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“You know,” Patrick says as he curls a hand around Pete’s ankle. He rubs his thumb over the smooth skin, right below Gabe fucking Saporta’s face. Pete grins down at him, completely unashamed of his nudity. “We could just have sex like normal people. Less labor intensive.”

“How else are you going to keep those guns?” Pete asks, all his teeth showing as his smile widens. Patrick sighs.

“Pushups,” he says dryly.

“Boring. Anyway, you like the challenge. There’s no challenge in pushups.” Pete tests the restraints on his wrists, where they’re keeping his arms behind his back. They hold because Patrick put them there, and Patrick knows what he is doing.

“Right,” he says. “The challenge is listening to you gag for it until I go nuts. Super hard. Totally worth the extra hours of prep work.”

“You love it,” Pete coos.

The bitch of it is that he’s right and he knows it. Patrick doesn’t need or want the extra frills as much as Pete does, but he doesn’t mind when they’re attached. He likes being able to give Pete something other people can’t or won’t and he likes knowing that Pete’s finally learning to use his words like a real adult and ask for the things he wants. One day, maybe Patrick will learn how to say no to things when Pete asks. Maybe.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Patrick asks. He stands up and looks Pete over. Time has been good to him. To both of them. Pete doesn’t answer, but the way his dick is kind of already curling toward his belly says something stronger than words. “I’m trusting you to safeword if I go too hard.”

“Yes, captain,” Pete says. His hands twitch, like he wants to salute. Patrick doesn’t know why he still puts up with him.

He puts a record onto the player and rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. Pete wanted him naked because Pete always wants him naked, but Patrick likes the way being clothed makes him feel in charge. In character.

He takes a long look over the curves and planes of Pete’s chest and hips and stretched arms and balls his hands up. Pete’s chest moves as he breathes, big deep breaths like Patrick had told him to. He watches as Patrick raises his hands and shouts when the first punch catches him in the shoulder.

Patrick thinks, belatedly, that he should have put gloves on. He could pull his punches, but Pete would moan about Patrick not trusting him to safeword or about knowing his own limits. Both of which are true, but Patrick’s trying to be supportive.

His fist sinks into the soft skin of Pete’s stomach, his chest. Pete wavers on his spread legs, his arms jerking like he’s going to fight back. They’ve been in real fights before. Those were nothing like this.

Patrick punches Pete’s bicep and side, works his frustration out on the give of flesh Pete’s presented him with. He’s breathless and sweating, but so is Pete. His dick is pressing to the zipper of his jeans in a way that keeps him more focused than distracted.

When his knuckles start to ache, he opens his fists and shows Pete his palms. He isn’t really sure that Pete’s looking. His eyes are so dark, his mouth open just enough to suck in sharp, shallow breaths. He’s beautiful the way the painfully hopeless are always beautiful. Patrick’s chest aches because he loves that, even if he hates the way he knows it makes Pete feel.

The first slap across Pete’s face startles both of them. The sound is like movie gunfire. It leaves Patrick’s hand stinging and Pete’s cheek red. Pete jerks, stumbling to keep his balance. He’s standing in the middle of the living room, all the furniture pushed away. If he falls, the carpet will cushion him a little, but it will still be painful.

Patrick aims carefully and, with a smile, backhands him.

“Holy shit,” Pete says as he leans forward. He’s just that much taller than Patrick that he can curl into him, over him. “Patrick. Please--” Patrick hits him again, softer, smacking his words straight away from his mouth. If only it were always this easy.

“No talking,” Patrick says. He wraps his arms around Pete’s waist and pulls him in. Pete’s cock digs into his stomach, hard and damp at the tip. His hands are tense, balled up. “Don’t move. Don’t talk.”

Patrick kisses the tender skin under Pete’s ear and then bites his neck, right at the spot he knows makes Pete’s knees weak. Finally, Pete goes down. Patrick catches him halfway and lowers him to the ground gently. Together, they lean Pete against the couch, his legs spread wide and his knees bent.

Patrick lays flat on his stomach between them, curling his fingers around Pete’s thighs. He’s spent hours like this before, exploring and teasing and tasting. He could do that now, if he wanted. He kind of does, but he wants to see those red marks spread across Pete’s skin more.

He kisses the scars on Pete’s knees, runs his tongue down, down, down until he’s at the broad part of Pete’s thigh. He can feel the muscle fluttering, tensing as he pauses. Pete knows what’s coming, but he’s not sure if he should make himself relax or not. Patrick doesn’t wait for him to decide.

He sinks his teeth in, ignoring Pete’s groan of pain. When he pulls away, there’s perfect imprints of them in a wide circle, bloodless and white. Patrick kisses the center of it, where it’s already red, and then makes a matching mark on the other side.

Pete’s thighs are shaking, but he’s holding so still that Patrick can ignore it. He smooths his thumbs over the marks gently, encouraging the blood to flow again. It has to sting. He’s counting on it.

When he’s finished playing, Patrick runs a hand over Pete’s cock. He’s left a wet smear across his belly and it sticks to Patrick’s knuckles when he wraps his fingers around Pete’s shaft. He’s so hot.

“What do you want?” Patrick asks. He strokes Pete slowly, catching his thumb over the tip of Pete’s dick. One day, he’s going to talk Pete into edging. He probably won’t have to work very hard to do it. “Go on. You can talk.”

“Can I fuck you? I really want to fuck you.” Pete’s knees close in, his shins pressing against Patrick’s ribs. Patrick can feel his toes curling into the carpet.

“Yeah,” Patrick says, giving Pete’s dick one last squeeze. “Yeah, okay.”

They keep lube in a music box on the mantle over the television, high up enough that little hands can’t reach. Patrick doesn’t know what they’ll do when Bronx gets old enough to explore and question more than he already does. Fuck exclusively in the bedroom, maybe. Boring.

Patrick keeps his shirt on, the buttons done all the way up to his neck, but he toes his shoes off and undoes the fly of his jeans. Pete’s big eyes are on him, so dark Patrick can barely see the brown. He pushes his jeans off and steps out of them. His cock bounces when it’s finally free, slipping up under the edge of his shirt.

He adjusts Pete’s legs, laying them straight on the floor. When he kneels over them, his thighs spread wide enough to burn a little, Pete licks his lips. Sometimes, Patrick wishes he was more than one person, so he could have Pete completely and totally. They’re too selfish to share.

His fingers feel cool and too thin as he preps himself. He could make Pete do it, but Pete’s been too good to not give him a show. Later, when they’re not being characters in their own sex life, he’ll let Pete have at him totally. He’s got a lifetime of fantasies and ideas to explore together. Neither one of them are going anywhere.

Patrick rides his own fingers, head back and eyes lidded. He likes hurting Pete as much as Pete likes being hurt, and this might actually be the best way to do it for both of them. He can see Pete’s arms straining against his restraints, trying to wiggle free. There’s no way he will. Patrick’s been practicing his knots.

“Make it good,” Patrick says as he lines Pete’s cock up. The pressure of him makes Patrick’s thighs shake. He slides down until he’s resting on Pete’s thighs. He doesn’t know how he lived without this.

Pete thrusts up into him, steady with the rhythm people forget that he has. Patrick stays as stationary as he can, even though he wants to grind down into him. He presses his thumb into one of the purpling bruises on Pete’s shoulders and rides the bucking that follows.

“I need more,” Pete says, even as he picks up the pace. He knocks his head against the couch, groaning. His chest rises and falls almost as fast as his heart is beating. Patrick can feel it under his palms. “Please. I want to touch you.”

“No,” Patrick says. He wants it, too, but that’s not part of the game.

Sweat is bleeding through his shirt, back and front, sticking the soft cotton to the small of his back and his chest. Pete whines, high up in his throat. Patrick bites him, right under his ear. It’ll leave a mark that Patrick’ll be able to see over his collars and hoodies and layers.

Pete fucks him earnestly, his hips fighting Patrick’s weight. It feels good in a way that isn’t really enough. It’s torture for both of them. Finally, finally, Patrick rises up and drops back down. He’s done playing.

“Thank god,” Pete moans.

Patrick’s thighs hurt with the strain of being open so wide, but the burn is sweet and Pete’s hips slap against his every time he sinks down, and his body is so on. He bites at Pete’s throat and shoulders, pulls at his hair. It’s too random to be entirely planned, but Pete doesn’t seem to mind.

Pete ducks in to kiss him, their noses crashing together and their teeth banging. Patrick laughs. He wraps a hand around his dick and jerks himself off. Pete can’t see, their bodies too close together and Patrick’s shirt covering all the interesting parts.

Patrick gets himself off first, frantic and a little sloppy. Once his own climax is out of the way, blissful and sharp, he can focus on Pete. It says something about him that this is how he thinks, that this is what leaves him breathless and panting on Pete’s cock, oversensitized and weak.

He leans back, his tired thighs screeching as he holds himself up with his arms. Tired as he is, he makes Pete work for his own orgasm. He could be crueler, but he feels like the bruises are enough for one night. He’s going to spend days revisiting them and starting things up again.

Pete comes loudly, voiceless noises echoing off the living room walls. It’s messy and sticky and wet and Patrick loves it for the filth. In an hour or two it’ll be too uncomfortable to deal with, but right now he likes the way he feels covered in Pete. Being the dominant one in the relationship doesn’t change exactly how he feels about that.

Carefully, Patrick lifts himself up and reaches back to untie the knot at Pete’s wrists. They’re both going to be sore in the morning, but Pete’s going to have the marks to show for it. Immediately, Pete’s toppling him over like an excited puppy, spreading out like a human blanket.

“You’re too big for this,” Patrick says, like it’s going to make any difference. He can feel Pete grinning against his collarbones.

“Thank you,” Pete says, completely ignoring him. A bubble of warmth crawls up into Patrick’s chest and sticks to his ribs. He’s a sap at the worst of times.

In a few minutes, he’ll make Pete get up and stretch and soothe the worst bruises. But for now, he’s going to enjoy his sweaty afterglow and the soreness of his knuckles and thighs.