XO

Pete had been out of town for a week. Seven days. More accurately, by Patrick's watch, approximately one-hundred and fifty-seven hours and four minutes. Not that he was counting. Chicago was merely proving to be a lonely and boring place to be without his impish other half.

True to his nature, he'd gotten all of his business affairs taken care of early in the week, having finally gotten enough alone time to do so. Pete had his own apartment, quite a nice one with a magnificent park-adjacent view, but he seemed to think that he needed to spend all his time at Patrick's, raiding his fridge, domineering his remote, trying to give him a lap dance while he was on the phone with Pharrell...

The issue at hand was that he'd had nothing but free time since the afternoon of the second day, and he'd run out of shit to do to entertain himself. All of Patrick's old friends seemed to be out of town or busy with something else. All that was left for him to do was lay on his bed, stare at the ceiling and count the seconds until Pete was back in town and could take care of his semi.

Oh yeah, that was another part of the problem. Sometime during the third day he'd had a sneak attack of hormones and had been wandering his apartment at half mast ever since. Sure, he could've took the matter into his own hands, so to speak, but the cold hard truth was that he hated the act. It brought to mind images of Henry Rollins' Jack Off Hell, and it was weird enough having Pete on the brain without adding a sea of angry masturbators to the equation.

Ugh, but the tension was infuriating. At what point in his life did he start needing the taste of frosting on his tongue and the scent of Bone Daddy in his nostrils to get off? God knows he didn't need it three months ago, but that was also before he finally understood Pete's thing for talking about hotel suites in his lyrics. The son of a bitch had crawled under his skin in the most frustrating way possible, like a scarab beetle, and he wanted him out.

In the grand scheme of things, Pete probably thought it was his job in life to annoy him. Then again, he annoyed everyone, but he took particular delight in making Patrick want to kill him. Ooooooo, the rage that pulsed through him just thinking of that hotel night when he'd ended up strapped down to his bed with a cock ring around his junk and a... device, in a place he'd never agree to given the choice.

Truly, he'd never been as angry with that horsetoothed motherfucker as when he'd shoved that thing in, even after he'd turned on the vibration and thoroughly rocked his foundation. It's not that Patrick was foresquare against being... penetrated; he just would've been more amiable about it if it was on his own terms. For that to be the first time he'd ever been touched that way? He was surprised he wasn't in therapy for it now.

"Fuck, it's no use," Patrick muttered to himself, plunging a hand down the front of the pajama bottoms he hadn't bothered to change out of that morning and taking hold of himself. His hand was too fucking dry, he quickly decided, but tried to power through it for a few minutes before giving in and reaching blindly into his nightstand. The one act of kindness Pete had given him before he left was to forget his lube in there.

Once properly slicked up, it was back to business, biting his lip from the pleasant waves of heat washing over him. Shit, it wasn't Pete, but it was good enough. He swallowed back the mental picture of Jack Off Hell and fell into sweet, steamy, sticky memories. Mmmmm, Pete on top of him, naked and sweating, thrusting down to meet his hips as he fucked up into that tight ass, pretty brown skin glistening...

Somehow, it suddenly wasn't enough. Try as he might to focus on those filthy memories, it just... it wasn't getting the job done. "Damn you, Pete," he grumbled aloud, picking up the pace in a vain attempt to force it, but no go. What did he have to do to find relief?

A groan escaped his gullet at the thought that passed through his mind, and as disturbed as he was to even consider it, he tried to be rational about it. The house was empty, it was on his own terms, and he would never tell Pete about this ever. Taking a deep, methodical sigh, he kicked his pants off, reached for the lube once more and gave a few of his fingers a good coating.

"Fuck it all," Patrick growled, laying back down slowly and reaching down, legs spread. Circling his entrance gently for a few moments, he soldiered forth and pushed in his index halfway. It... wasn't bad. Strange, but not bad. He pushed in deeper. It... felt kinda nice. Wiggling it around, it started feeling even nicer.

Pulling out carefully, he slid in two on the way back in, gnawing on his lip again because he seriously wasn't expecting to enjoy this. Christ, now he was thankful that Pete was on the coast, because right about now would be the time that he'd show up to catch him in the act-

Patrick nearly jerked off the bed as the doorbell sounded throughout the apartment. Cursing the world and all its inhabitants, he quickly wiped his hand on the bedspread, jumped back into his pants and ran for the door, hoping like hell that it wouldn't register on his face that his afternoon wank session had just been interrupted.

No sooner had he turned the doorknob than the threshold was breached by what he initially thought was a Tigger. However, after a few seconds on his back, staring at the thing that was perched atop his stomach, he could better assess the situation. "Hiya, Lunchbox."

"Peter, get off me."

"But I missed you, buddy. I came home a whole day early to surprise you."

"You don't have bags with you, which means you didn't come straight here. Now that's a surprise."

"Dude, you need to lighten up, you always act like I just crashed your laptop or some-" Pete's face lit up in surprise as he shifted his hips down over his, realization bringing a devious smirk. "Well now, it looks like my Tricky missed me back."

"Don't start, Pete-"

"My Tricky missed me a lot." Rocking his hips, he reached back to close the front door before pulling his T-shirt off. "Whaddya say, sugar, shall we move this somewhere more comfortable?"

"Please shut up, Pete," Patrick panted, getting a tight grip on him and standing up to head back to the bedroom.