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It would be a lie to say you planned it like this. It's just, there's not a lot to do within these four walls, so when Pat breaks out the hard liquors at two in the afternoon, you say, why not?
And a few hours later when you're taking turns queuing up songs from your youth on YouTube—Pat has a soft spot for Aqua—he's pulling you to your feet and trying to dance and it's terrible, just:
"You look like John Travolta," you say, because I've never seen you dance like this before is too mean, and he smiles and does something that's almost a moonwalk, tripping over the pizza boxes you'd left strewn over the floor. You wonder how much Comrade Pat shame-tipped the delivery driver. Probably, just, so much. You were more drunk than him at dinnertime and happy to let him deal with the details, but he's overtaken you now, for sure.
He recovers with a jerky little pirouette, and throws his arms over his head. His shirt rides up his pale stomach. "C'mere," he says, and you go, letting him pull you in closer; he spins you around under his arm and you sway together to the music coming through your shitty laptop speakers, his cheek to the top of your head. You can feel him mouthing the lyrics into your hair.
"This is like high school," he says, "I'm just allowed to be drunk, this time."
"Did you have to leave room for Jesus?" you ask, and Pat laughs as he wraps his arms around you and holds you even closer. He's warm, radiating boozy heat.
"I did," he says. "I'm making up for it."
You tip your head up to kiss him just in time to see the idea flicker across his face as well, and your lips meet—then your tongues, your teeth, as the rest of the idea coalesces all at once. His fingers dig into your sides. He moans into your mouth, like he can't help it, like there's nothing else he'd rather be doing than what he's doing to you.
You slide your hands up the sides of his shirt, and his whole body bends to you, guileless and sure. You slot your fingers into the hollows of his ribcage, span the width of his chest with your thumbs.
"Yeah?" he says, toying with the hem of your shirt.
"Are you down, sir," you tease.
"I am down," he counters, just as warmly. His hands slide down the back of your sweatpants and cup your naked ass, taking two good handfuls and squeezing, bringing you up on your toes and more into the curve of his body. "God, I just," he murmurs, breaking away to press his face into the curve of your neck and inhale deeply. "You're so, I just..." he tries, then laughs.
"Mmhmm?"
"Hi. I like you," he eventually finishes.
"I sure hope so," you reply, carding your fingers through his hair. It's gratifying, how he goes slack under your touch. You can't see but you know; you know the expression on his face when he puts himself in your hands.
You steer him towards the bedroom—the couch is fine, but you both know you'll pass out and wake up regretful—kissing and petting as you go. Charlie slinks out between your feet as you cross the threshold to the bedroom; your shirt comes off, then Pat's, then you're on the bed and he's sliding his hands down your thighs, pushing your pants off and drinking in the sight of you, like he never misses unwrapping you.
"Hi," he says again, and you shove your foot into his stomach because you can see where his eyes are this time, and it would be perverted if it wasn't so damn sincere. Everything Pat does is sincere, even when he's joking. Probably the most so, actually, when he's joking. You can't believe you ever thought he was aloof before. He licks his lips as he slides his hands back up your thighs, leans in to kiss you again.
Your head spins with it; the taste and smell of him, the way he makes the blood roar in your ears, the seeping warmth of the alcohol making everything dreamlike and slow. His hands move to your face, his body pressed against yours in the cradle of your legs, his kiss indulgent and syrup-deep and sweet, and just a little sloppy as you both smile into it.
"I love you so much," he says, when he smears his mouth off of yours to place equally messy kisses under your jaw, and sometimes just to rub his face into your skin, like a cat. "I love… all of…" he murmurs, trailing off, "all of your, everything we," as he mouths over your chest, getting distracted by its planes and detouring to take your nipple in his teeth.
"Ah, careful," you say, and he hums. You can feel his tongue laving over it, sucking-sweet and biting until the sensation zings through your body and you're shifting under his mouth, under his hands as they continue down your body, sticky and jerky-slow and inelegant and so, so, tender.
His thumbs slot into the crease of your thighs, and in, and you feel his intake of breath and the little groan on the exhale, like every time he never fails to be so fucking jazzed to find you wet for him. "God," he moans, pulling away only to reposition himself down the bed, curled up on his side almost, under your splayed legs with his head resting on one of your thighs and the other leg bent over his shoulder. You can reach up his body like this too: the deceptively soft skin and the prickly hair of his inner thigh, and he gets real still and calm when you curl your fingers and scratch your nails there.
He touches you gently, at first, just fingertips skating up your thigh and then between, his lip between his teeth in concentration as he traces the lines of your body. Meditative, almost. Enough that you flex your thigh under his head and mutter, "get off the pot," and he laughs, and he's still laughing a little when he presses his mouth to you.
Pat's—Pat's good at this; more than just good, really, because 90% of it is really just showing up with bells on and he's, he's more than that. He loves it, loves applying his mouth to your body in any which way you please (and some you'd never thought would please, but, one learns new things every day). You've been with guys who phone it in, guys who drank a big ol' glass of feminism in university and think that makes them good at shit.
Pat, however, has put in the time—would spend his whole day with his mouth on you if you could, alternating getting you off with whatever the fuck else you wanted. It's his bliss, and you watch his eyes flutter closed with it, dragging himself up the bed and wrapping his arms around your stomach to hold you close.
"Yeah, Pat, baby, yes," you murmur, reaching down to brush the hair off his forehead, to twirl a lock of it around your finger. He takes his attention off what he's doing to chase your fingers, licking them into his mouth, and you fuck two fingertips across his tongue. You have the idle thought of how maybe you'll fuck him tonight, but the prospect of getting up to find the strap and putting it on is far away, and getting farther.
You pull his head back down and he turns his head to kiss your thighs instead; you can hear him murmuring from up here, catching every third word as he kisses his way across and up the other leg, then back down, teasing you with his mouth where you want it for a few seconds before pulling away again to smile at you.
“You smell good,” he says, pressing his face into the crease of your thigh.
“Okay, Teen Wolf.”
“Taste nice too,” Pat continues, and as if to prove his point licks right up your center, groaning audibly with happiness.
It's—it's sweet, but, maybe, maybe the realization is starting to sink in that you might have to resign yourself to, you know, whatever Pat's doing. His four dimensional sensory experience journey. That's... fine. It's nice, just to be with him, and warm and drunk and happy together. You run your hands through his hair again and you can almost see him mentally get farther away, going to the sappy, giddy drunken place within.
"You good?" you ask, and Pat's eyes slip closed as he nods.
"Yeah," he says softly, rubbing his face against your thigh. "Feels good. Feels… not drunk. Just good."
"So, drunk," you say, and he hums contentedly.
"Just enough," he replies, and turns his face to kiss your leg again. "You're so soft. So soft. I like… this part of you. Hold on," he says his face going serious, "I'm gonna, hold on, I'm gonna do it real good."
"Oh, babe," you sigh, and Pat laughs. More of a giggle, really, and he hides his face against you as it ripples through him.
"I'm just," he starts, still giggling, and wipes his eyes. "This is so—I just, I love you so much; so, so much."
"Pat," you say, fondly.
He tightens his arms around your stomach. "I love yooooou," he croons, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm, haha, maybe I'm just, kinda too—" is as far as he gets before he presses his mouth to your core again, licking into you and humming in pleasure before you feel his shoulders twitch suspiciously under your thighs.
"Babe, you're laughing at my junk," you say, and Pat hugs you and groans noooooooooo, I just love you before sighing and laying his cheek against your thigh again. You squeeze his head between your legs and then push him away, also laughing—what else are you gonna do? Hold it against him? He's drunk; you're both drunk, really, and that makes it not sting when you sit up and haul him up to kiss you again. His face is wet all over, wet and smiling and radiating love.
It's good to kiss him; sloppy and slow and searching, both of you clumsy with your tongues and shoving them everywhere they fit. He takes his face in your hands and he smells and tastes so good, earthy and salty and just a bit beer-bitter. You drink of him, and him you, as he falls back gracelessly under the pressure of your mouth and you haul yourself into his lap and kiss his big stupid face into the mattress.
"I'm still kinda horny," you complain, and Pat makes a sympathetic noise.
"I got… hands?" he says, helpfully.
"Yeah, me too," you shoot back, even if it's like comparing oranges to watermelons. "Get outta here with that."
Pat—sweet, obedient Pat—reaches up and crosses his wrists over his head, fingers curling-relaxed. You didn't even ask specifically, but you can read it in his eyes, all big and trusting. Like he doesn't know what you need because everything is just wonderful, a pleasant blur, and the only thing that could make it better is if you had everything you wanted.
You run your hands down his flexing triceps, over his ribcage, and his eyes slip closed as he exhales, trying not to wiggle. "What am I supposed to do with this," you murmur, chastizing but gently so, watching how your words ghost a little pleased smile across his lips. "Can you even get hard right now?"
You both look down his body to where his dick's barely chubbing up, soft and unassuming in the crease of his thigh, then back at each other. The corners of Pat's eyes crinkle as he shakes his head.
"Useless," you say, fondly, and lean in to kiss him. "Whiskey dick."
"I got no blood," Pat murmurs, almost sing-song. "'cause it's all in my heart, get it? 'cause I love you—"
"Oh, my god," you moan, scrubbing your hands against his face in retaliation while he laughs, until you're carding your fingers through his scruffy hair. It's—just enough to grab, which is almost enough of an idea to hold on to in itself.
You scoot up his chest, vaulting his arms so your knees are on either side of his head, and watch realization dawn over his face. "Heeeeeck yeah," he croons, just before you dig your hands into his hair for real and lower yourself on his smile.
Like this, at least, there's no distracting Pat from his real purpose. You cradle his head and get him right where you need him, the weight sinking into your hands as his neck relaxes and he submits to being handled. He mouth is flat, and open, and wet for you to grind down against at your sole discretion, and you do, paying no heed to the smearing mess you're making of him. Pat surely isn't, from his unabashed noises of pleasure. He wraps his arms around your hips, gropes your thighs and stomach, and holds on to you as tightly as you do him.
And when he gets too precious with the flat of his tongue, he jerks and yelps so pretty into your cunt when you reach back and pinch the tender skin over his ribs.
"Pay attention, sweetheart," you remind him, and he moans, nodding his head against you.
It's a lot of work to keep him there, half-drunk as you both are and prone to lingering, and your arms tremble with the weight of him, and then your thighs with the weight of yourself, until the shakings that wrack you overlap in your core, a resonant frequency. It prickles, first, a crackling sensation that sweeps upwards through your stomach and out your mouth, loosening your tongue.
"Yeah, yes, Pat, yeah," you praise him, and his arms squeeze you tightly as he lifts his mouth to your cunt himself, letting you drop your hands to the bed and rock against him, all fours, sweating and cursing and lurching forward into a much-awaited orgasm, tremendous and inelegant as it sweeps through you like a drunken man pushing all the dinnerware off the table.
Pat keeps his mouth against you—again: sweet, obedient Patrick, a wonder of a man, nature's gift—soft and sucking, in his infinite patience coaching your body through all of its shaking-wet paces. You fall into him gratefully, letting the undulations of his tongue rock you boneless.
The bed surges up to meet you, and Pat rolls with the motion, rising from between your legs as you starfish out on the rumpled covers. He drags his hands over his wet mouth and leans down to kiss you again, plunging, more sweet now than bitter. You can feel him between your legs, where he's finally hard and slipping against the spit-slick mess of you, god, just—it takes only a twist of your hips to convey your desires. He drops his head into the crook of your neck and moans as he slides up into you, both of you melting into it as he meets no resistance at all.
"Oh, my god," he breathes, curling his arms under your shoulders to embrace you as you lie there like a doll with your legs spread, giddy-soft and sated. You touch him everywhere as he fucks up into you, tracing your hands across his back and his ass and his hair and his sweet face as he huffs into the curve of your neck and groans his praise into your skin.
It's impossible to know if you come again; if you do, it's the ocean-tide kind, the kind that washes over you in a smothering wave of good feelings indistinguishable from just the elation of being - he feels good between your legs, and under your hands; the taste of his skin and the feel of his breath and the way your heart swells with affection for him as he gasps, and jerks, and goes still and then heavy on top of you. You… love this man, deeply.
You give him a few seconds to catch his breath, stroking the back of his head. "You did it," you tease him sofly, and he laughs and comes up with a mouthful of your hair stuck to his lips.
"We got there," he replies, grinning as he extricates himself from your hair, then kisses you without heat—for just the pleasure of being two drunks in love in the same orbit.
He flops off of you, mirroring your starfished position and taking up far more than his share of the bed, his legs over yours, and lets out a satisfied groan. You knock your knuckles into his chest. "You good?"
"Mm," he answers, turning his head to look at you with heavy-lidded eyes. "You?"
"Mission accomplished," you say, and Pat smiles and closes his eyes again. Then:
"I gotta piss sooooo bad," he mutters, making a move to get up, and you shriek and push him down, instigating a wrestle that ends with him begging for mercy. You rise and take a victory lap around the room, turning at the door to look back at him.
He looks at you with immeasurable fondness in his eyes, a soul-deep comfort and ease that you can feel settle over you like a blanket. It's no small thing to be loved, in every way both expert and inexpert, messy and fumbling together to some shared future, the immense inscrutability of which will smooth over these small moments in time. You pause, finding it impossible to convey the fullness rising in your chest at the sheer beauty of him.
"Go," he says at last, smiling at you, and you do.