Archive of Our Own

“Hello?” Wes says into his phone as he shuts the door behind him, slightly irritated. He came into the bathroom to jerk off in peace. He’s not even sure why he bothered answering a random number in the middle of the night anyway. 

“Hey, it’s me,” replies a voice on the other end of the line, and Wes knows that voice anywhere. 

“Fred Durst?” Wes questions incredulously after a pause, his eyebrows raised, and his back presses against the closed door with a soft thud.

“The one and only, baby,” Fred confirms, immediately sounding obnoxious to Wes. 

“Honestly, I can’t believe you still have my number.” 

“What’re you doin’?” Fred asks, completely ignoring Wes’s comment, his words slurring slightly. There is no fucking way that Fred is drunk calling him right now. 

“Are you fucking drunk?” Wes questions.

“No,” Fred says immediately, giggling slightly. 

“Do you think I’m stupid?” Wes asks, rolling his eyes. “I don’t have time for this.” 

“Right,” Fred fires back sarcastically. “I’m sure you’re really busy right now on a tour bus in the middle of the night.” 

“You know, why did you even bother to ask what I’m doing if you’re just gonna assume?” Wes snaps, and wow, Fred’s always gotten on his nerves, but usually it takes at least a little bit longer than this for him to annoy Wes. He takes note of the fact that Fred’s aware of Black Light Burns touring; it seems as though he’s been keeping tabs on Wes. 

“Why did you even bother asking if I’m drunk if you’re just gonna assume?” Fred questions derisively.

Okay, Wes is done with conversation. He’s already chomping at the bit to jack off real quick anyway, and he’s certainly not going to waste his time talking to someone who’s just going to put him in a bad mood when he could have a hand around his dick right now. 

“I’m hanging up,” Wes declares. “You’re already pissing me off. This is one of the major reasons why we don’t talk, remember?” 

“No, don’t!” Fred protests in his signature whine. 

Wes sighs. “What do you want, Fred?” 

The line is silent for a few beats. 

“I miss you,” Fred admits softly, his voice uncharacteristically genuine and vulnerable all of a sudden. He always tries not to let his tender spots show, but usually his emotional fragility makes its inevitable appearance in ways that people who don’t truly know Fred wouldn’t catch. This, however, is a rather direct approach for Fred, which Wes chalks up to him being under the influence. 

“You’re drunk. Go to bed,” Wes responds, nonplussed. This is the last thing he wants to deal with at the moment.

“‘M serious, Wesley,” Fred insists. Really? He’s full-naming Wes? How drunk is he? 

“Fred…” 

Wes doesn’t really know what to say to him. It’s not like Wes is happy about how things ended with Fred, with the band. And it isn’t as though Wes doesn’t care about him anymore, either—Wes knows that he always will. There hasn’t been a second since he met Fred that Wes didn’t care about him. 

“I’m sorry,” Fred says, and he’s whining again. “I-I ruined everything and it’s all my fault. I was—I—fuck, I don’t even know what I’m fuckin’ sayin’, I just know that I’m sorry. And I’m missing you like shit.” 

Wes doesn’t say anything for close to a minute, thinking hard about how he’s going to respond. In the end, he decides to just be honest. 

“I miss you too,” he admits softly, sighing and tucking his hair behind his ear.

“Really?” Fred asks, sounding perturbed. 

“Does that surprise you?” 

“Yes,” Fred says quickly, like he doesn’t even have to think about it. 

“Why?” Wes questions, and feels a slight sting of hurt in his chest. 

Sure, they’ve certainly gone through stretches where they fought often, but it isn’t as though Wes had been horrible to Fred. They’d always had a mutual understanding that, despite their differences, they respected each other’s talents and cared about each other on a personal level. They’ve known each other for over a decade and shared some of the most pivotal moments of their lives together. 

“You left,” Fred says, and there it is: the hurt in his voice. Wes had anticipated this.

Fred is so sensitive and takes everything so personally. Once again, Wes is silent for a few moments, gathering his thoughts. Fred has always had his own unique interpretation of every conflict he’s ever faced, and no one has ever been able to convince him that anything other than his perception of events has any sort of truth or validity to it. He gets so blinded by his own pain that he can’t see reason. Fred is stubborn. Wes is stubborn too. This is one of the main reasons the two of them have always butted heads. 

“To be honest with you, man, I don’t think that this is the right time to have this conversation,” Wes says, trying to sound as gentle as possible even though he is a little bit irritated. “You’re drunk, I’m tired, and I think that we each have our own perception of what happened. We’re not gonna hash this out on the phone right now.” 

Now Fred is silent for a few moments. 

“What are you doin’ right now?” Fred asks, and Wes is grateful for the subject change.

“Just laying down,” Wes lies immediately. Fred doesn’t have to know that he’s standing with a hand on his hip and his back leaning against the bathroom door. “I was about to try to sleep when you called me.” 

“Oh, ‘m’sorry,” Fred mumbles dejectedly. 

“Stop apologizing,” Wes insists, and he never thought that’s something he would say to Fred, who’s almost always acted as though he can do no wrong, whether he truly feels that way or not. Fred is terrified of what others think and of fucking up, but once he makes a decision he stands his ground, and things have to be exactly how Fred wants them. 

“Wish I was there with you,” Fred says after another pause, and one of Wes’s eyebrows quirks with interest. 

How odd. He’s not quite sure why Fred would say something like that to him. He moves his phone to his other hand and switches the ear that he’s holding it against. 

“Oh, really? And why is that?” Wes questions, a hint of contempt in his voice. God, he’s an asshole. Maybe Fred had a point when he used to tell him that. 

Fred exhales shakily. “I want—fuck, never mind. Go to bed.” 

Wes’s mouth opens slightly in confusion with a hint of affront. Where is Fred going with this? He’s so fucking weird. And drunk, Wes reminds himself. But, to be completely honest, it doesn’t seem to Wes that Fred is three sheets to the wind or anything, so he isn’t quite sure what to think. 

“No, I’m intrigued now,” Wes pries. “What do you want?” 

“I just want—I want—,” Fred begins, and then sighs. “D’you remember back in the day when I told ya that I didn’t like you dressin’ as a girl?” 

What possible motive could Fred have for bringing this up? Wes had completely forgotten about it until right now. Fred had better not apologize to him about it or something asinine like that, since contrition seems to be his M.O. tonight. 

“Um, yeah, I guess? I don’t really understand what that has to do with—“ 

“It wasn’t ‘cause I didn’t like it. It was ‘cause I-I thought you were so fucking hot and it freaked me out,” Fred admits, and Wes’s jaw drops the rest of the way, eyebrows raising. No way. There is absolutely no fucking way Fred’s doing this right now. “After you stopped doing it I just kinda pushed it outta my mind, but lately I’ve been thinkin’ about it again. And I’ve been thinking about you, and how part of me had always wondered—always wanted, um. Fuck, ion' know. You can hang up if you want; I know how this must sound.”

Holy shit. Fred’s coming onto him, isn’t he? This is so out of the blue. Wes can’t say that he never picked up the barest hint of the vibe that Fred may have been into him, but he tried to never put much thought into it; he had always been certain that Fred wouldn’t ever address or act on it even if he actually had been interested. Wes is enthralled and he has to see where this is going—has to see what exactly Fred is trying to get at. 

“It kind of sounds like you wanted to fuck me while I was dressed as a girl and at some point you realized that you still do, so you got drunk and called me,” Wes says matter-of-factly, because he’s simply not going to beat around the bush. “That’s how it sounds to me.” 

“Well, when you put it that way—“

“What exactly did you think about us doing?” Wes interrupts, and at this point he’s trying to see if this conversation can escalate to a level where it’s whack-off material, as he is in the bathroom for a reason, after all. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other and scratches his head. 

Personally, he’s never been against the idea of fucking around with Fred. Quite the opposite, actually. Wes still has a sexual fantasy or two that he pulls out of the depths of his prefrontal cortex on occasion. Funnily enough, it’s usually when he’s half in the bag, which seems to be a running theme between the two of them, based on Fred’s behavior tonight. He hears the sound of Fred taking a swig of something that he has to imagine is beer, as that has always been Fred's typical vehicle in terms of becoming inebriated. 

“Well—I—a lot of different things,” Fred confesses. “But I think what I thought about the most was bending you over, pushin’ up that little fuckin’ skirt you used to wear, and fucking you. I always thought it’d be just like fuckin’ a girl.”

Wes snorts and rolls his eyes. Yeah, right. He's stuck mentally between shock that Fred's admitting this to him, and amusement because of how ass-backward Fred's fantasy is. 

“There is absolutely no way I ever would have let you fuck me,” Wes jeers, and it isn’t as though he’s dead set against getting fucked. It’s just that what he wants to do to Fred he’s thought about doing with Fred involves Wes on the opposite end. 

“I didn’t say—“ Fred starts quickly and defensively. 

“But I can’t say that I’ve never thought about fucking you.” 

“Huh?” Fred mutters dumbly. 

“You heard me,” Wes replies firmly. “You’ve always tried to put on this playboy bravado front and have always been so loud and obnoxious. I’d be lying if I said the thought of having you on your back and shutting you up for a minute hadn’t crossed my mind a few times.” 

More than a few, but Fred doesn't need to know that. He also doesn’t need to know how many times Wes has come in his hand from the thought of Fred taking his cock while he begs Wes to please give him more, do it harder, faster. Wes has fantasized so much about the feeling of Fred and himself putting their hands and mouths all over each other, hungry and greedy, with Wes buried deep inside him, that he’s convinced he damn near already knows what it feels like. 

“‘M not fuckin’ gay, bro,” Fred insists, and Wes is once again reminded that he can’t stand him; he acts like such an idiot sometimes. 

“Shut the fuck up, dipshit, I never said that you were,” Wes snaps, very clearly annoyed, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing before he continues. “But you said you thought that fucking me would be like fucking a girl, and I’m just gonna tell you that nothing I would want to do with you would be anything like you being with a girl.” 

Wes really feels the need to drill this into Fred’s head and is more than secure enough in his own sexuality to do so. His own attraction to men is something that he came to terms with quite a few years ago, and it’s about time for Fred to stop annoying him with his feeble attempts at denial and just follow suit. 

Fred clears his throat. “Um.” 

“And you know what?” Wes continues, getting more irritated with every passing second. “You’re the one who called me—drunk, might I add—and randomly started talking about how you wanted to fuck me. Sounds pretty fucking gay, if you ask me. How straight do you think it would be if I threw on that old skirt that you apparently think about so much, pushed you onto your knees, and made you suck me off while I was wearing it? Maybe put on some makeup and a corset, too?” 

Wes hears Fred gasp, and even though he can’t see him, he can picture Fred’s astonished expression, his pink lips parted and eyes shining. The image prompts a smirk on his lips and his dick gives a slight stir of interest. 

“Fuck, Wes, what the hell? I don’t know, I guess—fuck—I guess it doesn’t even matter, anyway,” Fred says, flustered, and pauses for a moment before asking, “Is that somethin' that you want?” 

Does he want Fred to suck his dick? What a stupid question. 

“Would you even do it?” Wes asks, and the more he thinks about it the more he truly does want Fred to suck him off, and really, he has for a long time. He pictures Fred’s mouth, the shape of his lips, and imagines him on his knees, gazing up at Wes while he taps Wes's cock on his tongue. Shit, he’s actually getting hard from this—not that he should be surprised.

“Yeah, I would,” Fred confirms after a pause, his voice soft but surprisingly steady and sure. 

Wes’s lips curl into a satisfied smirk and he reaches his hand into his boxers and pulls his dick out, beginning to stroke it slowly, squeezing gently. He’s fully prepared to say the filthiest things he can think of to Fred to see what kinds of reactions he can get out of him. Fuck it, why not? Now that Fred has expressed his interest, Wes sees no reason to hold back.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Yeah, I’ve wanted to choke you on my cock ever since I met you. I wanna see those pretty blue eyes looking up at me, crying while you’re gagging on it.” 

Fred lets out a tiny little whine and says, “H-holy shit.” 

“Would you be good and swallow all of my cum? Let me slap you in the face every time you pull off my dick?” 

“Yeah, fuck, yes,” Fred groans. “I would for you, yeah.” 

“I’d make you feel so goddamn good if you could manage to behave, you know,” Wes offers. “I’m not an asshole. Well, I’m not enough of an asshole to choke you with my dick, hit you, and then give you nothing in return.”

Although, Wes thinks about it, and the idea of Fred gagging on his cock over and over, letting Wes slap him, and then being left aching and wanting is far from unappealing. Wes decides not to go there—that isn’t what he wants at this particular moment. What he wants right now is to show Fred pleasure that he’s never experienced, hear how he sounds when he’s falling apart for Wes, and watch his pretty face twist in ecstasy. He wants to feel Fred’s body underneath his, hot and soft and shaking while Wes fucks him. The more he ruminates, the more he realizes how much he wants from Fred and how much he wants to give to him. Wes so badly hopes that Fred is serious about all of this, because he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to handle the prospect of reaching this level of intimacy with Fred yet never being able to physically act on it.

“What would you do to me?” Fred asks heatedly, and Wes hears some muffled noises from the other end of the line that sound like clothing being rustled, and then a sigh.

Wes briefly thinks that it's insane how much this conversation has escalated, and that he can't believe how Fred is responding to the things Wes is saying to him. Things that Wes never thought he would actually verbalize to Fred in the first place, maintaining the assumption that they would be kept under wraps in the depths of his mind and only brought to the forefront when Wes was drunk with a hand around his dick. 

"You ever had anyone eat your ass?" Wes asks, raising his hand to his lips and spitting in his palm before wrapping his fingers around his cock again.

"N-no," Fred stammers. "I've never—honestly, nobody has, uh—I've never let—"

"What, you've never let anyone play with your ass before?" Wes interrupts impatiently. 

"Uh-huh," Fred confirms, and Wes thinks that's truly a damn shame. He pictures Fred's ass: smooth, plump, and round. In this moment, there's not much he wouldn't do to get his fingers and mouth and dick on it—and in it, for that matter. 

"Do you want me to?” Wes murmurs. “I'd fuck you with my tongue while I jerked you off. I would make it so good for you. String you out so bad that you’re moaning and begging me for more. Have you coming all over my hand." 

"Fuck," Fred hisses. "Now I do. I want you to. But..."

"What?" Wes demands fervently, because he's dying to know what Fred's thinking and what Fred wants. 

"I don't think I'd wanna come from that," Fred says, his voice almost a whisper.

"Oh? Why not, baby?" Wes questions, his tone sickly sweet. 

Fred's breaths become significantly more ragged after Wes's use of the pet name, which Wes duly notes, pondering what else Fred might like to be called. Wes swears that he hears a faint, slick sound through the speaker of his phone, and wonders if Fred can tell that he's jerking off, too. 

"I think I'd want you to h-hold me down and put your cock in me first," Fred admits in a breathy whine. 

Wes's dick pulses in his hand and his breath catches. He feels himself flush, his neck, ears, and cheeks heating. Where did that come from? So much for Fred’s insistence that he isn’t gay. Wes thinks of Fred under him, his arms around Wes’s neck and fingers in his hair, whimpering while he takes Wes’s dick. 

"Jesus Christ, Fred," Wes moans. "You sound pretty eager for someone who's never thought about getting fucked in the ass until I just brought it up a few minutes ago." 

"I have wanted it,” Fred confesses, sounding simultaneously embarrassed and wrecked with desire. “I just wouldn't have admitted it. Fuck, I couldn't even admit it when you asked me earlier—when you asked what I imagined you doing to me—I-I mean, us doing. It—it's embarrassing. I've never talked to anyone about it before."

Wes thinks that Fred sounds pitiful, and Wes also most definitely notices how Fred corrects himself when referring to Wes's earlier query. It doesn't come as a shock to him that Fred has these types of feelings toward bottoming, given the fact that he was trying to insist that he wasn’t into men mere minutes prior to this. The mean streak in Wes wants to play into that for his own sexual pleasure, but he decides that he won't exhibit that level of cruelty about it—at least, not right now. It’s imperative to him for Fred to know that Wes really does want this, that he really does want him, and he needs Fred to know that it's personal. 

"I disagree; I think your body was made to take dick. My dick, specifically. I don't think I'd ever get enough of you, fuck, once I had a taste I'd never be able to stop. You'd be so fuckin' sweet," Wes gushes hotly, and maybe he's laying it on a little thick, but he doesn't care; he's admittedly way more into this than he expected he'd be.

Not that he necessarily thought he wouldn't be into the concept of fucking Fred; he just didn't expect Fred to be so responsive, and especially not this quickly. Until now, this was nothing more than a fantasy for Wes, and he hadn't for a second entertained the notion that he might actually be able to experience it in any sort of real capacity. 

"Mm, ah," Fred mewls. "I would be good. I would try my best, Wes. Would wanna—would want it to feel good for you." 

Wes sucks in a breath, stroking himself faster. He never thought he'd get to hear Fred like this, whining and desperate for Wes. 

"I know you would, angel," Wes says, breathy but steady, wanting. "You would make me feel so good. I’d want you on your back so you could look at me while I fucked you. I bet it'd be hard to pretend I was a girl if you were under me, staring right at my face while my cock was in you, huh, Fred?" 

Wes knows that last part was wholly unnecessary, he knows it was callous and biting, but he simply couldn't help it. It’s just so enticing for him to tease Fred that he can’t always resist; he loves the reactions he gets out of the vocalist. 

"S-stop it, please, fuck," Fred all-but sobs, and Wes would probably feel bad if he weren't so turned on and determined. "I'm so far past that now. I was just telling myself that to try 'n' make myself feel better anyway—less ashamed, maybe. It was never really about that; it was about you, w-want you so fuckin' bad, Wes, please. Fuck, a-anything." 

"Fffuck, I wish you could see how hard you're making me. God, you sound so fucking hot and desperate," Wes grunts, and Fred really is doing it for him, making him feel crazed and red-hot. He listens intently to Fred's heaving breaths, wondering what he'll say next, hanging onto every single sound he hears from the other end of the line. 

"Let me see? Wanna see. S-send me a picture, please?" Fred asks, his voice soft and shy, like he had to muster up the courage to ask. Wes doesn't quite know why, but this request makes his stomach twist and his cock flex in his hand, and holy shit, Fred really just asked him for a nude. 

"Alright, hang on," Wes says after a long-winded moan. 

He pulls his phone away from his ear and opens up the camera on his phone, aiming it at his cock, gripping the base in his hand, and snapping a photo. He looks at it briefly, looks at how it's hard, veiny, flushed, and slightly leaking, determines that it's of sufficient quality to share with Fred, and sends it with minimal hesitation. Honestly, Wes has no issue with anyone seeing his dick—he's never had a complaint about it, appearance-wise or performance-wise. He returns his phone to his ear and resumes his steady strokes of his cock, waiting to hear Fred's reaction to the photo. 

Wes smirks when he hears Fred gasp. 

"See what you do to me?" Wes breathes, once again imagining a mystified look on Fred’s gorgeous, flushed face. 

"What the fuck? It's so big. I—whoa,” Fred jabbers, sounding dumbfounded. 

"You had to have known that, come on," Wes brushes off, though the grin never leaves his face; it never gets old, hearing people tell you how big your dick is. "You've seen it before."

"Not like this, when you're hard and holding it like that, w-when you're telling me you wanna fuck me," Fred exclaims shrilly, and pauses for a few seconds before adding, "Oh my God. I want your cock in me right now—fuck—y-you'd make me feel so good 'n' full." 

"Yeah, fuck, wouldn't you look so pretty taking it? Begging me for it harder and faster. I'd put my hand around your throat and then make you come. Or would you rather I kissed you while I did it, babe?" Wes prompts, knowing how much that sort of intimacy matters to Fred: mouths against one another, a face pressed into a neck, two sets of fingers laced together.

"I-I'd want you to squeeze my throat while you finish in me, and then kiss me while I came all over your hand—fuck, I want your mouth, ‘n’ just imagining you choking me while you fill me with your cum is getting me so hot," Fred answers, so quickly that Wes knows it must have been his most immediate and unbridled thought.

Wes groans and slides his back down the bathroom door until he's sitting on the floor, legs parted, with his cock in his hand and jutting out of his underwear. He's not sure what he expected Fred to say, but it certainly wasn't that. He imagines how Fred must look right now, laying in bed with his fingers wrapped around his dick, his eyes screwed shut and his pretty lips parted. Wes's cock flexes in his palm at the thought, a shock of heavy arousal running through it, and he bites his lip.

It occurs to him that this is bad. He didn't think he'd be in this deep; he didn't think he would want this so much. At this point, he suspects that he wouldn't have the willpower to stop this, though—so long as Fred still wanted to continue. Based on his behavior, Fred is most definitely into it, or at least the fantasy of it. But that's not all this is for Wes, and he feels almost overwhelmed by his desire to touch Fred, frenzied with his thoughts of all the things he wishes he could do to him. 

"God, it sounds like you really want this," Wes says, and he has to know. "You'd let me, really? Tell me the truth." 

"Fuck yes, I do—I would," Fred answers immediately, and Wes hears his breath hitch softly. "Wes, I'm so fucking horny, y-you know I'm jerkin' off, right? Feels fuckin' insane hearing you say this shit to me and knowing you are too." 

Doesn't Wes fucking know it. Suddenly an idea occurs to him, and he's not sure why he didn't think of it sooner.

"Yeah, baby? I want you to fuck your ass with your fingers while I talk to you and you think about my fat dick filling you," Wes commands, certain that Fred will do it.

Fred doesn't reply, but soon after Wes finishes his sentence he hears a wet slurping sound that he immediately knows is Fred sucking on his fingers, he would bet money on it. The sound of Fred stroking his dick that has been muffled in the background sharpens, and he realizes that Fred must have set his cell down and put it on speakerphone so that he could have his fingers in his mouth and a hand around his cock simultaneously. Shit, and there's another image that goes straight to Wes's dick. He loosens his grasp on himself slightly and slows the pace, knowing that if he doesn't, it won't take him much longer at all to finish, and he isn't ready for this to be over. It all feels surreal. 

"Fuck, I wish I could watch," Wes muses, imagining Fred's breath catching as he slips his fingers into himself, face contorting in pleasure while he rubs his prostate. 

Wes hears Fred's fingers leave his mouth with a wet popping noise that is most certainly deliberate, and he says, "You could do more than watch, Wes. You know where I am."

"I'll be in LA next month," Wes offers, not missing a beat. "Think you can wait that long?" 

"You're bein' serious?" Fred asks, half-sounding like he doesn't believe Wes.

"Dead serious," Wes stresses. "You think I don't want this? A hot, tight place to put my dick?" 

As if that's all it is to Wes. As if this doesn't go way beyond that for both of them. 

"That's so—I'm so—I feel—please," Fred mumbles, sounding whiny and increasingly distressed. "Tell me what you're gonna do to me when I see you."

"Shh," Wes coos. "Fuck yourself with your hand and pretend it's me getting you ready for my cock, baby." 

"'M s-starting," Fred says shakily after drawing in a breath. "Gonna need to be patient and have you stretch me good if I want to fit you in me." 

Surely Fred knows what he's doing when he brings up how big Wes is, whether it's implied or direct. Wes debates calling him out on it and teasing him, but unfortunately Fred's obvious tactic of attempting to use Wes's own ego to arouse him is working, so he gives Fred a pass. 

"Yeah, yeah, go slow,” Wes instructs. “I'll put three or four fingers in you, kiss you, and rub your dick while I open you up. You'll be so hard that you'll be begging me to put it in, whining and fucking squirming underneath me." 

"Oh, please," Fred mewls, and Wes adores the way Fred sounds when he's needy and yearning. "I want you to touch me so bad—so bad, wish your fingers were in me right now instead, your dick, your tongue, anything 'slong as you're doing it." 

"Put another finger in—God, you sound so desperate," Wes says smugly. "Bet you'd do anything for me to put my hands on you right now, wouldn't you?"

"I would," Fred whines quickly. "I want you, fuck, mmm." 

Wes bites down on his lip and has to take his hand off of his dick for a few seconds, because Fred almost just made him fucking come all over the bathroom floor when he said that. He doesn't want this to end yet. He can't recall the last time he felt this intoxicated by another person, and there must really be something wrong with him, because Fred isn't even there. He wraps his fingers around his shaft again, moving his hand over it, and imagines that it's Fred stroking his cock. He wonders what it would feel like, wonders how Fred would touch him, and wonders how—

"H-hey, Wes?" Fred breathes diffidently, and Wes doesn't know how long he's been in his head for. 

"Yeah?" Wes asks, not sounding as steady as he'd like, and he hopes that Fred won't notice. He hears Fred take a shaky breath, and finds himself dying to kiss him, blood rushing to his face; usually Wes can take or leave kissing, honestly, but the thought of Fred's mouth is driving him mad.

"I wanna make you come. I can't stop thinking about you coming inside me." 

Wes inhales sharply through his teeth. It's like Fred knows exactly what to say to turn him on the most, but Wes gets the feeling that this isn't the case, and that in turn makes it even hotter. Fred just doesn't even realize how he sounds. 

"Fuck, yeah?" 

"Yeah, while you choke me," Fred says, and his breath catches on a whine. "I-I'll just lie there and take it, squeeze my ass around your cock. Be a good hole for you." 

Wes gasps and pinches the end of his cock to stop himself from coming, biting his lip so hard that he tastes blood. He's determined to make Fred come before him, dammit, and he isn't going to break just because of a little bit of dirty talk from the singer. 

"You sound like a filthy fucking whore, just desperate to feel something in you ass," Wes groans. "Your fingers feeling good, sweetheart?" 

"Yeah, so good. I'm about to come, Wes, hhgnn. Ah." 

"Not until I say, you brat," Wes hisses, and to be honest, he's not quite sure where that just came from. It's not as though Wes isn't practically dying to finish, it's just that he still doesn't want this to end. He feels vaguely greedy for a moment before he remembers that he doesn't care, that his only focus should be his cock and Fred, and starts to stroke himself again.

"Oh, shit," Fred lets out, ragged and mewling. "Okay, yeah, but I'm close, please. I-I don't wanna come on accident—if I keep touching myself I won't be able to stop it." 

"Don't you dare stop," Wes orders, panting. 

Fred lets out a frustrated whine that Wes can't help but smirk at, and says, "'Snot fair, it feels so good, I can't—ah."

Fred is silent for a moment aside from heavy breaths, and Wes almost asks him what's wrong before Fred whimpers, "See? I'm achin'."

Wes's phone vibrates and he knows immediately what it must be. He opens his texts, sees a photo from Fred, and almost drops his phone. It's a picture of Fred's slick fingers in his hole, thighs spread, and his pink cock is hard and dripping precum. Because of Wes. Wes did that to him. He’s desperate and wet and leaking because of Wes. 

"Please, Wes?" Fred beseeches him, soft and breathy, and that's it for Wes. His stomach flips and his orgasm hits him so hard that he throws his head back and it hits the door, his balls tensing and his release spewing all over the bathroom tile. He moans with his mouth agape and he can't remember the last time he felt an orgasm this intense, blood thrumming through his veins and his cock hot and pulsing. His breathing is ragged and he's stunned for a few seconds. What the fuck? 

"Wes?" Fred asks with slight apprehension. 

"You just made me come so fucking hard, baby, holy shit," Wes breathes, and he's looking at the photo Fred sent him again, briefly noting that it will definitely be something that he returns to frequently. "Looks so hot when you fuck yourself, and your pretty cock is leaking for me—it's so cute."

Fred whimpers at the praise, and once again Wes thinks about how he must look: fucking himself on his hand and stroking his dick, moaning with his eyes shut tight and his eyebrows knitted because of how good it feels and how much he wants Wes. 

“I need—I-I wanna come so bad, please,” Fred begs, and Wes decides to see what Fred’s reaction will be if he’s denied release just one more time. He can’t get enough of how Fred sounds when he’s whiny and wanting. “I want your mouth, Wes, I want you kissing me while you make me come with your hand.”

”I really should let you after what you just did for me, but teasing you is so much fun,” Wes muses with condescension, and Fred groans miserably. “I can drag this out for as long as I want. Maybe I want to see how far I can push you. You’re just so adorable when you’re like this.” 

Fred lets out a strangled, desperate sob, and Wes smiles harder.

“No, stop, Wes, don’t be mean, please,” Fred snivels. Wes thinks he might actually be crying, and he can’t even bring himself to feel bad for how much the thought of Fred’s tears appeals to him right now. “”I’ll let you do anything you want to me: you can hit me, choke me, fuck my throat, whatever you want. Just please let me come, I’m begging you, I’m your bitch, I’m—“

”Jesus, Fred,” Wes interrupts, taking pity on him. “Okay, yeah, come for me. Let me hear you, baby.”

Fred wails out Wes’s name, drawing out the last consonant, loud and high pitched, and it sounds anguished to Wes, like Fred’s been holding out for days rather than minutes. Wes can picture Fred’s cock shooting white and his shut-tight eyes, agape mouth, and arched back so vividly that he wants to paint Fred coming—coming for him, all for him, all because of him. 

“Yeah, that’s it,” Wes coos. “So good for me. You’re perfect; you sound fucking gorgeous, coming with my name in your mouth.”

They’re both wordless for about a minute after Fred finishes, silent aside from each other’s heavy breathing and the occasional hitched inhale from Fred.

”Fred?” Wes prompts gently, and it starts to really hit him that he just had fucking phone sex with Fred.  

”Mmmm,” Fred murmurs dazedly. 

“How did that feel?” Wes asks, and he stands, pulls up his underwear, and leans back against the door again. 

Fred scoffs and says, “I can’t even describe what the fuck that felt like right now, Wes. God, Um, good. It felt really fuckin’ good.”

”Yeah?” Wes chuckles, crossing an arm over his chest and tucking his hand under his elbow. “You were so good.” 

“Thank you. You were—shit, I don’t even know. I’ve never felt like that before,” Fred admits, and Wes wants to tell Fred that he hasn’t either, wants to tell him how enraptured he is by Fred, but it feels like too much. “Were you serious about wanting to see me?”

"Yeah, I was. Were you?" Wes chews on his lip. 

"Uh-huh," Fred confirms. "Text me when you're in LA and I'll come find you. Okay, I feel like I'm gonna pass out. G'night, Wes."

Wes hears the dull beep of the line disconnecting, and just stands there for a few moments with his phone against his ear, staring at the wall. His head feels like it's filled with TV static and his neck feels hot. 

"Goodnight, Fred," Wes whispers, though he knows that no one can hear him.