“I would like to remind you,” Patrick says, hefting his bag over his shoulder, “that it was your idea to go into the woods in the first place.” He can see his breath puffing out into the air in curls in front of him. Even under his jacket, he’s freezing. “Let’s go see a dead body. In the woods. In the middle of the night. What could possibly go wrong?”
Pete shoves him. It kind of hurts, too much pressure that Pete probably didn’t mean right on the joint of his shoulder. Patrick tightens his grip on his crosse and nods. Yeah, he’s going to love this.
“Look, you aren’t the one that got all-” Pete twists his face up into what Patrick assumes is supposed to mean demon dog of the night. Mostly it just looks like he’s just eaten a lemon whole. “And I’m dealing. See? We’re using this as a learning experience.”
“Learning not to go into the woods in the middle of the night? It might be a little late for that one.” Patrick ignore Pete’s muttering behind him as he scrambles up the fence around the lacrosse field. He’s going to be sore in the morning. He can already feel it. “I am helping you because I fear for my own safety and nothing else. Let’s keep that straight.”
“Patron saint Stumph,” Pete says as he bounds over the fence in one clean leap. Show off. “My hero.”
“Oh my god, shut up and stand over there.” Patrick drops his bag. He’s got six different assignments that he should be working on, but instead he’s at school with a werewolf. Sometimes he regrets ever thinking the name Pete Wentz.
Pete shrugs out of his hoodies and shirt, throwing them off to the side like it isn’t freezing. It’s entirely unfair the things being a werewolf has done for his physique. Not that he needed the help in the first place, Patrick thinks moodily. He does his best not to look at the flat lines of Pete’s stomach under his ugly tattoo. His teenage hormones are not what this is actually about.
“Hit me,” Pete says gleefully, prancing a wide circle in front of the goal. Patrick straps on his gloves tighter than he really needs to. He’s going to enjoy this so, so much.
“Do you have the heart monitor on?” He asks, digging through his bag for his pack of balls. The sound of frosted over grass crunching stops for a moment as Pete straps in. Patrick loads his crosse and breathes out a sigh. “I swear to god, if this backfires and you bite me, I am going to haunt you for the rest of your freaky werewolf life.”
“I could never eat you, Rick,” Pete says. It’s so sincere it makes Patrick’s teeth hurt.
“Yeah, just remember that when you get all-” He mimics Pete’s stupid lemon face. “I’m gonna go. You ready?” Pete hops up and down a few times, his basketball shorts slipping down the slopes of his hips.
“I was born ready. Hit me.”
Patrick takes his first swing. The ball arcs a little wide but connects to Pete’s shoulder with a solid thud. He reloads and swings again. The second ball sinks into Pete’s stupid flat stomach with its stupid tattoo and its stupid sexy-
“Son of a bitch,” Pete gasps, doubling over. For a moment, Patrick thinks of stopping right then. It was a dumb idea to do this, but Pete had asked so nicely for once and- “Keep going. I can take it.”
Patrick loads in his third ball and chucks it. He’s a bench rider on his best day, a third string on the worst, but he still manages to bean Pete between the shoulder blades. It shouldn’t give him the little tingle of glee that runs up his spine, but it does. Man, does it ever.
“Throw them back,” he calls, too wary to take away the few yards between them. Even from where he’s standing he can see the heavy labor of Pete’s breathing. When Pete reaches one hand out to grab the nearest ball, Patrick can see the long line of his claws. His heart thumps double time in his chest. “Carefully.”
One at a time, with a creepy sort of precision, the balls land at his feet. Patrick squats and loads his crosse, eyes trained on Pete’s hunched body. He thinks Pete’s hair looks longer, maybe, shaggier. Not really the half crew cut he’s been sporting since before Patrick met him.
“Breathe,” Patrick says cautiously. Pete stands, head still hung, and waves for Patrick to keep going. “Remember, Patrick good. Werewolf bad.”
“Just throw the fucking balls,” Pete hisses. Patrick nods nervously. Right, he thinks. Just keep going. “Get mad. Hit me hard.”
To be fair, Patrick has a lot of shit to be mad about. He thinks about Pete’s hands on the senior girl last week at Joe’s birthday party, thinks about his D in math, thinks about his stupid luck and his stupid best friend and hurls the stupid ball as hard as he can.
Pete falls backward. Without thinking about it, Patrick drops his crosse and bolts to Pete side. It isn’t until he’s sliding down to his knees in the damp grass that he sees the yellow ring around Pete’s pupils growing wider and wider by the second. Wolf kibble, he thinks hysterically. He’s going to become tiny pieces of wolf kibble and no one will ever know why he disappeared.
“Breathe,” he says, voice a thready, nerve-shot whine. “Come on. Think happy, rageless thoughts.”
One of Pete’s hands shoot out, faster than Patrick can see, and squeezes around his thigh. Patrick wants to hate himself for the sheer rush of lust that shoots up his spine, but he really, really can’t. Not with Pete breathing so close to him, hunched over and holding on. The heart monitor strapped around his wrist fluctuates in dangerous leaps and falls.
For a brief, horrible moment, Patrick knows he is going to die. He closes his eyes and takes a slow breath and says goodbye to everything he’s ever known. When he gets knocked onto his back, head thumping off the wet pitch, he turns his neck to Pete’s fangs and tries to mumble a quick apology to his mom. She’s going to be so pissed at him for sneaking out.
He feels the heat of Pete’s breath on his throat, damp and sharp. He squeezes his eyes closed tighter. His pulse thumps through him into the ground, hard enough that he can feel it echoing back into his skin through his jacket.
“Look at me,” Pete growls. It’s low in his throat, stuck somewhere below the voice Patrick has heard day in and out for months. When Patrick steels his nerve and does as he’s told, all he can see is yellow.
He counts the heartbeats between each breath. He’s up to ten when Pete leans in, so slow that Patrick counts eleven, twelve, thirteen, and then he can’t remember the numbers because Pete’s mouth is against his.
Dead, Patrick thinks. He is dead, and this is his punishment for thinking that he could juggle high school and a crush on a cool guy in a band that is also a creature of the night. Or maybe it’s a reward for trying. He can’t really decide. His brain is too focused on the feel of chapped lips on his, of the dangerous curves of fangs pressing just behind them. Every inch of his body is tensed and frightened and curving up to Pete like he just can’t help it.
To be fair, he doesn’t think he can.
“Please don’t kill me,” Patrick pants as Pete moves down, lips on his throat. Even against the cold, cold air, Patrick can feel himself sweating under the heat of Pete’s bare skin. Pete laughs. It sounds animal. Wild.
“Never,” Pete says through his sharp teeth. It doesn’t really sound as genuine with the added visual. He hooks a nail, long and curved and sharp, sharp, sharp, into the zip of Patrick’s jacket and pulls until it falls open.
“Control,” Patrick eeks out. He squirms, his ass damp and his hair tangled up under his head and his dick taking interest. “We’re working on your control. Your heart rate-”
“Is fine.” Pete buries his face into the sweaty curve of Patrick’s shoulder, his chest expanding as he breathes in. It’s- actually a little gross.
“Oh my god, you freak, stop.” Patrick shoves at Pete’s shoulders, pounding the heel of his hand into the purpling bruise left over from the lacrosse ball. Pete hisses, twisting onto the grass. His hand stays firmly wrapped around the thickest part of Patrick’s thigh.
“You smell so good,” Pete says. He’s grinning around his teeth, lecherous. It would be completely normal if it weren’t for the little points of his canines poking through.
“I’ll buy you a case of Irish Spring when we go home,” Patrick says. He wriggles on the grass, mud smearing on his bare back where his shirt has ridden up. He can feel the frost melting on his skin. Pete is never, ever going to let him live this moment down.
“I always thought you were just curious about dudes.” Pete straddles his calves, his dumb basketball shorts scratching against Patrick’s jeans. He presses his cheek to Patrick’s stomach. Patrick can see the bruise between his shoulders already healing itself. “I didn’t realize it was mostly me.”
“Stop with the creepy Teen Wolf dialogue and get to the point.” Patrick knows what the point is. He can feel it pressing against his knee. Which is both bizarre and kind of sexy in a weird way.
“I can’t think of a pun for werewolf sex,” Pete admits, laughing. The sound vibrates into Patrick’s hips.
“Is that what’s about to happen?” Patrick is not going to ever turn Pete down. For heart rate control practice or- or sex, but he’s not really sure he can handle full on werewolf in his pants. Near his pants?
Pete lifts up his hand. The heart monitor on his wrist is beeping steadily. The claws have slipped away, back into whatever physics-defying place they hide when Pete’s being human.
“Maybe not werewolf sex,” Pete says, grumbly and low but totally normal, “but definitely human handjobs.” When he looks up, big stupid grin and brown, brown eyes, Patrick laughs until he can’t breathe. Pete doesn’t even bother pretending to be hurt by it.
“Why are you so-” Patrick cuts off when Pete’s hand slips into his jeans. He’s not really sure what he was going to say, but he’s sure it wasn’t that important. Nothing is more important that the comfortable way Pete’s fingers curl around his dick like they’ve done it before. “Oh.”
Patrick is so very aware of where they are and why everything is wrong. Pete’s technically too old to be jerking him off, and they’re technically trespassing in a very public place, and Patrick does not care because Pete’s biting at his hip with blunt teeth and dragging his palm up and down like he’s got years to spend here.
Every stroke makes Patrick’s legs shake. The angle is awkward and the monitor keeps catching on the waist of Patrick’s jeans, but there is no way Patrick’s going to ask Pete to move. Anyway, he thinks, rocking his hips up, up, up, Pete’s mouth on his hip and stomach makes up for the weird way his wrist is digging in.
It’s when Pete rubs against him, the hard line of his dick hot through both of their pants, that Patrick groans out loud into the open air. He is going to die here. Pete bites a bruise under Patrick’s naval. It hurts, but only enough to make him buck up, his hips jerking as he loses it in his jeans.
“I am too old,” Patrick pants, eyes closed and head lolled to the side, “to have my underwear stuck to my junk like this.” Pete laughs, dragging himself up. He’s still hard, still breathing faster than Patrick is, but he pushes Patrick’s hand away when he tries to reciprocate.
“I have plans for you,” Pete says gleefully. He’s up before Patrick can process that, collecting his hoodies and Patrick’s backpack up in one hand. The bruises have all faded away into nothingness. For a second, Patrick lets himself wonder about werewolf stamina and then does his very best to think of anything but that. “Come on! We’ve got heart control practice. In your bedroom.”
“If you tear my bed up with your freaky dog claws, I’ll shoot you,” Patrick puffs, chasing after him.