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It wasn’t a competition and then it was.
It was the back of Pran’s neck in a lecture driving Pat halfway to insanity and all the way to Pran pressed face first into a bathroom stall with Pat’s mouth on his nape and Pat’s hand down his pants.
It was Pat’s stretches at rugby practice, appearing what Pran had referred to as obscene in between one bruise and the next sucked into Pat’s inner thigh on a locker room bench.
It was Pran’s fingers around a pen, it was Pat’s sweaty abs, it was a race up the stairs.
It was a lot of things.
And then it was a competition.
Who exactly started it is still a point of contention, but Pat is firmly convinced that Pran was the first one to make a deliberate choice in the form of a fitted t-shirt. It had been both uncharacteristic and new, and it clung to his body in places that Pat could withstand for half a class before making a beeline for his car. He’d made it as far as two pumps of his cock before the door opened and Pran tumbled into the backseat with him, and it had taken him all of a minute to paint Pran, and the shirt, in streaks of cum.
Pran maintains that Pat started it with excessive nudity for a university campus, but ever since Pran had brought him so efficiently and devastatingly to his knees, it had been a competition in all senses of the word, sealed in fist bumps and raised eyebrows and muttered challenges.
Pat doesn’t think they’re ever going to declare a winner, and why would they?
The result is the same whether it is Pran’s eyes boring through him like smouldering fire as Pat pours water over his head, or if it is Pran’s legs in shorts spread wide on a bench too close to the rugby field to be a coincidence. Either way Pat is going to end up in a corner of campus with Pran’s lips under his and Pran’s hands on his skin, and that, in itself, is a victory.
For the purpose of appearance though, he squeaks an appropriate number of complaints past the arm over his windpipe as Pran drags him around a corner into a dimly lit hallway and then shoves him up against a wall and smacks a folder into his chest.
“What?” he gasps after the impact, but can’t stop the smile on his face at the way Pran glowers at him, then the folder, then him again.
“You said you weren’t gonna help,” Pran says, and he sounds almost angry, but he’s stepping closer and shoving his hands under Pat’s shirt at the same time, so Pat figures it’s the good kind.
“Surprise!” He says it with another smile, and Pran chokes out a half-aborted moan like it’s been punched out of him.
“Pat, it’s colour coded,” he grinds out through his teeth like it pains him, and Pat would be worried that it’s the wrong type of colour coding if it wasn’t for Pran’s hands already working on the buttons of his shirt.
“Pran, wait, let me put it down,” he says when Pran starts leaning in, and Pran’s eyes widen as he looks back down at the folder squished between them before gingerly taking it from Pat’s hands to set it down on the floor.
It had seemed like a simple gesture at the time, to help Pran put together a folder of activities for their upcoming beach trip, using Pran’s own travel itinerary as inspiration. Leaving it for Pran to discover as he woke up had proven slightly trickier given their general disposition, but the early Thursday morning lecture had for once come to Pat’s advantage, and he’d left the folder on the counter where Pran had, evidently, found it.
The intensity of his eyes when he turns back to Pat is enough to make him sag back against the wall, and really, if he had any idea of how effective this would be, he might have saved it for a more private occasion. It’s always fun to make Pran snap in public, but now he has that look about him like he’s going to fuck Pat into the bed until he cries, and Pat almost mourns the distance between them and the safety of their flat.
That is, until Pran flattens his hands against the wall on both sides of Pat’s head and leans in to fit his lips, then his teeth, around Pat’s bottom lip in a move that effectively wipes his brain of everything else.
He pulls back, dragging Pat’s lip with him before letting go, and Pat feels heat lick up his spine when Pran moves far enough to look him in the eyes again, the curve of his upper lip already shiny with spit.
They stand still for another beat, and then they move as one, Pran’s hands back on his shirt buttons, Pat’s hands in Pran’s hair, and their mouths open against each other.
It’s a familiar dance at this point, one they’ve practised in a million different ways, and Pat meets Pran’s frantic energy beat for beat—sucking his upper lip into his mouth until it’s red and puffy, one hand tugging on the soft hair at the nape of Pran’s neck and the other shoved unceremoniously under Pran’s shirt to pinch a nipple.
He swallows all the noises it elicits, meeting Pran’s tongue with his own again and again, and he’s pretty sure the sound of their lips alone is echoing through the hallway, but it’s hard to think with the taste of Pran’s lips on his tongue and the feeling of Pran’s skin under his hands. It’s intoxicating, the way it always is, to be surrounded by him so fully, the warm scent of his cologne mixing with the unique smell of his sweat and the faint powdery notes of his shampoo until Pat feels drunk on it.
He slips a hand into the back of Pran’s pants to drag him closer, the soft skin yielding under his fingers as he digs them in, and he’s halfway through mentally calculating the quickest route to Pran’s cock in his ass when his index finger connects with wet skin and Pran moans into his mouth.
It takes another few seconds for his brain to catch up, and by the time he realises what Pran has done his index finger has already slipped inside his slick and ready hole on autopilot.
He has barely moved it before Pran’s lips go slack against his, soft moans falling into the air between them, and when he pulls back to look at him, he looks gone already, shiny lips parted as he pants and his eyes slipping shut.
Pat can’t resist leaning forward to press a kiss to the side of his mouth, right where it meets the soft skin of his cheek.
“Have you been waiting for this all day, baby?” he murmurs against his skin, and even if it’s barely past noon, Pran still whines and drops his head down until it’s resting on Pat’s shoulder, face pressed up against Pat’s neck.
Experimentally, Pat pushes his finger more firmly into him, pulling him impossibly closer every time he slides it out and then back in, and Pran moans with every thrust, a puff of hot air against Pat’s throat and a brush of his lips.
He pictures Pran on their bed, lecture forgotten in favour of stretching himself open with his long fingers, his cock hard and neglected between his legs. Pat knows he’d have been quick and methodical, preparing himself just enough to still be wet and ready for when he managed to track Pat down.
“You want it?” he says, the words are barely out of his mouth before Pran moans again, louder than before, and nods against Pat’s shoulder.
“Here?” he adds, because he needs to be sure, and Pran’s eyes are half lidded and hazy when he pulls back to look at Pat, but he still manages a sarcastic tilt of his eyebrow as his hands move to demonstratively yank at Pat’s belt buckle.
“Well, Pat…” A tug, a pair of lips at the edge of Pat’s jaw.
“I didn’t strip naked…” The clink of a belt buckle, Pran’s voice dipping lower until it’s almost a whisper.
“And finger myself…” Pat’s body drags forward with Pran’s grip on his waistband as he pulls the button open, and Pat realises that both his hands are back on Pran’s waist, holding on for dear life.
“For you not to fuck me,” Pran finishes as he gives Pat’s earlobe a nibble and shoves his hand into the opening of Pat’s jeans.
He palms Pat’s cock once over his underwear before pushing at the waistband with one hand, and wrapping the other around him, pumping his hand a few times. It’s rough and it’s dry, and Pran is groaning into his ear like he’s the one getting jerked off, and it’s so good Pat almost loses it before Pran gets to the third stroke.
“Pran, Pran, Pran, wait,” he says, and fits a hand around Pran’s wrist in an attempt to stop him from ending the party before it’s even begun.
When Pran pulls back he’s pouting and his brows are furrowed, an expression far too adorable for the situation, but it morphs into another wanton moan when he glances down at where his hand is still wrapped around Pat’s cock.
The next time his eyes meet Pat’s, the fire is back, and before Pat has a chance to react, Pran has spun them around so his own back is against the wall. He yanks Pat’s head closer for another bruising kiss, and kisses him until Pat manages to think past his impending orgasm for long enough to start yanking at the buttons of Pran’s jeans.
Pran spins around the second his zipper is down and plants his hands where he had them before, except Pat is behind him now, and Pran is pushing his ass out in a way that leaves Pat no choice but to reach out and yank his jeans and underwear down.
He sees the lube now, glistening against Pran’s skin, and as he reaches down to touch, he imagines Pran—clean, proper, put-together Pran—on the way here, packed into a warm bus and able to feel it rubbing against his boxers with every move. He wonders if he sat down. He wonders if he liked it. He wonders what else Pat might drive him to do.
“Pat, please.”
Pran’s strangled voice brings him out of it, and he looks down at where his hands are spreading Pran’s ass, thumb rubbing over his hole to watch it twitch hungrily.
“Yeah, okay, fuck, okay,” he says, bracing himself before grabbing his cock and lining it up, pushing inside until his hips are pressed against Pran’s ass, and exactly how close he is hits him like a freight train.
“Fuck,” he says again, forehead sliding against the top of Pran’s spine with sweat when he leans against him.
“Pat, I swear,” Pran grinds out through clenched teeth, one hand reaching back to grab Pat’s ass and squeezing.
“Just give me… a second,” he says with a gasped breath, willing his cock to behave for at least a minute.
Pran, to his credit, gives him a second, his hand relaxing and his head dropping down between his shoulders until all Pat can reach with his lips is the knob at the top of his spine. He smells so much like Pran there, at the back of his neck, and it’s both grounding and maddening to press close and breathe him in until the white hot flames at Pat’s heels mellow into a smouldering fire.
He rocks forward, just barely, and Pran gasps. Pat runs a soothing hand up and down his side underneath the shirt before fitting both hands over the softest parts of Pran’s hips.
“Ready?”
In reply, Pran clenches around his cock and yanks him forward by the hand still resting on Pat’s ass, and all Pat can do is dig his fingers in and drag him back as he begins thrusting.
Pat, to his credit, does last at least three minutes, the obscene sound of their skin slapping together echoing in the empty hallway. At one point, he swears he hears voices coming down an adjacent corridor and presses Pran up against the wall, going still against him.
Pran hisses “what the fuck?” under his breath, but he also fits his lips around the forearm he has braced against the wall in an attempt to muffle his moans.
They stay like that for the longest thirty seconds of Pat’s life until he’s sure that they’re in the clear, but even then, he remains plastered against Pran’s back, one hand moving around his body to grab one of his tits, teasing the nipple between two fingers.
Slowly, he rotates his hips, still buried deep as he grinds against Pran’s ass, feeling every minute quiver of Pran’s body and hearing every muffled whine, savouring every second of it.
He presses his nose against the sweaty hair at the nape of Pran’s neck as he feels the fire building again, pushing him up against the wall with every thrust.
“Come on, baby, fill me up,” Pran mutters right as Pat opens his mouth to taste his skin, and it’s all he can take before the fire roars back to life and he rolls his hips against him one last time before following his order and filling him up.
He keeps going, hips thrusting enough to send little shocks of pleasure through him, and Pran always takes it so beautifully, body curving back into Pat’s and skin sensitive everywhere Pat’s wandering fingers travel.
He’s dragging his hand down the front of Pran’s torso, feeling the soft curves of him all the way down to the fold of his tummy when he realises that neither of them are wearing t-shirts that can be used for cleanup.
“Ah… shit,” he mutters, using his hold on Pran to keep him from moving away.
Pran tenses, then seems to follow the same line of reasoning as Pat.
“You don’t have a towel?” He sounds slightly agonised.
“Can you see my gym bag anywhere? No, I don’t have a towel.”
“Pat,” he says, voice sharp, like scolding him is going to solve all his problems.
In all honesty, Pat should have anticipated this. In fact, he did anticipate this, encourage it even, and yet it seems like he spent all his brain power on getting the colour coding right and none of it on bringing something to wipe his fucking dick with.
“We need to go home anyway,” he tries, even if he knows it’s not gonna work, like Pran is going to let either of them walk out of here with cum stains on their clothes, and Pran’s next “Pat” is more strained than the last.
Pat looks down at where his hips are still pressed close to Pran’s ass, where he can feel cum starting to leak around his softening cock, and doesn’t so much make a decision to drop to his knees as his body makes the decision for him, and before he knows it he’s face to face with Pran’s ass.
“Pat, what are you— oh,” Pran starts, but Pat doesn’t let him finish, leaning forward to lick a stripe up from his balls to his hole, fitting his lips around where Pran is leaking steadily. He hears a muffled moan, like Pran has stuffed his arm into his mouth again, and he wants to yank it away, wants to hear him moan freely, but it would be an impossible task to pull away now with the taste of Pran, and himself, on his tongue.
He gets his wish nearly granted when he puckers his lips and sucks, a rush of his own cum filling his mouth, and Pran shouts around his mouthful of arm, a sound that echoes down the hallway, making Pran whimper in what Pat knows from experience is embarrassment. He also knows, from experience, that Pran doesn’t mind, and when he sucks again, Pran is back to moaning.
It is a little intoxicating, to taste the tangible proof of his claim and to know how much Pran can take of him. More so, the fact that Pran enjoys it, his cock hard and leaking when Pat brings one of his hands around to wrap around it, is enough to drive Pat slightly mad.
He doesn’t know why, but he likes it, the same way he likes anything that makes Pran a little messy, like Pat is leaving a permanent mark, burrowing inside until there’s no part of Pran he hasn’t touched, no part of him that can be claimed by someone else.
He likes Pran with cum running down his legs, shiny in the low light of their flat as he lets Pat trace his fingers through it like an abstract painter before dragging him into the shower.
He likes Pran when he’s filled to the brim with Pat’s release and Pat stays inside him long after he goes soft, both of them eager to feel the connection for as long as possible.
He likes waking up with Pran’s lips wrapped around his cock, neither of them getting any warning before Pran sputters around a mouthful of cum, spilling it on Pat’s stomach, getting it smeared all over his own face when he drops down to rest his cheek on it after.
The memories alone are enough to make Pat moan, and he opens his mouth wider to lick inside, feeling Pran clench around his tongue, tasting more of him now that he’s starting to empty.
“Pat.”
His name falls from Pran’s lips in a near sob, and Pat feels his cock pulse where he’s still got his hand wrapped around it.
He pulls back slightly to spin Pran around and pin him to the wall before leaning forward to wrap his lips around his cock, and he barely makes it halfway down before he feels Pran’s hips jerk forward and the familiar taste of him on his tongue.
Pran’s hands drop to Pat’s head as he swallows down as much as he can, and Pran’s thumbs catch the drops that escape his lips, smearing them across his cheeks.
In the end, he likes it just as much as Pat likes it, marking and being marked. He is a whole lot of complaints wrapped into a more than willing body, his mouth cursing Pat for his lack of foresight while his hands pull him closer. He’s a walking set of contradictions, like a finely tuned clockwork that Pat is slowly, but certainly learning all the inner workings of.
He has pushed back against Pran’s denial for as long as he can remember, and even if it wasn’t always intentional, it was always second nature to tease, to poke, to challenge, to contradict.
The news that Pran likes it is unsurprising perhaps only because Pat likes it, and their experiences have always been twofold, bouncing off each other and getting absorbed until the inevitable conclusion that nobody gets them quite like they get each other.
And so Pat sucks Pran through his orgasm and then some, until Pran’s hands turn to fists in his hair and his body twitches like it wants to escape. He lets out a pained whimper when Pat pulls nearly all the way off just to run his tongue up the underside of the sensitive head of his cock, and then makes another pitiful sound when Pat lets it go, like he doesn’t truly want it to end.
Pat looks up at him as he takes several gulps of air and then leans forward to lick him one last time, anticipating the way it makes Pran’s knees buckle and stopping him from falling with his hands firm on his hips, helping him with getting the jeans over his ass before he lands on the floor.
“Fucking… asshole,” Pran sighs as he slides down the wall to land in a heap in front of Pat.
His hair is sticking to his temples with sweat, and Pat thinks that even if he’s not covered in cum there is no mistaking the scent coming off him, and they’re both just going to have to accept that as they make their way to Pat’s car, ideally without having to dodge any familiar faces.
It’s not why they do this, but there is something extra enticing about the sight of Pran slumped back against the dreary grey wall of their university with his jeans barely pulled up and his cock still shiny where it’s lying against his abdomen.
They don’t belong here, and yet they do, their whole relationship doomed to keep to the shadows, hidden in plain sight, a secret, but a badly kept one.
Pat smirks over at him, then gets on all fours to crawl over his body until his face is hovering an inch from Pran’s.
“What?” Pran says with a raised eyebrow, not giving an inch, and Pat just lets his smile widen a fraction before dropping down, tucking his nose against the clammy skin at the edge of Pran’s shirt and inhaling.
“Weirdo,” Pran says under his breath, but one of his hands comes up to pet Pat’s sweaty hair, and when Pat pulls off a few minutes later, he sniff kisses Pat’s messy cheek without hesitation, his eyes crinkling into happy crescent moons even as he wrinkles his nose.
“You love me,” Pat says with a kiss to the tip of his nose, and Pran rolls his eyes, but he can’t hide his dimples no matter how much he suppresses the smile, and so Pat kisses him there too for good measure, once on every cheek.
“Okay, get off me you big dog, we need a shower,” is Pran’s only reply when Pat pulls away, punctuated with a slap to Pat’s ass.
Pat does not get off. Not immediately anyway. He tucks his head close one last time to suck an obnoxiously wet kiss onto Pran’s collarbone before narrowly escaping another slap, stumbling over the jeans still stuck around his ankles in his haste to get away.
He feels almost giddy, watching Pran button his jeans and smooth his hands down the front of his shirt like that is going to make any difference. He looks rumpled and satisfied and though his eyes are teetering on the edge of panic when he looks over at the state of Pat, he still looks more relaxed than Pat has seen him in days, and his eyes melt when they meet Pat's. He also accepts the kiss that Pat presses to his lips easily, soft and mellow, before pulling away to scoop the folder off the floor.
“Come on, we have a trip to plan,” he says decisively before brushing past Pat and heading to the end of the hallway, and he doesn’t even stop Pat from following him out into the sunshine, another fuck you, world in a long line of fuck you, world’s that make up their little rebellion, and Pat would make a thousand folders if it meant pushing them closer to a world that is theirs, but the beauty of it is, he thinks, that he doesn’t need to.