Patrick can feel his nerves piling up on the drive home, his knee bouncing just off time to the obnoxious house music playing on the radio. His jeans are uncomfortable, not really wet anymore but kind of sticky instead, which might be worse. He can't stop moving.
The problem is that Pete is giving him time to think. Really, Patrick thinks, Pete's giving him a chance to back out scot-free. Which, on one hand is good and makes sense because Pete is a werewolf and Patrick is so very, very fragile and human. On the other hand, Patrick can't stop thinking about the heat of Pete over him. His dick gives a pathetic little jerk in his sticky jeans.
At least he knows where his body stands on the issue.
Patrick trips out of the car when Pete pulls into his driveway, his legs stiff and his feet refusing to cooperate. He's sure Pete's stupid werewolf hearing is picking up on the weird rhythm of his nervous heartbeat. Like he needed to be anymore transparent.
They crawl up the trellis carefully, tumbling into Patrick's room onto the pile of blankets he'd left under the window. The alarm clock on his nightstand blinks a steady green one thirty-six AM. He has to be up for school in five hours.
Pete, still shirtless and comfortable that way, throws himself onto Patrick's bed, sprawling out from one edge to the other. It's so painfully normal that for a moment Patrick forgets that they're supposed to be -- that they were going to have sex. For a long moment, Patrick watches him, standing in the tangle of thick quilts, mud from the field smearing across the worn flower prints. He wants this so badly it makes his hands shake.
"You don't have to do anything," Pete finally says. His eyes are closed, head tilted back to rest between the pair of pillows at the top of the bed. They curl up just over his cheeks, hiding his face from full view. More than anything, Patrick wants to see his stupid face. “We can just hang out or whatever. Watch Full House re-runs.”
“I want to,” Patrick says, because he really, really does. “I just--” He’s just worried about being left behind like everyone else Pete has ever hooked up with. He’s just worried about being ripped to shreds, literally and figuratively, if Pete can’t control himself. “Would you freak out if I tied your hands behind your back?”
That...was not actually what he had planned on saying. He’s not really sure what he had planned on saying, something about consequences or their friendship or something relevant, but now that it’s out, he can’t think of anything else. Pete sits up slowly, each one of his ab muscles bending and crunching in ways that Patrick didn’t think could actually happen.
“I was unaware you were into the finer art of bondage,” Pete says. Patrick is not looking at his face because he’s too busy looking at his abs, but he can hear the cheesy grin in every syllable. The heart monitor beep, beep, beeps away.
“I hate you,” Patrick says. He kicks off his dirty shoes and peels off his muddy jeans and crosses his arms over his chest. If this is going to be the last time he ever gets to do -- anything, actually, if Pete breaks free -- he is going to make it good. “Help me find something.”
For once, Pete doesn’t bitch about being ordered around. He paws around the room curiously, testing tensile strength of anything he comes into contact with. Patrick stops his tests after the third sweater makes a mess of scrambled yarn on the carpet.
Just as he’s about to send Pete out to the garage to find real rope, Pete pops triumphantly from Patrick’s closet with an old bike cable. He drops it at Patrick’s feet like a cat presenting a dead bird to its owner, cheeks puffed out in an impossibly wide smile and hands held out in front of him. He doesn’t bother pretending like he’s not watching Patrick’s ass as he bends to pick the cable up.
“Turn around,” Patrick says, like he has any idea of what he’s actually doing. The cable is a little dusty, but the plastic around the steel is mostly intact. He was too lazy to change the code from the default when he got it, so it unlocks without much fuss.
Pete folds his arms behind his back, the big parts of his forearms slotting into the lean lines of his wrists easily. It pulls his shoulders back, makes him look broader than he normally is. Carefully, Patrick winds the cable around and around and around, tight enough to make the skin around it look just a little red. It’s probably too tight, probably cutting off circulation to Pete’s hands but-
“Can you get out?” Patrick asks. Pete pulls and tugs for a few seconds, but the cable holds. Hopefully, Patrick thinks as he leads Pete back to the bed, that it’ll be enough. “I’m not really sure about what to do.” He settles Pete onto the edge of the bed, staring very hard at the way Pete’s thighs move. He will be honest, but he doesn’t have to watch Pete laugh at him for it.
“Whatever you want,” Pete says simply. He tries to shrug and nearly topples backward for his efforts. “It’s just sex. Enjoy it. Don’t think so hard.”
“Just sex, my ass,” Patrick grumbles. He’s sixteen. There is no such thing as just sex. “Anything I want?” Pete grins up at him, eyebrows raised and teeth on display.
“Anything you want,” he repeats. The freedom is a little daunting.
“Okay,” Patrick breathes. He can do this.
Heart stuttering in his chest, he leans in and kisses Pete as gently as he can. This they’ve already done. This is familiar and good. Pete lets him lead, lets him take his time and learn his way around. When he pulls back, a little breathless but less shy, Pete’s eyes are wide and dark.
Patrick sinks down to a crouch in front of him, bullying his way between Pete’s thighs. It takes a few moments of learning how to balance for both of them but when they’re both steady and stable, Patrick takes the time to learn the shape of Pete’s arms and waist and chest.
Pete’s so warm under his fingertips. He had always been a little warm before the bite, but now he’s like a furnace, burning himself into Patrick’s skin. Any trace of bruises left from earlier are gone. It makes him a little mad, for no reason at all. He wants to be able to say he was here, write his name over every part of Pete he touches -- his tense arms, his smooth stomach, the growing swell of his dick.
“Stupid werewolf healing,” he mutters, pressing his mouth to one of Pete’s sharp, sharp, sharp collarbones.
Even though he knows it’ll fade, he sucks a mark into the soft skin there, biting and a little brutal. Pete lets him, laughs into it even as his breathing picks up speed. When Patrick pulls away, the little bloom of color slowly fades back into tan skin like it hadn’t been there at all. He frowns and tries again and again, all the way down to Pete’s stomach. The bruises disappear like they’re chasing him, a fading line of where he’s been like a roadmap.
He can feel the heat of Pete’s dick right under his jaw. He ducks down and presses the point of his chin against it. It’s weird for him and probably weirder for Pete, but he can ignore it because Pete makes a choking little sound that shoots shivers down Patrick’s spine.
Belatedly he realizes Pete’s still got his shorts and shoes on. They struggle for a moment to get them off, Pete’s braying laugh bouncing off the walls on the wrong side of too loud. Finally, with Pete leaned back on his arms and hips tipped up like he’s doing some sort of strange, dirty yoga, Patrick manages to tug them off. And, Jesus, Pete’s beautiful. Okay, so he’s still struggling to sit himself up, dick wiggling against his stomach and legs flailing, but --
“I know I’m pretty, but I could use a hand,” Pete huffs. His hair is going curly around his face, fucked up in the back already from twisting around.
“I like to watch you struggle,” Patrick answers, because he does. Still, he helps sit Pete up on the edge of the bed again, thighs open wide and cock curving out at him like an invitation.
“You’re an asshole,” Pete says. “Get undressed and touch my dick to make up for it.” He waggles his eyebrows, just like he does every time he calls Patrick a stupid pet name, or makes a bad joke, and Patrick wonders why he was afraid of this. Pete’s just... Pete.
“Does that really work for you?” Patrick asks, even as he scruffs his shirt and throws it toward the hamper.
“Evidently,” Pete says smugly, watching Patrick step out of his jeans with his dark, dark eyes.
“I hate you,” Patrick says again, for good measure.
Naked and suddenly shy, he settles back into his spot between Pete’s thighs. Without his t-shirt between them, he can feel the way Pete's muscles jump when he moves can feel the strange tickle of leg hair against him, little details that make everything seem less real as he takes them in.
In theory, he knows what to do now. In practice, he's a little shaky. Pete hums above him, quieter than he normally is. For some reason, Patrick had thought he would be pushier, greedier. Instead, he rides out Patrick's hesitant, soft touches without complaint, sighing whenever Patrick hits anything particularly sensitive.
When Patrick presses a kiss to the inside of Pete's thigh, the heart monitor skips. Pete's skin tastes warm and salty, his pulse beating a steady rhythm under Patrick's tongue. His cock jolts, tapping against Patrick's jaw as he moves up, up, up.
Patrick wants to say something witty, something to discharge the tight rush of nervous air around them, but when he looks up all he can see is the darkness of Pete's eyes narrowed in on him and his words dry up. Instead, he wraps one of his shaky hands around Pete's dick and gives it a few experimental tugs.
He's trying to listen to the heart monitor, but the sound takes a backseat to the breathy groans Pete's trying to bite back. He twists his wrist in time to the way Pete’s breaths sound, just a little uneven and just a little too fast, but Pete doesn’t seem to mind.
For a terrifying moment, the heart monitor speeds up. It’s shrill and sharp, barely muffled behind Pete’s back. Patrick starts to pull away but Pete whines low in his throat, a tangled up plea for him to keep going. When he comes, Patrick laughs with relief.
“It’s not polite to laugh,” Pete pants. His eyes are bright, face flushed and hair dark with sweat. He’s fucking gorgeous.
“Sorry,” Patrick says half-heartedly. “Fear reaction.” His legs ache when he stands, a little wobbly. If he doesn’t get off soon, he’s going to explode.
“Come here,” Pete says, even though Patrick can’t get closer. Not really.
Pete presses his face against Patrick’s stomach. His skin is slick and hot, and his breath is warm against Patrick’s boxers. Patrick’s knees go weak. He has to grab onto Pete’s shoulders to steady himself. Carefully, gently, Pete’s teeth close around the waistband of his boxers.
“This could get messy fast,” Patrick says. He can’t see anything past the dark spread of Pete’s hair, but he can feel the steady way he’s moving. The laugh muffled against his thigh makes him groan.
“A little help?”
Patrick wiggles out of his boxers, letting them stay wrapped around his ankles. He takes two breaths, and then he can’t breathe at all because Pete’s mouth is around his dick. It’s messy and wet and eager. Patrick curls his fingers in Pete’s hair, curled in around him.
He can’t help the way his hips jerk forward. Pete groans, vibrations shivering right into Patrick’s bones. Pete leans into it, fights Patrick’s hands pushing him away. Patrick wants to be good, wants to push Pete back just enough for him to breathe, but oh -- oh, it feels so good the way Pete chokes a little when Patrick’s hips buck.
“I’m gonna come,” Patrick pants. His nails bite into Pete’s shoulder, into his scalp. It has to hurt, but Pete just picks up speed. “Pete, I’m gonna--” Patrick jerks and comes, the feel of blood slick on his hand.
He trips a little on his boxers as he tries to crawl up onto the bed. He is very steadfastly not looking at the little crescent shaped cuts on Pete’s shoulder seal themselves shut. Hopefully, his sleepy mind whispers, werewolf blood isn’t enough to transfer it over.
“Dude, I can’t feel my fingers,” Pete says after a moment. He flops back, bouncing back on the mattress. There’s a suspicious white stain near his mouth that makes Patrick feel hot all over.
“I’m enjoying the afterglow,” Patrick grumbles. Still, he coaxes his clumsy fingers into undoing the lock. Pete shakes it off and immediately wraps himself around Patrick, all arms and legs and too much heat too soon. “Oh my god, get off.”
“Later, pumpkin,” Pete coos. Patrick hates him. “You have school in three hours.”
“Die in a fire, you asshole,” Patrick grumbles. He tucks his head under Pete’s chin and tries to pretend like he doesn’t love being right here, like it doesn’t feel like home. Pete hums and pulls him closer.