A/N - I want to acknowledge that the latter parts (though not yet uploaded) would not have been easy to write without graceonce's (on Tumblr) fanmix for Tate and the other Fab 5 characters. The songs selected are very good and everyone should give her 'fab5' tag a look!
He didn't know when he started thinking about the 'other blonde prick', as Chad so lovingly referred to him, more than usual. Most the time he only regarded him as the number one enemy. The reason he was stuck in this hell on earth.
Maybe it was after the borderline erotic fight they got into in the room that was supposed to be the nursery. Maybe it was when he was having his one of hundreds jerking off sessions in the bathroom he had tried to bed Ben in. Being stuck in this house, he didn't have a lot of material to work with. An image of Tate, slowly taking off that slick rubber suit flashed through his mind.
For a moment, he paused, freaked out that he was thinking about Tate in a sexual way. Tate Langdon, the teenage-Kurt-Cobain-wannabe psychopath. The kid who had strangled his lover (even if the relationship wasn't exactly peachy) and beaten him, with the lovely added touch of sticking a fire poker up his ass. He remembered the moment before he truly died, looking over at Chad's body and the utter sorrow that went through him. Then Tate shot them both.
It had only been about a year and a half since he and Chad were killed. And now he was imagining his killer slightly naked? He shook his head, momentarily taking his hand off his erection.
He looked at himself in the mirror, beads of sweat dripping down the sides of his face. It wasn't like he was the sanest person, when it came to his turn ons and sexual interests. But to jerk off to the image of your killer? The guy who ruined your life? The guy who made you stuck in a hell on earth of a house?
But he suddenly realized Tate was very much his type. At least in terms of appearance. Blonde? Check. Young? Check. Thin and slightly gangly? Check.
When Chad found out about the e-mails, he had the assumption that Patrick was into huge macho men, simply because he wanted to be dominated. That couldn't be further from the truth.
Patrick tended to think of himself as the 'macho' guy. He was tired of the boring, vanilla sex he and Chad were having. He wanted someone of Chad's stature and likeness to fuck him, but not Chad himself. So he started browsing BDSM chatboards, and most everyone in the house knew where the story went from there.
He wiped the sweat from his brow. Tate was also very dominant. Maybe to the point of angry, but that's what he was into.
He imagined the slick black latex pulling from his chest, sweaty and slick. His blonde hair matted from the hood. His briefs (he assumed) stuck tight to his body, barely any hair for a happy trail to be visible.
His hand traveled back to his dick, his thumb gliding over the head. He moaned and clutched onto the sink with his free hand. He jerked up and down, the image of Tate's sticky, sweaty body running through his mind. He grabbed on with his whole hand, sliding up and down the shaft. His breath became labored as he pictured Tate's pink lips kissing down his own neck. Tate's slender fingers rubbing up his chest. Tate's hair meshing with his own, a blonde tangle.
His knees slightly buckled as he finished. He panted and looked up in the mirror again, a wave of shame overcoming him as he realized what he had just masturbated to. He sighed and grabbed one of the white hand towels that Moira always had prepared. Wiping at the mess he had left, he shook his head and chuckled to himself. Of all the things he had jerked off to, he never thought a serial killer who he himself had been killed by, would be one of them.