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When Pran makes his way out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, he doesn’t expect Pat to still be in his apartment. He stops short at the sight of him still sitting cross legged on the bed, and he knows his confusion must show on his face by the way Pat gives him a sheepish smile.
“What are you still doing here?” Pran murmurs in question, his footfalls a quiet tap, tap, tap in the stillness of the room as he pads his way halfway toward the bed. He lets his arm drop from the towel over his shoulder. “I thought you were getting dinner with Paa tonight?”
Pat gives him a look—the classic oh, please scowl before he casts his gaze downward. Pran watches as he toys with the blanket, pinching a portion of it up between his thumb and index finger. The soft sound of fabric rubbing against fabric fades quickly as Pat shrugs a shoulder, lifting his head to meet Pran’s gaze. “Ink asked her out to dinner, so she ditched me,” he says, and then slowly, like he’s unsure if he should even continue: “Besides… I was more worried about you.”
“Worried?” Pran echoes, trying for nonchalant, but he knows it doesn’t come across well. He’s been burying every little thing that’s bothered him for the past week so much to the point where it’s dragging him down, and it’s only proven with those six words from his boyfriend. Pran feels his stomach twist into knots. “There’s nothing really wrong.”
“Yeah, right,” Pat mutters, but it’s loud enough to be heard. He watches as Pran looks his way and then quickly away, his eyebrows furrowing only for his expression to smooth out, and it only has Pat rolling his eyes. “I can tell when something’s bothering you, Pran. We’re, like, on the same wavelength, you know?”
Pran snorts, but he smiles, so Pat considers it a small victory.
“It’s nothing that hasn’t been brought up before,” Pran says carefully as he drags his feet to the bed. He sighs as he settles down next to his boyfriend, dismissing the droplets of water rolling down his neck and the fact he’s only in his boxers. Usually, he’d get dressed right away and maybe doodle or pour himself over coursework, but he feels so mentally drained that he can’t bring himself to hype himself up for anything. “I just… It’s stupid. This whole thing is so stupid. But it’s not like you don’t know that, either.”
“Yeah, but…” Pat scratches at the back of his head and sighs, turning on the bed so he’s facing Pran. His knee knocks into Pran’s thigh, but neither of them moves to give the other more space. Pat thinks about reaching out, soothing and careful, but he doesn’t want to make this any worse. “It does suck. It is stupid, and… I hate to say it, Pran, but you’ve got it so much worse than me right now. My seniors are pissed, sure, but at least Korn and the others aren’t really acting like I don’t exist.”
“I know. I know, it… god, fuck.” Pran groans, hanging his head as he messes his hair up. “Wai’s being such an asshole, and for what? I do so much for the guy, he’s my best friend, and he has to gall to do that to me—to you, to us, all because he doesn’t like you and your friends? He doesn’t know a damn thing about us, yet he’s running around acting all hurt because I didn’t tell him? Okay, sure, maybe he has a point, but he’d have been pissed either way he found out! It’s so fucking stupid.”
“You’re absolutely right. He is being an asshole,” Pat agrees, gentle but firm. He hates seeing Pran so upset, but if it helps him release even a little bit of his jumbled emotions, he’ll listen to Pran go on and curse his friend until the moon trades places with the sun. “You deserve to be pissed, Pran; and you know, if you just let me, I’d go beat him up right now.”
Pran laughs, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s a huff of breath more than anything, humorless and dry, but at least for a moment, his boyfriend didn’t look like he’d burst into angry, hot tears.
“I know you would,” Pran says, soft and low before he sighs, going silent. Pat doesn’t push; he sits there, mimicking Pran’s silence, attentive as he watches his boyfriend stare at the floor without really seeing it. When Pran speaks again, it’s the quietest Pat’s ever heard him. “I’m just so pissed off at everything right now. I can’t focus in class. I can’t even bring myself to draw. I just…” Pran trails off and shakes his head, his eyebrows knitted together. “I don’t want to think about anything, but my head’s so fucking full.”
“Then… don’t think at all,” Pat tells him, tilting his head as he leans forward, hands to himself. He had said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, but it makes his nerves feel shot. Despite how much he wants to take care of his boyfriend in every way possible, in all the ways he is capable, Pat still wants there to be even ground. If Pran’s metaphorical footing slips, Pat doesn’t want there to be any repercussions. All he wants is to take, not give his boyfriend any more trouble.
Pran looks over at him with wide eyes, and momentarily, he finds himself floored by the raw sincerity he sees in Pat’s gaze. He looks so willing, so accepting, like he’d jump at the chance to make every horrible thing go away—and in a way, that’s exactly what he’s proposing. But Pran’s head is so full, and his heart is riddled with so many emotions, so all that comes out is a breathy, dumb little, “what?”
“Just don’t think,” Pat says, firmer this time. When he reaches out, it’s slow and deliberate, allowing Pran all the time in the world to lean away and tell him no—and maybe Pat’s more pleased than he should be, when Pran leans into his touch instead of evading it. As his hand molds to the shape of Pran’s cheek, Pat drags his thumb across Pran’s bottom lip. “You don’t have to say anything, if you don’t want to,” he murmurs, rubbing gently at the dark circle beneath his boyfriend’s right eye. “You don’t even have to keep your eyes open, baby.” Here, Pat takes his hand away from Pran’s face completely, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by him, the way Pran’s mouth falls open with a sharp exhale at the loss of touch.
“Pat…” Pran barely speaks above a whisper, he’s so frazzled, but his boyfriend only responds with a nonchalant hum. He feels Pat’s hand at his forehead, fixing the mess of his damp hair before his fingertips brush at his temple, kind and warm, but all Pran can feel is electricity, a humming current beneath his skin. He feels warm all over, fully charged, and the way Pat looks at him now doesn’t help his heart rate at all. It hammers in his chest so hard that he’s convinced Pat hears it.
“You don’t have to think about anything,” Pat tells him, tapping lightly at his temple before his hand slides into his hair, cradling the back of his head. He tugs, a gentle motion that barely has Pran’s head tipping back. “So… just leave everything to me, okay?”
Pran thinks that maybe there should be some sort of joke, here—a jab at Pat and his tendency to not think at all, about how easy it is for Pat to say things like don’t think, just don’t, but Pran’s coming up laughably empty. Pat’s eyes bore into him, attentive and sharp, just like how they always are, but there’s a heat to them that is so undeniable it hurts.
All Pran wants to do is let that heat take over, to have the mess of his thoughts quelled, to let Pat take claim to him wholly.
“Okay,” Pran murmurs, swallowing against the dry lump in his throat. He nods just to feel the grip Pat has in his hair, and he doesn’t even try to hide how it makes him feel. A soft noise rushes out of him and his body jolts as the towel on his shoulder slips off and onto the bed, forgotten. “Alright,” he says—and just like that, the grip in his hair is gone and Pat’s hand splays against his thigh.
“Get up on the bed more,” Pat instructs, jerking his chin at a random spot behind Pran. He watches as Pran scrambles to scoot back, following him on his hands and knees back onto the center of the bed. Pat fits himself right beside Pran, sliding a hand up his bare thigh and under his boxers, marveling at the way his boyfriend is already reacting to such a simple touch. His inner thigh is warm, all soft and sensitive skin that Pat wants to explore until the sun comes up, but he knows he has to do more than that to get Pran’s mind completely void of thought.
Pat reaches over to the nightstand, hating that he didn’t think to do this beforehand, but he refuses to ease Pran open without any lube. It doesn’t take him long to acquire the small purple bottle, and as he hooks a finger into the waistband of Pran’s boxers and tugs, Pran exhales a shaky breath and lifts his hips. Pat helps him slip out of them, tossing them to the side unceremoniously, and then he’s right back where he started.
Touching Pran comes naturally to him, now—he doesn’t have to think much about it, nor does he have to wonder if it’s okay and if it’s not, when it would be. Pat’s hands are everywhere: Pran’s calves, his thighs, his hips, and when Pat avoids touching Pran’s dick completely, he watches as Pran’s knuckles turn white as he grips the blanket beneath them—but he doesn’t protest. All Pran does is sigh, his legs shaking, his half hard cock twitching; all he does is let go of soft moans and quiet whines as he parts his legs further, waiting and hoping that Pat would take him apart and put him back together again.
His eyes have been closed for a while now, welcoming the darkness and the heightening of his other senses, but when Pran hears the familiar sound of a cap opening, his eyes snap open so wide so quickly he’s surprised the tiny muscles attached to them don’t start aching. He lolls his head to the side, watching as Pat coats his first two fingers with a generous amount of lube. His stomach swoops with anticipation just as his lips part on another sigh—and Pat must have heard him, or maybe he sensed him staring, because he looks up from his task in the next moment and grants him an easy smile.
Pran’s stomach swoops again, that same anticipation coiled with the familiar warmth of adoration. He opens his mouth, and all that escapes him is a quiet groan and a faint murmur of, come on, Pat.
Pat laughs, but there’s no real malice behind it. Despite how readily he complies, tucking a hand behind Pran’s knee to insure his legs stay parted, all he does is rub his fingers against the rim of Pran’s hole, smearing lube between his cheeks. He never grows tired of it—watching Pran’s dick leak and twitch, the muscles of his stomach tightening with how good it feels, his grip on the blankets loosening and tightening as he teases him.
It’s a heady, unexplainable thing that has Pat feeling almost half out of his mind with how much he wants his boyfriend, who trusts him wholeheartedly, who allows the reins of his control to be lovingly taken and handled by Pat.
“I wish you could see yourself, Pran,” Pat murmurs, relishing in the way his boyfriend’s thighs twitch. He wants nothing more than to feel them twitching beneath his hand, but Pat knows if he moves his hand from the back of Pran’s knee, it’ll be harder to keep his legs open. He circles the lubed pad of his finger against Pran, slowly working him open bit by bit until his hips are jerking up and off the bed, precum leaking onto his stomach from the dark head of his dick. “You already feel good, baby? That means I’m doing good, right?”
“Fuck,” Pran moans, the noise catching in his throat as Pat’s finger finally eases inside of him. It’s good, so good, but it’s not nearly enough. He wants more, to be full and sated, completely limbless, but he knows that Pat won’t chance hurting him even when he’s graciously taking the control that Pran has given him. His eyebrows knit together, hips moving in small circles against the intrusion, but teeth biting into his ankle halt his motions. Pran sputters, his eyes flying open, mouth open in gasp.
“Please answer me, baby,” Pat demands, almost pouting, and Pran has no clue how he pulls it off. His hand has stopped its shallow thrusting, remaining still inside tight, wet heat. Pat can feel Pran’s muscles tighten and relax around his finger. “Aren’t I doing good?”
“Y—Yes,” Pran rambles immediately, stumbling over the word in his own haste to get it out of his mouth. It’s a struggle not to thrust back onto Pat's hand, but he manages, just barely. His hands ache with how tight he’s gripping the sheets, but it’s not like he can tug on his boyfriend’s hair with how far away he is. “So good, Pat, you—fuck, you’re so good, so good.”
Pat hums, appreciative. He’s smiling, his edges soft, but the heat is still there, in his gaze and the upward tilt of his mouth. “You’re doing good too, you know?” Pat murmurs his praise, easing his finger out of Pran only to press back in with another. He thrusts into Pran gently, scissoring him open in languid motions before he crooks his fingers. “I’ll give you anything you want, baby, as long as you’re okay with asking for it.”
Pran groans, a low and wanton noise that leaves his head spinning. Pat takes him apart in the same way he puts him back together, lovingly and painstakingly, like this is the sole reason he was put onto this planet. He leans down, kissing at the inside of Pran’s knee as he strokes the deepest parts of him; and when Pran’s legs tremble at all the sensations, Pat is quick to soothe him, murmuring words of praise against his skin and kissing down his thighs to add to his sensitivity. Pran jolts at the feeling, his skin seemingly on fire the lower Pat kisses down his thigh—and when his boyfriend’s name leaves his mouth in a sigh, all Pat does is smile against his skin and hum in question.
“What is it, baby?”
“Please,” Pran murmurs, and then the shallow thrusts of Pat’s fingers become just a bit sharper. His eyes squeeze shut, thighs trembling as he tries to spread his legs even further, accepting everything Pat gives him and more. It’s not near enough. He almost feels delirious with it. “Pat,” he rasps, his throat dry. “Please, come on, I want you in me.”
“You’re sure?” Pat asks, but despite his concern, his thrusts have slowed, turned languid and easy. It’s difficult to think with how good it feels, a strange sensation of fullness and emptiness all at the same time, but then Pat kisses at Pran’s inner knee, bringing him back from the cloud of his thoughts. “I wouldn’t want it to hurt.”
“A little hurt won’t kill me. I want t-to…” Pran trails off, lost in the bottomless feel of Pat’s fingers inside him, but then he’s easing out, slow and careful, and it’s then Pran remembers he should probably finish his sentence if only to appease him, “…to feel it.”
Pat only hums, a barely there noise in the quietness of the room, but Pran feels his gaze as heavily as he does any other time. It’s both comforting and exhilarating, setting him right on the edge yet keeping him firmly in place. He doesn’t open his eyes as the bed dips, nor does he open them as Pat settles between his legs, his hands sliding along his legs only to guide them into a familiar position.
The only time he opens his eyes is when Pat asks him to.
When their eyes meet, all Pat does is smile at him in the same way he always does.
“Remember, don’t think,” he says, his hand almost too warm on Pran’s thigh. “Leave it all to me.”
“Okay,” Pran mumbles, nodding over and over to show he understands. His breath hitches as Pat scoots closer, as the wet head of Pat’s dick slides against him, teasing. “Alright,” he says, quieter than a moment ago, and then it’s like everything else but the two of them fade away as Pat slowly presses in.
It doesn’t hurt, but the sting of the stretch has a whine sounding high in his throat. He tries to swallow it down, but then again, isn’t this exactly what Pran wanted? He wants to feel it, the burn and the ache that comes with this. Pran wants nothing more than to lose himself in it, to focus on nothing else but the feel of Pat fucking him so thoroughly that it’ll be the only thing he feels when morning comes.
His whine turns into a groan, and then it softens into a moan, breathy and light as the head of Pat’s dick finally slips inside; and it’s all Pran can do to not use the bed beneath him as leverage to thrust himself back against his boyfriend.
“Fuck, Pran,” Pat mutters, struggling to keep himself still as he inches in. In front of him, Pran twitches, his mouth hanging open on a soft, low moan as his dick leaks onto his stomach. No matter how many times he sees his boyfriend like this, Pat feels like he’ll never get used to it; Pran holds all of his attention no matter the circumstances, but like this—in the height in his pleasure, in the vastness of his trust, Pat feels so close to euphoric that it should be illegal. He rolls his hips, the grip he has on Pran’s thigh tightening as Pran tightens around him. “Pran, baby, you’re so, so good. Fuck.”
Pran tries to speak, but it comes out garbled, an incoherent string of words and curses that Pat has no hope to pick apart—but he likes to think his boyfriend understands, even if only a little. He feels so good, like this, stretched and almost completely full with Pat looming over him, his presence and scent and everything he is loud and overwhelming, but nothing Pran doesn’t ever crave. “Pat,” he manages to groan, his mouth dry and his voice shaky. “Pat.”
“I got you,” Pat tells him, quick and earnest, and Pran doesn’t even get a chance to laugh, or to say he never doubted that for a second, because then Pat is bottoming out, fully sheathed inside of him. In the end, all that leaves Pran is a moan, guttural and raw, a mirror to how he feels in the light of Pat’s gaze. “Pran,” Pat sighs, his voice heavy with arousal as his hand presses against his boyfriend’s lower stomach. He grinds into Pran just to feel the resistance, just to hear him gasp; and it goes straight to Pat’s head, has him feeling half out of his mind. “Fuck, I wish you could see yourself. You look so good, just like a fucking daydream.”
“Please,” Pran groans, closer to a beg than anything else, but he doesn’t even know what he’s asking for. He already feels like he’s asked for so much despite how it was his boyfriend that coaxed him into letting go. Just don’t think. Leave everything to me, he’d said, and god, does Pran want to, so he does. The hand on his stomach presses down, and the shallow little thrusts against him start becoming sharper, more purposeful. Pran struggles to open his eyes, and he would have closed them again if not for the way Pat looks down at him—open and honest, completely taken. “Please.”
“I got you, baby,” Pat assures him again, still so heartfelt despite how heated his words were a moment ago. He hikes Pran’s leg up a bit more, moving against him shallowly now as he descends onto him, chest to chest. Like this, Pat’s able to kiss everywhere he can reach: Pran’s chest and his collarbone, the curve of his neck and even his ear, right along the slopes of the cartilage that shape it. Pran shudders against him, hoarse moans slipping out of his mouth and rushing past Pat’s ear. “You feel so damn good, Pran; you always take me so well, so fucking easy, don’t you? God, we were made for each other.”
Pran groans, garbled and messy, his words not sounding like words at all—but like always, Pat understands him. He understands that Pran wants more, that he needs more, that his mind may still be a jumbled mess of life mixed with the moment now, that he’d much rather float and drown in the two of them right now than he would anything else outside this room.
Pat snakes a hand up from his thigh, ghosting past Pran’s hard, twitching cock and past his stomach, his chest, and finally up to his neck. His hips roll forward as the thumb side of his hand slides up the tough cartilage of Pran’s throat, pressing down briefly only to hear the hitch of his breath and the high, wanton moan that follows. “Baby,” he murmurs, and Pran must know what he’s asking, what he’s trying to find would be alright—because despite having a large chunk of the control, Pat doesn’t want anything Pran wouldn’t want. “Pran, baby,” he murmurs again, followed by a sharp thrust and a kiss to the jaw.
In answer, Pran tilts his chin up, a shaky breath rushing out of him as he bears his throat, and who is Pat to deny either of them such raw certainty, such heady trust?
He’s gentle as he lays his hand to Pran’s throat, gentle as he rolls his hips deliberate and sweet, lazy but with a firm purpose. Beneath him, a strangled noise leaves his boyfriend, a mix between a moan and a sob, but then Pran’s intoning, again and again, like the words are a mere prayer he’s murmured countless times before, knelt on his knees with his head inclined to an illusion of a god.
Please. Want you, need you, please.
He’s still gentle, even with the spike of arousal that clouds his brain and leaves him feeling stupid with it. Trust is a heady, intoxicating thing, and Pat wants nothing more than to praise Pran for it, to give him anything and everything he’d ever need, if only Pat would be allowed to keep this sacred trust safe again—so that’s exactly what he does.
When he leans away, extracting himself for the innermost comfort of Pran’s presence, it is completely without regret.
“You’re too good to me,” Pat tells him softly, such a stark contrast to how he’s pressing the pads of his fingers firmly against the sides of Pran’s neck. He feels the stutter and strum of Pran’s pulse, feels his skin catch fire and his cock jump between them, hard and wet and too neglected for how good he’s been. Pat keeps his grip steady as he eases out of his boyfriend, slow and intentional as he watches the way Pran’s mouth falls open; and then he’s slamming back in, sharp and not gently at all. It jostles Pran upward, the sound that leaves him strangled and caught in his throat. “So perfect, Pran, and all for me,” he praises, slowly loosening the grip he has on Pran’s neck. “You know I’m yours too, right? I’m all yours, Pran, been yours for so long.”
With another garbled sound, Pran’s nodding his head, gasping and shuddering as his throat bobs beneath Pat’s hand.
“That’s my boy,” Pat murmurs, not unkindly as he tightens his fingers to Pran’s neck, careful of the pressure against his throat. He snakes his other hand down, smearing the mess of precum against Pran’s stomach, marveling at the way his muscles jump and tighten beneath his touch. “Are you close, baby? Ready to let go?” Pat asks, rubbing the dark head of Pran’s dick with his middle finger. When he feels Pran’s throat bob beneath his hand, he glances up at him, taking in the weak way he’s nodding and the saliva that slides down his chin. “Wanna let go, Pran? Want me to take care of you?”
Pran nods, over and over with a chorus of muddled affirmations.
“Do I do it well, Pran?” he asks, fingers tightening at the sides of Pran’s neck. His pulse hammers on, his skin burns hotter. “Do I take care of you just how you like?” he asks, his thrusts sharp but gentle enough, still managing to force his body upward. “Am I good, Pran? Am I good?”
“Fuck, please,” Pran rasps, broken and high pitched, his eyes barely open. “Yes, yes, fuck, yes—!”
“So fucking perfect,” Pat praises, his grip still firm on Pran’s neck as his other hand finally wraps around his neglected cock. Pran’s dick is hot and heavy in Pat’s hand, sopping wet with his own precum, but it makes jacking him off so much easier, so much headier. The sound of his hips slapping against Pran, combined with all of Pran’s disjointed sounds and the slick, wet sound of Pat’s hand around his boyfriend’s dick? If Pat could get addicted to a sound, if he could only touch himself to one thing for the rest of his life, it would be these sounds, filthy and obscene and so damn good. It all goes straight to his head and his dick, urging him onward, his thrusts keen and fast and not as gentle as he’d like them to be, but Pran doesn’t seem to mind.
Because beneath him, Pran’s muttering again, quiet little chants of please, fuck, shit, Pat, please. The words are raspy, catching in his throat, surely hard to force out with the firm grasp Pat has on his neck, but he doesn’t want to let up, not until he’s made Pran cum.
“Pran, baby, so good for me, so good to me; you’re so perfect,” Pat praises, gentle and loving, a strange addition to the blend of unforgiving thrusts and rolls of his hips, of the unyielding grip he’s got on his boyfriend’s neck, but it works so well. He twists his wrist on the stroke upward, rubbing the pad of his thumb to the slick slit of Pran’s dick, and tells him, still so gently, still so lovingly, “baby, let go, I got you, I got you,” and it comes with little surprise to him, that it pushes Pran over the edge.
He’s gasping, his breaths ragged and raw, but Pat doesn’t take away his grip entirely. His hand stays there, at Pran’s neck, feeling the stutter of his pulse and the jump of his throat as he comes undone, absolutely wrecked by each and every sensation that bombards him. Pran’s legs are shaking, his muscles twitching, and the full-body shiver that courses through him seems endless, especially as Pat continues to thrust into him, grinding and rolling his hips as he helps Pran ride out his high.
“Pat,” Pran rasps out between his groans and his gasps, “cum, cum inside me.”
“F-Fuck, you’re—“ Pat gasps, his hips stuttering and his grip fluctuating. He doesn’t loosen his hold, but he does allow himself to fall forward, basking once again in the innermost comfort of his boyfriend’s presence, “y-you’re sure?”
“Yes, yes, please, Pat,” he begs, and with a few more sharp, faltering thrusts, Pat cums inside of him, his moans muddled in the crook Pran’s neck, but it’s not unwelcomed at all. Pran’s hand is quick to thread through the messy locks of hair at the back of Pat’s head, his praise and every endearment soft and sometimes hoarse as he grows more sensitive, but he doesn’t want to tell Pat to stop his gentle, barely-there thrusts. It’s a good sort of ache, this rawness, and he’s sure he’ll feel it later, and in the morning, and maybe even three days from now. “Pat, honey,” Pran murmurs, the corners of his mouth twitching up in a weak smile as Pat’s fingers twitch against his neck, his attention undoubtedly caught. “So good, honey. I love you.”
Pat hums, a delighted little noise that has Pran’s stomach swooping, low and dangerous, and then it swoops even further. Pran doesn’t get a chance to voice his surprise, too caught up in the tenderness of Pat’s hand slipping from his neck only to be replaced by his lips. His head is still sort of tilted back, his neck still exposed, so it’s easy for Pat to kiss each spot where his fingers had been.
Pat presses his lips to the spot where his thumb had been, soft and lingering before crossing over Pran’s throat and to the other side of his neck. His nose bumps against Pran’s jaw as he kisses where his forefinger had been, trailing down to the next faint red spot where his middle finger had been. He does this carefully, lovingly, so heartfelt that Pran feels every single emotion seep into his skin, sweetly, and with just the right amount of overwhelming.
When Pat kisses the place where his ring finger had been, Pran feels loved.
When Pat kisses the place where his pinkie had been, Pran feels cherished.
He swallows against the lump in his throat, his voice wobbly as he murmurs, “Honey.”
“Mm,” Pat hums, lips lingering where Pran’s pulse thrives. “Baby. How do you feel?”
Pran doesn’t have to think about it.
“Perfect.”