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They're kissing before they even get into the bathroom.
Everyone they cherish is downstairs, politely clapping and enjoying the awards ceremony like normal, civilized people. There's probably a really nice reception happening in the ballroom, but Pete can't focus on that because Mikey is pulling him towards the empty bathroom. Jesus, it's like they're two teenagers at prom.
But Pete swears it's not their fault, okay?
These producers really sat him next to Mikey — Michael Wentz, the one, the only, his husband — and expected Pete to sit through the whole ceremony without touching him? It's been nine weeks since he's seen his husband. They have both been on tour for too long, separated by miles of road and a bajillion American cities.
Nine weeks of nothing but text messages that would make a porn star blush and phone calls where Pete had one hand gripping his phone and the other shoved down his pants. Andy learned the hard way that when Pete says he's, 'going for a walk', there is very little actual cardio involved.
Being long distance with Mikey makes Pete feel like his skin is on fire. He needs, literally needs, Mikey's words to put out the flames. The sound of his light giggle down the phone line is like, a fucking dose of epinephrine, setting his heart at ease. This must be what Gabe describes when he’s high off his mind doing coke, but Pete doesn't think any addiction could feel this right, this peaceful.
So boom, Mikey. In the flesh. Touchable, kissable, hold-able Mikey. Mikey in a suit that makes Pete's insides start playing with matches, lighting up wet hot desire in his gut. He walked in, ran a hand through his hair and Pete had a situation where he could not stand up for the next twenty minutes. The light shines off Mikey’s porcelain cheekbones, giving him an ethereal look, like he's otherworldly and dangerous.
Fuck, Mikey is so good looking. He's all narrow eyes with a soft smile and the suit makes him look like something out of a Bond movie. Which, Pete supposes makes him a Bond girl, but he can't really be bothered with that train of thought because he needs Mikey's tongue or hands or something on him now.
They were sitting at their little charity table, being on their best behavior. Really, Pete was being so good. Was he staring at Mikey instead of the presenter? Yes. Did he start thinking about what Mikey’s mouth could do when Mikey took a sip from his glass? Absolutely, Pete's only fucking human. His husband is a fucking masterpiece and he wants to smear his grubby little hands all over the canvas.
It was when whoever-the-fuck of whatever-the-hell organization (Pete doesn't care about charity at this moment, sue him) was going up to get the generic good-for-you-award that their hands met over the table accidentally, and it was game fucking over. Pete felt his will power snap like a rubber band. The next thing he knew he was dragging Mikey out into the hall during the applause.
He manages to get them out into the lobby and that's really as far as his plan went because he's pretty sure all of the blood dedicated to brain function is in his dick right now. He just needs to get somewhere that is not this hotel lobby so he can- fuck, he just needs Mikey.
There are stairs leading up to somewhere and a voice in the back of Pete’s brain that sounds like his husband's, reminding him upstairs bathrooms are always deserted. Making out in the bathroom feels a little 2004 for Pete’s taste. It’s something you do with a hookup who’s name you get wrong. Not your husband.
He takes a glance at Mikey’s ass in those tight pants and quickly decides it’s not tacky. They’re married. It’s romantic.
Besides, Mikey’s eyes are dark, almost totally black as they're blown out with want; using them to grope Pete where his hands can't. Pete opens his mouth to say something, it was probably going to make Mikey laugh, but it’s before he can mutter a word his husband (fuck, he loves saying that), slips him a quick kiss on the stairs and fuck the rubber band - it's a nuclear bomb going off; white hot, atomizing his whole body and the next thing Pete knows he's shoving Mikey up against the wall with his tongue in Mikey's mouth; licking against his teeth and tasting his spit.
He tastes like home.
Fuck, they're in public but Pete's skin is itching.
The bathroom. They need to find the bathroom. He needs to get to the- fucking hell he forgot how good kissing Mikey feels. His lips are soft and taste like expensive wine, while his teeth pull across Pete's bottom lip slowly. It just feels right.
"Mikey," It's a sigh pulled from him. Mikey knows, he's gotta at this point. He's a part of Pete like that, has to know what Pete wants.
The Bathroom. Get into the bathroom.
Pete is pulling Mikey, and Mikey is pushing Pete, and he really can't tell who is more desperate, or is in control. There’s a lot of hands flying about, no skin left untouched.
They might also both be a little drunk. But, it's the good kind where Pete's cheeks are flushed and Mikey drank because he wanted to and not because the anxiety told him to. Tonight's a good night.
"Fuck, Mikey," Pete pants, "Missed you. Missed you so much. Thought about you all the time."
They tumble into the bathroom and Pete catches a glimpse of himself in the gold trimmed mirror. Half of his outfit has come untucked, his hair's a fucking mess already, and Mikey's glasses are skewed from Pete needing to kiss every inch of him he can.
"The lock Michael, the lock," Pete doesn't have enough brain cells to turn it. Also, his hands are affixed to Mikey’s ass at the moment.
Mikey fumbles but finally gets the lock – because he’s so smart and perfect like that. Pete rewards him with more kisses, his hands pulling his husband in so their chests collide with a heat like brand. It makes them both hiss sharp between their teeth. He can't decide what part he wants to hold first.
"It's you. Fuck, I need you," Pete thinks he might be dying.
For what's essentially some light petting, Pete probably sounds pornographic. There is no reason he needs to be making these noises, but he can't stop them from coming. Everything with Mikey feels like a million dollar fuck. He also thinks he has Mikey's spit running down his chin.
"Pete," Mikey sighs as he kisses into Pete’s mouth and it’s like Pete can finally breathe again. Mikey's spit is warm and tastes like him and- God, Mikey's under his hands again. Pete needs to remap all of his muscles and tendons. He feels the same. All lean muscle and soft pale skin and he smells like... oranges?
Pete drags his nose down the long expanse of Mikey’s neck to take a deep inhale. "Are you wearing my cologne?" He asks. He's taking Mikey in, wide pupils and lips already slick, red, and puffy.
"Yeah," Mikey pants and he doesn't even sound slightly ashamed, "I really missed you."
Pete feels his heart and dick both beat faster at that. Fuck, Fuck, Fuck. He can't get distracted by the domesticity of it all. He's gotta focus on making this last.
"We gotta-” he pauses to breathe through his nose as Mikey pulls at the skin just under his ear with his teeth. “We gotta slow down, mway.”
He's aching in his too tight jeans and if they continue like this he's going to come in his pants. He just knows it. Mikey knows exactly what Pete likes and he's useless against him.
Mikey just hums at that and instead of listening, he slides his hand under Pete's shirt, pressing those strong fingers into the dip at his back, just where the band of his underwear touches his skin. His other hand presses up over Pete’s and swipes over his nipple.
“Yeah, sure,” Mikey mutters, clearly not listening, “Sounds good.”
Mikey’s hand drops to grab Pete's ass and the combination makes Pete grind down onto Mikey's leg. He hisses as his dick makes contact with Mikey's. It's good but it's not enough.
They continue their kissing as Mikey pulls at Pete's way-to-fucking-complicated belt, and in the fumble Mikey ends up brushing over his dick, which Pete sort of forgot how good it felt for another person to feel him up. Especially when that person has you threaded through their heart for the rest of their life. It's like… stability or something. Who knew that could be so fucking hot?
"You have too many clothes," Mikey complains, his voice laced with desperation, "I need to see you."
It makes Pete a little proud, okay a lot proud, that Mikey is just as affected, overwhelmed with the amount of Pete in front of him. He's still got the ability to drive Mikey crazy a year into their marriage — hot and playable and ready to fall apart under his husband's hands. Who said the honeymoon period ever had to end when you're constantly being pulled apart – one the tide and the other the shore.
Mikey eyes him like an addict, and can't seem to figure out what to say or where to touch. It's further proven as Mikey devolves into unfocused scrambling, starting one project before getting distracted with another part of Pete and moving on.
“You have too much going on,” Mikey whines while still trying to kiss Pete, his words a jumbled mess. He does that thing with his nose he always does when he’s frustrated, before he drops what he's doing with Pete's belt to start unbuttoning his shirt, pulling at the buttons with frustrated noises.
"Just rip them," Pete says and Mikey shoots him a look that says, don't tempt me right now.
If they were doing this at home, their home, that they bought, the buttons would be scattered on the floor and Pete would be facedown on the hardwood of their foyer drooling onto the rug already.
But they're not in their home, so Mikey eventually defeats the tiny fuckers and then his hands are rubbing down Pete's chest, squeezing his pecs with a wry smile. It's the pure fucking delight on his face that makes Pete tighten his grip on Mikey's belt. It makes a great leash to pull him in.
“Okay, your turn. Come here.”
His fingers shake a little in excitement as he starts undoing the buttons on Mikey’s shirt. He tells himself that taking this time away from kissing Mikey is worth it, because soon he can see all that pale white skin he loves. It takes twice as long as it should between the shaking and the fact Pete can't stop staring at Mikey's eyes. Fuck. He's like, emotionally horny. Pete's never felt like this with anyone else before, flushed with a desire for a person and not a warm body.
Pete's found himself in a relationship where he wants to spit in Mikey's mouth and also hold his hand. Maybe they can accomplish both at the same time. Later, that is. Right now is feel-Mikey-up-in-the-bathroom time.
Mikey meanwhile seems to have read the mental email Pete accidentally sent out, because he's pushing Pete's jacket off, but in this half-hearted way because he won't tear his eyes from Pete's. It’s the longest eye contact he’s had in so long — someone looking at him because they wanted who he was, not what he could do for them.
He can't help grinning like a total idiot, lips sore but curled around his teeth, and it sends them into this stupid grinning feedback loop. Mikey's smiles could be a renewable power source. They’re special and limited and Pete has been missing so, so many of them these past weeks. Mikey's arms wind around Pete, lanky limbs encompassing him in a hug. With their shirts successfully unbuttoned, Pete’s bare chest presses into Mikey’s, his warm skin sliding against Pete’s. The skin to skin contact is serene. There’s this desperation in Pete, that he needs to hold tighter in order to feel whole in every single moment he can get here with Mikey.
It reminds him of that fucked up Hannibal movie Gerard made them watch. Because in a non-serial killer, totally normal way — he wants to wear Mikey's skin, be surrounded by him so completely, there is no Pete Wentz left to recognize. Only a figment of Michael.
There’s a seventh heaven he’s reached here, held by a man with an archangel’s name. He must be dreaming. He must be dead. There’s nothing his brain can register as real right now.
"I fingered myself open thinking of you Mikey,” Pete breathes softly, “I thought about your fingers opening me up, sucked on em’ wishing it was you," His words are slurred because his tongue keeps finding it's way to Mikey's teeth, "Wore that gray sweatshirt, the one I stole from you, so I could smell you. It's covered in cum now,” Mikey gasps and Pete takes the opportunity to take Mikey’s bottom lip between his teeth.
“You gotta wash it so it can smell like you again. Please. Please." His hands rake up Mikey’s back, nails scratching into his skin. Pete wants to leave a mark, a reminder that this happened.
Mikey’s hands sting with pleasure as they move to grip the sides of his face, pinning him like a trapped animal so Mikey can kiss him to death. “I woke up every morning disappointed you weren’t wrapped around me.” Mikey’s staring into him trapping him here under the gaze of someone who loves him, and Pete’s heart is pounding in his chest, “Your breathing, fuck I miss hearing you breathe next to me. Is that weird?”
With anyone else it probably is. It's probably codependent as fuck and ugly and scary, but here, all Pete can do is whimper. This is his husband, the other half of his heart and brain and soul, and he missed him.
Mikey’s panting into his mouth, and Pete feels like he’s tuning back into Mikey’s frequency. He wants to be good for Mikey. Who doesn’t want their husband responsive and whining and blushing and spread out for looking wanton and whorish just for them? He should be doing something more with his hands. He should be unbuttoning Mikey’s pants. He should be, he should be, he should be – but all he is, is a man who wants to touch and any place is good, because it's the skin of the other half of his life.
“I try to sleep but all I can think about is you,” Mikey voice is rough against his ear, “The empty space fucking burns Pete. I need you so I can breathe.” His fingers are digging into Pete like he's scared to let go.
Mikey's right, what they have has become like breathing. It's healing – he's sewing himself back together. They kiss until Pete’s light-headed from what he thinks is oxygen deprivation; what a dream it would be to breathe Mikey in to live. Mouth to mouth resuscitation except Mikey uses his own tongue as the depressor. In substitution, he bites Mikey's lip and lets it go slowly, willing Mikey to get to that place where he will want nothing more then to throw Pete down and take and take and take.
Mikey remembers exactly what Pete likes. It's been so long since they last were able to get hands on each other. Here, in a bathroom, it feels like their first time. Those early days of being married, jumping from hotel room to hotel room – their bodies were a mystery to each other, instead of a copy of their own. Every second since Mikey kissed him on the stairs, it makes Pete believe Mikey is inside his brain, shoving his hands inside his synapses and jerking Pete off.
“I can't get off anymore Pete. All I can think of is you, and-” Mikey gasps for air, “And nothing makes me hard anymore but you. I had to jerk off to your-” he shakes his head, flushing like he could ever say anything embarrassing to Pete, “I jerked off to your photo in a magazine like a teenage girl. Like you're some rock star and not my husband.”
It hurts. The admission hurts inside Pete's chest. This is all so wrong. They're supposed to be together and it's sick, it's sickening inside his stomach. He tilts Mikey’s face to look at him, his husband's eyes downcast until slowly they're looking at each other.
“Some of those photos, you're like a pinup,” Mikey whispers, “I can't believe I can touch you,” despite the admission his fingers don’t do anything but play lightly over the washed fabric of Pete's jeans where is dick is trapped. “Fuck, you’re mine.”
“Mikey, I am so yours,” Pete pants, fuck his dick is going to fall off, “I would respond to your name if called by it, but you need to- to fucking touch me or else.”
“Else what?” Mikey asks with a little bit of evil in his voice.
“No idea,” Pete answers truthfully. He doesn’t have a plan. He doesn’t have any brain cells right now he's pretty sure. All he’s capable of is whining and humping against Mikey's leg, his arms so tight around Mikey’s shoulders they’re holding him up. He wants everything all at once; the sex, the foreplay, the cuddling, the sleep, and he can't decide which one he needs more — to be first.
Mikey's flushed such a beautiful pink color and he's making the face he does when words are too much, desperation clinging to his whisky eyes.
"This never gets old, fuck," Pete hopes they can both still get it up when they're a billion years old so he can leave this world with his hand down Mikey's pants. The need is literally overwhelming. This is the most important thing he’s ever done.
Pete's tries to remember what he's supposed to do next, but his whole brain is just fogged over with ohmygodmikeymikeymikeyyesyesyes. Is this what being love drunk is?
He surges forward and kisses Mikey until they both can't breathe. "I love getting you out of your pants," he hisses out. His own lips rub against Mikey's on every vowel, "Mikey, fuck- drives me crazy like," there's another kiss, and another, and another. Each one leaves Mikey’s lips shiner and a little redder than the last.
He vaguely remembers he should focus on the pants, but Mikey’s tongue is running against his while his teeth pull at Pete’s bottom lip, and his grip at Pete's waist is laced with just the right amount of possessiveness – a territorial brand that makes his brain have an orgasm of its own.
"Fuck, Pete," Mikey's breathless and Pete knows he's probably just as gone, "If you love getting my pants off – take them fucking off."
"Right, yeah," That's what he was doing. Pants. Mikey's dick. Oh my god, Mikey's dick.
Fuck, he needs to suck this man's dick right now or he's going to explode.
In his desperation, he doesn't even take Mikey’s belt off, just undoes the buckle, shoving it out of the way so he can unbutton Mikey's jeans. Mikey falls back against the counter behind him, hissing as Pete's hands brush over his erection. This bathroom is opulent, beautiful and way too expensive; but it's gold trim has nothing on Mikey's dark eye watching Pete undo him.
If Pete could burn an image into his skull like a tube TV, it just might be this one. Mikey above him, gripping the counter, long legs spread wide just for him.
"You're so beautiful fuck, Mikey. I love unbuttoning your jeans like-" he shuts up just for a second so he can hear the pornographic pop as he undoes one button after another. He gets the fly open enough to reveal Mikey's white underwear peeking out. It's a beautiful contrast against his dark jeans. "I want to die here. I want to die sucking your dick," he adds sincerely, gazing down at the hard outline of Mikey’s erection.
He’s gonna suck that dick if it kills him. “Put it on my headstone, Mikey. You're in charge of that, okay?” Here lays Pete Wentz who died doing what he loved, getting throat fucked by his hot ass husband.
Pete's running his mouth. He doesn't even make sense to himself. All that’s going on in his brain is put his dick in your mouth oh my god I need his dick in my mouth please please please.
Pete scrambles to his knees and presses his nose to the distinct bulge in the white fabric of Mikey's boxers.
"I can't believe you kept me away from your dick for so long. How dare you? You know I need him," Pete nuzzles against Mikey's erection, playing with it through the fabric, feeling it twitch against his cheek. It's like its saying hello back. See Mikey’s dick missed him too.
He breathes in the scent – a heady addicting smell. It's a musk that's masculine and clean and still smells like their laundry detergent back at home.
"Jesus Pete," Mikey chokes, all his words wet with desperation and desire for more. Pete knows Mikey's falling fast. He sees it in the way his hips jerking forward ever so slightly, fighting his desire to fuck against Pete's face. He feels it in the way Mikey threads those strong fingers through his hair. Good. Excellent. Mikey can use the strands like a leash. He looks up through his lashes to see Mikey's head thrown back, long neck exposed, gulping down air.
Pete can't help but giggle a little. He must look insane, all Sabretooth grin as he pulls Mikey's pants down his thighs. It's like unwrapping the world's best Christmas present. Pete dives in to press kisses to the front of his underwear. He feels the heat through the fabric – can see and smell the precum starting to leak through. Above him, Mikey is letting out all these beautiful whines and gasps, his fingers holding tight to Pete's hair.
He goes further, sucking over the tip through the fabric, making the cotton wet under his tongue. Mikey's underwear is thick and grainy in his mouth, stifling all the little twitches Mikey's dick gives. His spit and Mikey's precum spread out across the fabric, making a dark gray patch, like the world's horniest Rorschach test.
Pete closes his eyes and sighs, relaxing into the familiar feeling of being here, down on his knees, eating Mikey out. Maybe in another life Mikey's his high school girlfriend, and there's only twenty minutes during break for Pete to get her to cum through the front of her underwear.
Suddenly Pete's brain is flooded with images of Mikey standing over him, thighs apart with his dick pressing against lace or satin. He should get Mikey in panties, fuck. He could lick and suck, the fabric wet in his mouth, eating Mikey until he blows. He wouldn't stop there – he's gotta' suck the cum out like wringing a rag. Pete can't stop the moan that's pulled from him at the thought of that. Fucking, his husband could be a model.
"Asshole, fuck," Mikey's gasping and panting above him, "Pete, please. I need you. Fuck, I missed you so bad. I’m yours. I need to be yours. It hurts- please. More." From Mikey, this many words is basically him begging for his life.
A string of expletives come with a tug on his hair, gripping the short strands until it stings. He glances up to see Mikey's panting above him, and he notices his glasses sliding down his nose. It makes him look so young. It's cute. He bagged the cutest guy in the world.
As much as Pete wants to stay here teasing Mikey, he can't deny he's also down fucking bad. Hearing Mikey beg him to suck his dick makes his own cock rev like a Ferrari.
With one quick tug, Pete pulls Mikey's underwear to rest around his pale thighs. Finally, fucking finally, Mikey's dick is free and can Pete he say he missed a dick? Well, he's going to. He missed his husband's dick.
He takes it in his hand, and slowly licks a long stripe down the underside, tracing the veins he knows so well. Mikey lets out a small chirp like noise when Pete gets to the head and pulls it into his mouth quickly. He spends a couple more moments licking and kissing, only letting the tip breach his mouth. It's been a while since he's had a dick in his throat and the smart thing to do would be to take it slow, stretch out his muscles.
Pete's never been too smart. He takes one breath in and swallows Mikey whole, his husband’s cock filling his mouth and sitting heavy in his throat.
"Jesus fucking Christ Pete. Holy shit. Be- be careful. Fuck. Don't stop but, fuck, Jesus Pete, your mouth. Don’t hurt yourself, okay?" Mikey starts rambling above him, worried about Pete and probably about himself losing it and bruising Pete’s soft palate. Pete can't smile because his mouth is currently occupied, Mikey's tip kissing his esophagus but Pete's never believed in doing anything half way. If he's gonna suck dick, he gonna suck some fucking dick.
What can he say, he's a real go getter.
Mikey fills up his mouth and then he's just moaning around it, sighing at how his jaw stretches – fucking perfect. The way his cheeks hollow against Mikey, all of his breath being routed through his nose. It's like fresh sheets, a deep breath and a sunlit window all at once. He feels like he's home.
After that it's just like playing onstage, falling into the familiar rhythm of sucking the air out of his cheeks and doing the thing with his tongue on the slide up that has Mikey bucking up into his mouth.
"Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Mikey stutters. “Fuck, Pete." His grip on the counter looks painful.
Pete pulls off so he doesn't cough. He's not interested in choking to death on Mikey's dick (at the moment, maybe later). He decides to lick flat across the head of Mikey's dick, precum beading up on his tongue. Pete swipes it around his mouth, coats his teeth with it. He swears he'll never brush his teeth again. He wants to keep Mikey in his mouth, stained there.
But it's still not enough. He needs something heavier. He needs to explode or get married again or move into Mikey's rib cage. He doesn't know. He just needs fucking more.
He leans in, nosing into Mikey's hipbone, letting himself sigh into the soft skin there.
"God, you taste just like I remember." He mumbles nipping at Mikey's sharp angles.
"If you keep saying this shit, I'm going to come all over your face," Mikey says breathlessly.
"Mmm," Pete hums thoughtfully, "Sounds hot."
The idea of having cum in his hair while he parades around in a suit does feel golden. Something about being marked by Mikey makes him want to rut against his leg like a dog. It would be a shit storm in reality, and Pete doesn't want to deal with reality. He wants to be right here with Mikey. He kisses Mikey's navel, where his hip bones dip, nipping at them, ghosting his breath over his belly button to the other side.
He knows the upstairs bathroom of a hotel is not exactly a prime location for what they're doing, but Pete's conscious enough to know that they have to draw this out. Who knows when the next time will be? As desperate as they both are, he can't have Mikey coming now. He needs this to last. It doesn't matter that they're in a hotel lobby bathroom. This is sacred time and he needs it to fill the void that's been digging a tunnel under his ribs. He's going to devour Mikey like a Michelin meal.
Mikey seems to grow tired of Pete playing around and hauls him up to kiss him again. It's filthy. He licks his tongue against Pete's and when they slide together, Pete feels the imprint of all Mikey's taste buds on his. Mikey can probably taste himself on Pete's lips. It's hot and heavy and Pete can feel just how into this Mikey is pressing against his stomach.
Pete wants him to slow down and savor being here under Mikey’s tongue, sip this moment so it will last. He hasn't had the time to let Mikey properly eff you cee kay him in months; the nice and slow and tantalizing way that makes his mind loose and crazed.
"Hands, fuck. Mikey, touch me. I need your hands on me, or in me. Fuck, I need you inside of me." Pete begs because yes, that's it. He needs Mikey to be part of him. He can't stop thinking of Mikey's fingers in him. Mikey in him. Oh fuck, why did he think of that? Fuck. They need to fuck now.
“I want you to fuck me so badly,” Pete whispers into Mikey’s mouth, “I need you to be inside me. You fucking into me, I think could save my life.”
He needs to be fucked properly, face down crying, begging Mikey, but there's not enough time, and these pants are too tight, and he has to go out there and talk to some fucking journalist who's going to call him a manic depressive anyway. There's too many things and he's wearing too many clothes.
Mikey's hips rut forward and his dick ruts into Pete's halfway undone black pants, smearing white precum over his waistband.
“We don't have time. Fuck,” Mikey whispers back, “Kissing you feels so good.” He sighs and pulls Pete’s lip, “I don't have- I don't have anything.”
“You can fuck me like this,” Pete negotiates, “Don’t need to prep me much. I'll take it so well, I promise. Just fuck me a little. Only a little bit. How about that Mikey?” He's rambling and begging. Mikey would fit so well inside of him. It would feel full and right after weeks of only his fingers and he needs it more then he's needed anything.
“Just a little bit. We can fuck a little bit can't we?”
There’s a certain amount of playing dirty you have to do to get what you want in life. Pete gets in the mud as he kisses the underside of Mikey's jaw. It’s the one spot he knows makes Mikey's insides go liquid. Pete sees his eyes flutter and slowly guides Mikey's hands to his own fly and they zip it down together.
“I don't know I- Pete I,” He sounds hesitant, but his lashes are fluttering and his pupils are blown wide. Pete usually sees that look on people who are high on molly, But Mikey's only high on him. He's a loose thread one pull from unraveling.
“I promise Mikey, I swear we can do it. I'll be good. I'll be so tight,” He presses hard kisses into Mikey’s neck, ones that have a threat to purple over, “Just think about how good I would feel around you. How warm and soft…” Pete's pretty sure that the desperation will go away if he gets even the tip of Mikey in him... that could work. Just the tip would be okay. He will take anything Mikey will give him, fingers, tongue, fist, “Please, Mikey,” he whispers, “Please. I miss you.”
Mikey's eyes look ablaze and his chest beats with him panting. Pete sees he's left a tiny bruise under Mikey's jaw, hidden under the stubble.
“Pete, I-” Mikey clears his throat, “I don't think I can only fuck you a little bit.” His eye rake him over and Pete can imagine how he looks right now; flushed and kiss stained.
“‘I’m not- I will not be able to stop at a little bit. You're- shit. Do you have any idea what you look like? You're so fucking beautiful. This is all of my wet dreams at once.” Mikey almost doesn't get all his words out because he keeps swaying, magnetized forwards to kiss Pete's swollen lips.
“It'll be fine,” Pete pants. They can do this here, “Fuck me. Come on, we've done worse.”
“It’s gonna hurt,” Mikey warns.
“Perfect, I want to feel it tomorrow. Need you Mikey. Please, fucking please. I can't, I can't go any longer. I need this.” He feels like he's going to sob. He needs to feel whole again.
Mikey kisses his lips and teeth and tongue, “Okay, okay yeah.”
Mikey pulls Pete's belt from the loops, and with the explicit clack of a belt being stripped off, Pete's body knows sound means he's about to have sex. Sex with his husband specifically, which always feels like his insides are being blown out through his nose (in a good way).
“Turn around,” Mikey tells him, his hands spinning Pete to face the mirror. Pete goes easy, and tries to find a way to brace himself against the smooth marble counter. He bends over, letting the cold edge dig into his stomach and serve as a reminder this is really happening. He’s not dreaming this up, laying alone in a hotel room in Ohio.
Mikey reaches over him and one, two, three, pumps from the soap container later, Mikey has enough fancy shit soap to be opening Pete up. He teases Pete’s rim slightly before his fingers slide in and Pete has to grab his dick with one hand so he doesn’t come.
“Mikey your fingers are like the second coming of Christ, I swear. Fuck, why can't I make myself feel like this?” Pete bites his lip and lets Mikey work him open. He's always been able to touch places inside of Pete he didn't even know existed. Soon. Soon, he’s going to be fucked and then everything will feel right again.
He feels his body relaxing under Mikey. The warmth and weight is so familiar, if he wasn't so horny he thinks he could fall asleep. He stays there in the comfort of being connected to his favorite person. Before he knows it, there’s two fingers filling him up and he's holding onto the counter for his life.
The hand soap burns slightly, but he doesn’t dare say anything because Mikey would definitely make them stop and Pete might start crying if they do.
The desperation is overwhelming, his desire to get this more then a handful of times a month and maybe in a, you know, bed, and not during an awards show. Where after they can go watch TV and Pete can crank the AC up and Mikey will complain about it. These are moments when you're married and Pete wants the live the fuck out of them too because this feel so good and so right.
He sucks in breath so he doesn't start to cry over Mikey fingering him.
“Hey, hey, you okay?” Mikey asks, because of course he noticed, and his fingers are inside Pete, and he’s rock hard and he’s still worried.
Pete just nods because he doesn’t trust his voice. He blinks for a second. “Fuck, I'm so good, it just- fuck it's right. You're here. You're actually here.” His breath stutters out, and he looks at the ceiling instead of the swirling marble pattern. Mikey’s fingering him out, stretching him open, and this time he's going to get fucked – not fall asleep loose on the hotel sheets, alone.
"I'm right here, Pete. I'm right here with you. I'm yours,” Mikey’s whispering in his ear. He's pushing his words into Pete’s throat, a throat that’s bruised with bites and he feel torn limb from limb ripped open for Mikey to stick his hands in fuck as much as he wants. Pete wishes he didn’t get a say. Could just lie back and let him do what he needs to do. He want Mikey to fuck his guts.
Instead he bends over and whines. It’s fucking pathetic but he needs Mikey's dick right now.
There's a brief pause from Mikey. Just a second that Pete can sense through the air. "Hey, you ready Peter Pan? You're really tight. I don't know if it will fit," Mikey’s voice is dry, a sarcastic asshole who really knows how to push the right buttons. Pete looks at him in the mirror because is that motherfucker, the love of Pete’s life, seriously trying to be funny right now?
"I will make it fit, Michael James Wentz," Pete growls and Mikey’s startled face is enough to get Pete to laugh and remember to get out of his own head.
“Okay, then.” Mikey concedes with a kiss to Pete’s shoulder. Also probably to distract from him sliding his hand out, soap sticky and smearing strings down his thighs. Pete knows his hole flutters without Mikey’s fingers to fill him, probably pink and not sure what to do with this much freedom.
He doesn’t have to think as Mikey lines himself up, the head of his dick sliding over the mess before Mikey slowly pushes into Pete. The stretch burns, though weather that's because of the scented hand soap, or the fact Mikey's blessed with a fucking amazing dick Pete doesn't know, and doesn't really care. He's inside.
There he is. There you are. Kissing Pete's insides in the softest way possible.
He’s reduced to gulping down air to stop himself from sobbing; his lungs aching and burning around his gasps.
“It's okay. You're okay,” Mikey's petting him, soap-lubed hands calming him down with quiet shhh’s.
He is. He's home right now.
A few moments pass and the sting subsides, leaving in its wake pride and determination. “Move, please. Mikey, move.” Pete begs, and he sees Mikey nod through the mirror. No other man has fucked Pete, has had their dick track along the inside of his stomach. It’s something only him and his husband share together, over and over and over again. Their sex is one of a kind, to the point where Pete doesn't think he could do it any other way and feel satisfied. Mikey’s familiar in the make up of Pete’s body, the rhythm he creates is tuned exactly to Pete and soon he is able to relax around him.
The continuously expanding mirror in front of them shows Pete the perfect reflection of Mikey behind him, beads of sweat on his brow, flushed as he stares down, transfixed on watching himself slide in and out of Pete. It’s accompanied by a gratifying wet sound, slick almost tangible shlurp sounds that Pete hopes no one can hear from outside.
Mikey does not care about the sound. Mikey fucks him harder.
His left hand lets go of Pete's hip, leaning in to press himself flush against Pete's back, the heat from his skin radiating out. Mikey presses his palm down over Pete’s hand, intertwining their fingers together against the marble. The slick of the soap and cold metal of his wedding ring bleeds into Pete, wet and warm and cold and metallic all at once.
They find each other's eyes in the mirror, and their eye contact doesn't break. Pete just wants to look at Mikey.
“Hey,” he murmurs into Pete's soft skin. dropping kisses on his shoulder as Pete’s shirt slips off. Looking into Mikey’s wide brown eyes as he’s fucking him feels ridiculously intimate for sex in a public bathroom. “It's really good to see you, Pete,” he says sincerely, always so honest.
Pete feels himself smile more than he sees it. He doesn’t want to look away.
“Good to see you too, mway.”
Their cheeks press together, soft skin to soft skin, as Mikey’s dark eyes lock onto Pete’s as he fucks him. It's intimate in the way being gross in front of someone is. It fulfills the need to be close to Mikey in every way. It’s all slow and steady, letting Pete get used to the angle and the burn. He was worried something would change but no; it's still him. It's still Mikey. They're okay.
“Come on Mikey, not gonna break, gotta' make me remember you when I'm lonely, okay?” He teases, rubbing his face against Mikey like they’re the horny rabbits they’re acting like, “I want to be able to fuck my fingers raw. That’s how loose I should be.”
Pete slides his feet apart, his stance trying to keep up with Mikey’s ability to go above and beyond when taking instructions. There might be bruises on his ass from the Mikey’s hips pushing into him, hard and fast, fucking up Pete’s insides like Pete weighs nothing.
“Anything for you Peter.”
Mikey’s finally railing into him and Pete just takes it because he’s good at that.
He gives up trying to win the fight holding himself up. He tangles one hand in Mikey’s hair, both of them sweaty, bangs stuck to their forehead, and holds himself against Mikey as they both watch the other person in the mirror as they fuck. Mikey’s fucking through him and his eyes are devouring him from the outside.
It's exhausting being this fucking gone for him.
“Mikey, come on fuck you're so-” Pete can't get anything out without a stupid moan as Mikey continues to just barely miss his prostate. He tries to take matters into his own hands, trying to fuck back against Mikey but Mikey’s grip is too strong holding him down.
He bends over, back arched into a perfect curve, as he lets Mikey fuck him over the counter so he can go deeper. Mikey helps pushing him down by the slope of his neck, his body bent over to be ravaged raw by the love of his life, like one of the drooling groupies he sees begging to be used by shitty band dudes for a quick fuck. But they get to do this for the rest of the time they breathe the same air.
The cold counter digs into his stomach, but Pete can’t move because the angle finally has the tip of Mikey’s dick kissing him in the prostate. His hands slide over the marble, scratching at nothing, as he feels drool slide down his chin with his short loud whines as Mikey finally fucks into him over and over.
The soft moans that fall from Pete's lips are suited for some kind of Playgirl, not him. He dares not move his hands from where he’s holding onto the marble like a lifeline, but if he were to touch over the bat tattoo below his belly, he has no doubt he could feel Mikey inside him, making a home there.
He hasn't been able to reach there in so long, his fingers not long enough and spaces too small to fuck down on something in a pleasurable way. There was the light idea of taking a handheld mic and a condom, fucking himself on it just to be able to hit that sweet spot. Maybe Mikey and him can make something of it later. Pete blindfolded, Mikey making him guess what he’s fucking into him.
Pete’s body and brain handshake on that thought, and he comes, spilling onto the floor below them.
He cries Mikey’s name through his orgasm, trying to remember to breathe through the taps of Mikey's hips against his. His brain floods with so many chemicals all tying him to Mikey. The burn combined with his amazing orgasm after nothing but mediocre jerking off makes his legs feel like a house of cards.
“I'm, I think I'm-” Mikey's words are sliding around his mouth, which Pete doesn't even need him to finish the sentence to know he's close. He wants to collapse right now, but needs to hold out for Mikey. Pushes himself up with some sort of reservoir of strength, like a mother lifting cars off their kids. With his non-cum stained hand, he shakily threads his fingers through Mikey's sex fucked hair, leaning back against him. They’re both flushed red and raw in the face.
“Come on,” he’s breathless, “Don't let any spill out mway. Gotta’ a long night ahead of me. Don't want anyone to see I've been fucked in the bathroom now do we. Gotta' keep it nice and clean,” Pete’s rambling through his post orgasm high, “Better bury the evidence nice and deep okay. Think you can do that?”
Mikey nods, massaging his thumbs into Pete's hips.
“Good. Knew you could. Come on then Mikey, chop chop.”
His husband fucks him for about four more thrusts before Pete feels the comforting warm spread inside him. Mikey let's out the little pinched whine he always does when he comes and the sound is so familiar and Pete missed it so much his throat closes up
All the excitement catches up with them, and they both collapse together. Pete falls forward, just managing to catch himself on his hands, while Mikey's head rests against his shoulder blades.
He feels Mikey's breath against his spine.
It’s just the slow sound of both of them breathing. After a second, Mikey squeezes his hip as a get ready before he pulls out.
With his shaking hands, Pete grabs the paper towel from the gold leaf basket and wipes his hand off. He very politely hands Mikey one as well. See, he’s a caretaker. They both do their best to wipe themselves off and tuck themselves back into their pants. Pete doesn't even attempt to clean out Mikey's cum, just pulls up his underwear and knows it will be a mess to jerk himself off to later. Either that or a good excuse to bail early to shower.
Mikey’s trying to do up his shirt which, god damn, Pete really did a number on wrinkling that. He’s trying to focus on his buttons, squinting at them all concentrated and he’s so fucking cute Pete wants to never leave this moment. He throws his arms over Mikey’s shoulders, and the other man lets out a small noise of protest at being stopped from his task.
Pete hates those buttons. The buttons means this is over and they're going to have to go back out there, to the real world. He doesn't want to let go. Can’t they just stay here together? Screw everything else, that was the deal, right? The itch that needed Mikey to get down and dirty with him is finally scratched, but the one that wants to watch the sunset while Mikey chops vegetables in their kitchen is screaming and throwing a fit.
There is no good way to release the onslaught of stupid emotions he feels, so he settles on kissing Mikey's forehead and cheek and nose and side of his lips. Mikey’s rubbing his back and he already feels his eyes getting heavy. He's happy so his body takes that as it's cue to rest.
But he can't. Because they're in a bathroom. And all of their coworkers are outside celebrating the foundation for Blind Orphan Turtles Who Play Cello or Whatever. Pete’s a good person. He swears.
“We should be doing press,” He murmurs somewhere into Mikey’s neck.
“They will wait. It will all wait,” Mikey mutters against his temple.
“Where are you headed next?” Pete asks. He’s forgotten what stop of this never ending tour Mikey is on.
“Down the East Coast.” Mikey replies and Pete notices he’s gotten better at faking his enthusiasm.
“Catch you in Jersey?” It’s not really a question.
“Yeah, we should go to that arcade bar again,” Mikey’s eyes light up as he says it, probably because he wants to beat Pete’s ass at Tron again.
“It's a date,” Pete smiles, “Can I leave my stuff at your mom's house?”
“You don't have to ask,” Mikey rolls his eyes, “What’s mine is yours, dude.”
“Okay well, last time you fucking stole all my shirts and I had to borrow William’s and he's like, the size of a toddler,” Pete reminds him. Those shirts were fucking suffocating him.
“Oh,” Mikey laughs, “You are one to talk.” He jabs a bony little finger into Pete’s side which starts an all out battle that ends with Pete wrapped up in Mikey’s arms, breathing heavily as he holds him still.
“I don't want to leave you,” Mikey says it so quietly Pete almost doesn’t catch all the words. Pete goes and presses their foreheads together, that way maybe Mikey can just absorb all of his thoughts raw. They fall together panting, Pete breathing in Mikey's small huffs of air, high on the carbon dioxide.
In a move that he might feel proud of after the sting of loneliness leaves, Pete decides to be the stronger person. He steadies his hands and starts the process of finishing buttoning Mikey’s shirt. Each one that slips into place makes him feel like a foot father away from home, but how many opportunities do they get to be domestic? Getting ready together is a luxury that even with all the money from radio success, can’t afford them enough time together.
He straightens Mikey’s jacket, trying to get it in the realm of ‘end of a party disheveled chic’ and not ‘yup, just had sex in a bathroom’. Mikey in turn starts fussing with Pete’s hair, and he can feel it fighting back.
“It’s okay,” Pete should probably be more worried about the state of his clothing. He tucks his shirt in. Maybe that will help.
“I messed it up,” Mikey only sounds slightly sorry.
Pete waves him off. He’s been photographed with worse haircuts before. This probably won’t even break the top twenty honestly. He’s not too worried. Pete makes the mental note to talk to their PR about just sort of making ‘I’m a mess’ part of the Bachelor Pete Wentz image. “It gives it the rock star look.”
Mikey goes oddly still. Pete gives him the eyebrow. The you better not be thinking about bottling that up eyebrow.
“I hate it when they say mean things about you.”
“Hey,” Pete stops trying to battle the last button on his shirt. “That’s all fucking shit. None of that is for you to worry about.” He tries to figure out where in Mikey’s face he can look to see where Mikey ever thought any of that shit was important to listen to.
“You’re my husband. I signed up to worry about you.” Well. Mikey has him there.
“You can worry about me convincing Patrick we don't need a horn section on tour,” he concedes. He knows he’s not going to convince Mikey not to worry; it's not in his husband's blood. “Also, now you know how I feel when you start with the I’m fine shit. It worries me, darling.”
Mikey looks away and Pete grabs his chin to make them look at each other eye to eye. “What are you going to do when your brain starts trying to kill you?”
“Text you.”
“Double text me Michael, I'm an attention whore. I live for that shit.”
“I'll text you until you throw your phone away.”
“Not possible.” Pete smiles. He can’t help it.
As if it heard them talking about it, his phone starts ringing, obnoxious in his pocket. Pete pulls it out and sees that it’s Andy, which means he’s actually needed. It’s not just Patrick freaking out about having to do an interview. Pete can’t be too mean. Patrick has been doing way more than his fair share. Pete makes another mental note to get him like, ‘Best of The Spinners’ on vinyl.
They both look at the door. Mikey unlocks it and Pete hates the sound.
“Hold my hand until we get to the stairs?” Pete asks. Mainly as a joke, mostly because his heart is cracking down the center.
Mikey opens the door for him to walk through.
“Of course, Mr. Wentz.”
Mikey holds it all the way to their seats.