It's a good evening, the kind where summer heat wraps around and makes strange and wonderful things seem possible. The kind of evening where it seems perfectly natural that Patrick is sitting with a guitar under starry sky, surrounded by incredibly talented people who love the same music he does, and the half that aren't playing with him are falling over themselves to make requests.
Pete's having a good evening, too, by what Patrick can glean through the bond, which has the quality of salsa beats and brass instruments. Pete's idea of fun is rowdier than Patrick's, so Patrick is content to wait till later on to compare experiences.
As he approaches their room, he slowly realizes that the buzz he's hearing isn't coming over the bond but an actual sound.
"What the hell," Patrick says as he opens the door.
Pete, with his pants down and an electric razor in hand, freezes, "I can explain."
He doesn't really need to. His pubes are half shaved off. He probably knows Patrick doesn't care either way about the state of them, and he's not shaving them for anybody else's benefit, so that leaves one explanation. "You lost a bet, didn't you."
Pete has the good grace to look sheepish.
Patrick sits down on the bed. "So, are you going to finish it, or did the bet specify doing a half-assed job? Because I'm not sure I'm into that."
Pete sticks his tongue out at Patrick and continues shaving the rest off. He's blushing, just a little bit at the top of his cheeks, a gorgeous shade of pink. It makes Patrick want to do obscene things to him.
Well. Actually, why not?
"You know," Patrick says mildly, "I never told you you could do that, did I?"
Pete's about to snap back a one-liner, Patrick can tell, when his brain catches up with the proceeds and he swallows his words. "Oh, yeah?" His contrite expression is the least convincing thing Patrick has seen in his life. "So I should apologize?"
Patrick doesn't suppress his snort. "Finish that and get over here." He pats his lap.
The shaving's done with probably record speed. Patrick knows for a fact that this isn't the first time Pete has denuded his junk, nor the first time he did it for a bet. He's got practice, and is putting it to good use. At last, he puts the electric razor down and approaches, moving to straddle Patrick's lap.
Patrick stops him with a hand to the back of his neck, nudging him to lie across his lap instead. Pete gives a happy little wiggle. Patrick smacks him, just a tiny hint of what's ahead. "Stay still."
"Make me," Pete says, so Patrick holds him down hard and spanks him like he means it.
Pete makes these sweet little noises when Patrick hits him just right, appreciative hums and the occasional moan. He takes it so well, and it makes Patrick's heart soar and his cock harden. He wants to keep doing it until Pete begs, either for him to stop or for him to go on, he doesn't even care.
Sadly, it's only a few minutes before reality interferes, in the form of Patrick's hand getting really fucking sore. He can't land a decent hit with his left hand and he needs the right one working for the show tomorrow, so he frantically casts his eyes around the room for something, anything, to use.
His eyes land on a plastic hairbrush, probably Joe's. Whatever. As if Joe never stole his things.
The smack of plastic against Pete's ass makes a different sound than the meaty thwack of Patrick's hand, just as satisfying. He can hit harder now, really put his wrist into it, aiming for deep bruises that will keep Pete squirming through the bus ride tomorrow. There's a nice red glow starting to come up Pete's ass, begging for Patrick to squeeze it, and he does, kneading the hurt in.
"Patrick." Pete's voice goes high, gasping. "Oh, fuck, Patrick."
God, Patrick wants to give him everything, starting with the hardest fucking spanking of Pete's pain-slut life. Unthinking, he raises his arm up, puts some shoulder into the strike as well.
The hairbrush snaps in two, the bristly part flying across the bed.
"Uh." Patrick stares at it. "Crap."
Pete, who is an ass, starts laughing like a hyena.
"Ugh." Patrick briefly buries his face in his hands. Then he straightens up and pushes Pete off him and onto the bed. Time for backup measures.
Pete's still laughing, but it transforms into a choked grunt when Patrick sinks his teeth in Pete's reddened ass, biting down hard. He lets up only to find a different patch of abused skin and close his jaw on that. Pete's moaning now, the sounds shifting into curses when Patrick lets go, his fingers tracing the marks he left in Pete's flesh. Then it cuts off abruptly when Patrick spreads him open and licks him, sloppy and rude and hungry.
Pleasure makes Pete squirm more than pain, even if it makes him less vocal. The combination is best. Patrick can't hit him from this angle, but he gropes along the sheet and catches the brush's head, first scratching and then grinding the bristles into Pete's raw skin.
"Not fucking fair," Pete hisses, apparently trying to both edge away from the scratches and into Patrick's mouth at the same time. Patrick holds the brush back; Pete whines and says, "No, fuck, don't stop," pushing back insistently until Patrick's scratching him again. "God, I'm close."
He hadn't even touched Pete's cock. Then again, his own cock chooses that moment to remind Patrick that some touching would be nice but probably not necessary.
Fuck if he's coming in his own pants. Patrick rears up, ignoring Pete's protests, pushes his own pants off in a hurry. He's too impatient for actual prep, so he just sticks his cock between Pete's thighs, purposefully angling himself so his thighs will brush against Pete's ass.
Pete's balls feel weird in his hand sans hair, almost slick. His dick is just the same, though, if a little bit more responsive than usual. It twitches and hardens and then Pete's coming for him, shuddering when Patrick bites his shoulder as well.
When he's done, Patrick turns him over, rutting against his spent cock, loving every overstimulated jump and gasp Pete gives him, the tiny whines he makes at the rough passes of Patrick's cock against his. Patrick bends down to bite his nipple, twisting the other one. He's got half a mind to keep going until Pete's hard again, but as soon as he imagines that - Pete strung out and begging, overwhelmed with pain that feels too good to refuse - he's gone, spilling all over Pete's abs.
As soon as Patrick can, he leans back. Pete looks like porn, reddened and bitten and covered in come, marked all over to Patrick's satisfaction. His ass probably won't bruise, though. They should get a paddle or something.
"We should get a paddle or something," Pete says, because he likes showing off how well he reads Patrick's mind.
Patrick kisses him. He likes it, too.
Patrick's about ready to fall asleep but Pete talks him into getting one last drink, so out they go.
Of course they don't make it two yards before getting waylaid by a bunch of over-eager guys, who affectionately bump shoulders with Pete and yell all over one another, smelling like weed and sweat.
"C'mon," says the one closest to Pete, a tech named Kirk. "Did you do it?"
Pete scoffs. "Of course I did it." He pushes his pants down without a second thought.
There's a momentary collective hush, and then the yelling breaks out again, louder than before. "Alright! Rock on, Pete!" Kirk elbows him in the ribs. "Who's the lucky Dom?"
Pete gives Patrick a beseeching look. It takes a couple seconds for one of the guys to look back and forth between them and burst out with, "No way!"
"Fuckin' way!" Kirk says, reaching for a fistbump, and Patrick buries his face in his hands just before Pete can say, "Not anymore," as smug as Patrick ever heard him be.