have a nice night. I’m gonna stay here. Barry’s here.”
Pete shakes his head. “Designated Driver says you’re coming too.”
“Fuck you, I am not. You’re DD, not my mom.”
Gabe tries next. “Dude, come home with us. You're gonna get kidnapped and beheaded if you go off like this.”
“Barry wouldn’t, he’s nice.” Pete seriously hates how Mikey’s definition of humanity changes when he’s at the bar.
“He might. But we won’t, you know that for sure, right? So come with us.”
“I want to get fucked, I'm not going home with you two.”
Pete is pretty much expecting this. He knows two am drunken Mikey reasoning, just like he knows smoked out Gabe reasoning, just like they probably know his own been awake for three days and teetering on the edge reasoning. They all know how to deal. He doesn’t need to say anything true, like you’re probably too drunk to get it up, or use your hand, you moron. Instead he says what is most likely to drill into drunk and horny Mikey’s mind. “You're an idiot. Gabe's bi too, and I'm gay above the waist. We’ll entertain you. Come on, two bodies versus one? It’s not even a question.”
If Gabe cares that Pete’s offering his body he doesn’t make any mention of it. Pete can almost see the math work it’s way through Mikey’s head; that two people are more than one person, which means that there is more touching. He knows before Mikey opens his mouth that he’s going to agree.
Pete doesn’t let his guard down. It’s only step one. Until Mikey’s inside the apartment, nothing’s certain. Mikey says something slurred about just needing to say goodbye to Barry, but Gabe swerves around that minefield by curling his arm low around Mikey’s waist and telling him just wave in a sultry voice. Gabe’s arm stays as Pete gets everyone’s coats. The walk to the car is short enough that they don’t bother to put them on. Pete hates the way the denim sticks to him when he’s sweaty and Gabe and Mikey are occupied.
Getting Mikey into the car nearly kills them. It’s a moderately new SUV type thing, Pete doesn’t know jack shit about cars, just got it because it looked like it had enough room to take a bunch of people to a venue for a group concert if needed. Which is does, Pete’s managed eight people in the five seater. Unfortunately it’s also got a step up. In the end Gabe has to crawl into the back and pull on Mikey’s arm as Pete stands on the street making sure Mikey doesn’t topple the other way.
Mikey’s silent in the back seat as Pete and Gabe climb in the front, and it lures Pete into a false sense of security. He pulls out his keys and tries to start the car three times before it works. He glances in the rear view mirror and decides to let the guy on the opposite side of the tiny parking lot go first. He’s not one hundred percent sober yet, so the fewer chances he gives himself to fuck driving up the better. As he waits he fiddles through the radio stations until he finds Nu Metal. Three hours in a techno club gives him full rights to Korn, even if it wasn’t already his right as driver to pick the music.
They're almost out of the lot when one of the myriad of green lights goes off behind the wheel. Pete takes a second to try to figure out if that means check or your oil or adjust your mirrors or one of a hundred other things that seem to blink at him constantly when a buzzer goes off. Pete knows exactly what that means; it’s an open door. He doesn’t even glance at Gabe, just arches backward and attempts to grab Mikey by the hair before he can tumble out of the moving car.
“Stop the car!” Gabe screeches at him. Pete says something back, distracted as he is it’s probably nothing better than ‘no shit Sherlock’. Gabe waits until the car is stopped before he jumps out and pulls the open door wider. He shoves Mikey into the middle of the backseat and climbs in beside him.
“Tell me you have child locks.”
Pete has no idea where to even start pressing buttons for that function. “Just sit beside him and make sure he doesn’t crawl out the other side, asshole.”
“I don’t need a ride home,” Mikey explains in a tone that makes it clear he thinks they’re both idiots. “I’m gonna go back to the club. I don’t need to go home. I need to get laid.”
“Dude, we told you, we’ll get home and have a few more coolers and then we’ll take turns sucking you off.” Pete wonders if Gabe’s banking on the fact that one more cooler will probably make Mikey pass out. Pete’s pretty sure Gabe knows he’s only sucked someone off once before. He doesn’t remember the conversation, but Pete’s both a blabbering drunk and a black out drunk, so it’s very likely that he’s informed Gabe a dozen times.
“Pete won’t. He’s got stupid rules.” Pete’s both impressed at Mikey for remembering and pissed that his memory fucks up their safety plan.
“I’m gonna go find boyfriends to go home with.” Mikey sloppily reaches over Gabe, and when he can’t get his arm at the right angle for the door handle he starts scooting to the other side.
“Pete, for fucksakes, come back here!”
Pete turns the car off. There’s no sense in idling and wasting gas if they’re going to be spending the next twenty minutes restraining Mikey. And fuck it, before they go to the bar next time Pete’s going to tell Gabe to use scissors so they can make sure Mikey’s DD. He’s not doing this again in three days time. He slams the door with maybe a bit more force than necessary and climbs into the back.
“Mikey, I’m so sick of this. Can’t you go one night without getting laid?” On one hand, coming from Gabe it’s grossly hypocritical. On the other, he’s got a point. Pete would really like to go home, have a shower, jerk off and go to sleep. Instead he has to be a physical barrier to Mikey getting some sexually transmitted disease.
“If you won’t let me fuck them, then I’m gonna fuck you,” Mikey murmurs. Pete watches as Mikey crawls onto Gabe’s lap, fingers struggling for a moment with the buttons of his shirt before he gives up and just sticks his hands underneath the cloth. Mikey’s straddling him, grinding and moving his hips in a circular motion. Pete sees Gabe’s hands move to Mikey’s ass and knows this is going to happen. Not that he blames Gabe, he’s hard too. Now he really needs to go home and jerk off.
Gabe’s sucking a hickey onto the left side of Mikey’s neck, and Pete doesn’t feel bad about inching in closer. This is making out, Pete can handle this. Mikey’s sweating, his size too small girl’s baby doll shirt darkening and sticking to his skin. He wants to taste it, wants to see if it tastes like salt or alcohol. He curls his fingers around the bottom hem and tugs up, briefly interrupting Gabe from the mark he’s leaving. Pete angles Mikey a bit away from Gabe so there’s room to get to his chest. He bites his nipple and when Mikey hisses moves his head up and latches on a few inches closer to his collarbone.
Gabe groans and Pete looks and sees Mikey’s got his hand inside Gabe’s jeans. “I’ll suck you,” he offers, voice thick.
“Pete, lean against the door. Mikey, put your head on Pete’s thigh. Be a good boy.” Pete’s not sure what world he got transferred into that following Gabe’s orders is the best thing to do, but he’s not about to stop now. He scoots back and has only a second to arch his hips and put his jeans down before Mikey’s crunchy hairsprayed head is resting on him. The canvas of the seat is cool and itchy against his ass.
Pete has never put lube in his car. That doesn't mean he's surprised when Gabe pulls it out from one of the pouches attached to the backs of the front seats. He's not sure who smuggled it in, but figures he can't get upset about Mikey or Gabe having sex in his car when he's about three seconds from having sex in his car. Pete doesn't like hypocrites.
“Get your legs up,” Gabe demands. Mikey doesn’t try to strip, just pushes the denim until it’s gathered at his knees, then brings his legs to his chest. It’s a fluid movement for someone so drunk; visual proof that Mikey’s had a lot of drunken sex. It should be almost pathetic, but instead it’s blisteringly hot, and Pete knows he’ll be gnawing at himself for thinking so the next time he has a down-swing.
Pete watches as Gabe gets onto his knees on the backseat. Pete’s store of condoms is in the second cupholder, but it’s possible whomever brought the lube brought stashed those too. He probably had a few in his pocket anyway, Pete did catch him mid-fuck twenty minutes ago. He doesn’t watch Gabe slide it on, dicks are kind of gross looking.
And then Mikey is tugging hard on his shirt, mouth wide in a frozen O. Pete looks over and Gabe is flush against Mikey, holding him, resting the top of his ass on his thighs. It doesn’t look like the most comfortable position for Mikey, but there’s no question that he’s hard. Pete isn’t flexible enough to kiss Mikey, so he strokes his hand over the stiffened hair and hopes Mikey knows.
“You drunken little whore. You’d go home for anyone that gave you a shot, wouldn’t you? Suck anyone’s cock for a few drops of vodka.” Pete winces. It’s uncomfortably true, and it doesn’t seem like the sort of thing you’d bring up during sex. He wouldn’t ever want anyone to call him out on his mood swings. But Mikey doesn’t argue, or shut off into safe mode. Instead he groans and thrusts his hips out, impaling himself further on Gabe.
“Fuckin’ dirty boy. You’re never good, are you? Just want your drunken ass hammered into by anyone that wants to.” Gabe punctuates himself by pulling back and pushing in again.
“You’d be anyone’s bitch, wouldn’t you? Tell me you wouldn’t Mikey. Try to tell me you wouldn’t.”
It’s another thrust before Mikey groans out ‘yeah’, and that’s when Gabe breaks. He starts fuck Mikey in rough quick movements, each hard enough to make Mikey’s head scrape across Pete’s thigh.
“Stupid sloshed whore. What do you want more, a cooler in your mouth, or a cock in your ass? I bet you couldn’t pick, could you?” Pete tunes out on Gabe’s words for a minute, the ‘drunks’ and ‘bitches’ filtered out so he can listen to Mikey’s moaning. Pete doesn’t look at Mikey’s dick, but he knows he’s not jerking off. One his his hands is curled into a fist on his chest, the other is still balled around Pete’s Ed Hardy shirt, tugging each time Gabe shoves forward or says something particularly crude.
“Fuck,” Gabe says harshly, head dropping forward until Mikey nearly kicks him in the face with his Converse. He stills for a moment before pulling out, the glide making Mikey bite his lip. “I’m just gonna,” he starts before opening the door and tossing the full condom out of the car. As far as littering goes, it’s the most disgusting of the things Pete’s seen tossed. But it’s the outside of a bar, and it’s probably no worse then someone vomiting in the parking lot, really.
“Suck him off, fucking whore. You don’t want to come until your belly’s full of jizz, do you? Come and vodka, that’s what nice little whores like you are made of.” Pete wants to commend Gave for keeping up the dirty talk after finishing. It takes a good person to continue trying to make the other horny after they’re done. Still, Pete doesn’t remember signing up for this. He wasn’t going to make Mikey do anything, he just wanted to jerk off!
On the other hand, when Mikey rolls into his side so he can take Pete into his mouth, Pete’s not exactly about to push Mikey off him. Pete doesn’t even try to take hold of Mikey’s hair to guide him, the hairspray is a barrier even a bullet couldn’t penetrate. He doesn’t need to anyway. Mikey knows how to do this too, long slow bobs of his head. Mikey pulls off and swirls his tongue around the head of his cock like it’s a goddamn lollipop before sinking back down. Pete groans as Mikey doesn’t stop sinking, keeps going until his nose is in his pubes. Logically it’s probably because the alcohol has deadened Mikey’s reflexes, which is probably a bad thing. Pete doesn’t give a fuck about logic, he just wants Mikey to keep doing it.
“Make him come. He wants to Mikey, can you feel him fucking your mouth, he’s so fucking desperate.” Pete wants to be offended at Gabe’s words, but he really can’t manage to care, “make him fucking come like the whore you are, drink him like a fucking beer bong, do you want to chug his cock, dirty whore, I bet you’d like it better if it was tequila flavoured, you’d swallow him in a second-”
It’s not Gabe’s words that finish him off. It’s the way Mikey moans around his cock, like every word is going directly to his dick. The vibration crawls down his skin and he grips onto Mikey’s stiffened locks as he shoots into his throat.
“Good job. Pretty fucking good, for a slut.” It’s the first time Gabe’s said it, and it seems to be a key word for Mikey. He lurches sideways and bites into Pete’s pelvis and comes, rutting against the middle seat. The sharp pain of Mikey's teeth is nothing compared to the happiness of his afterglow.
It’s a few minutes before he comes out of his state of bliss. It’s more a jostling out of, Gabe zipping up his pants in the corner and tossing the discarded shirt to Mikey who pulls it on roughly indicating that it’s time to get back into the driver’s seat, than it is Pete actually coming down from his orgasm. Pete generally considers his prolonged happy state after sex a blessing, it’s better than wanting to fall asleep, or becoming hyper. But right now it’s a bit of a pain. Both Mikey and Gabe will mock him if he starts singing along to the radio.
He opens the door and jumps out, climbs into his seat and turns on the car. It’s only when he looks back to check if there are any cars trying to pull out behind him or if it’s safe to go that he notices the stain.
“Son of a bitch. Are there any napkins in that pocket Gabe?” He’s not his mother, fussy about every speck of dust, but he’d really like to get the ejaculate off the seat before it sets in.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got it.” And it’s a stupid thing to grin about, because it’s a sentence about getting come off a seat. But Pete can’t help but hear the undertone, that they’ve got anything when it comes to each other, and if that didn’t make him smile, well, he probably wouldn’t be human.