A.N. A Sherlock and Starter for 10 AU cross-over, set during 1986. This is the first story in my Benedict and Martin crossover 'verse. It was only supposed to be a thousand words of porn. Then it went and got itself knocked up by a broke-ass plot, and thus this story was conceived. It's a two-parter, so stick around for more if you like the first bit.
I attempted to paste an image I created in Photoshop to show you all what Patrick Watts looks like- assuming you can't just, I don't know, Google him. It didn't upload, though, so, here's your chance to get better acquainted with your search engine. That being written, if you haven't had a chance to check out Starter for 10, you're missing out on Benedict Cumberbatch rocking a sweet comb-over and Mark Gatiss with a 'fro.
Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Explicit Language, M/M, Dark!John, Dub-con, Dubious Morals, and AU crossover.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
Part One
"Between two evils, I always pick the one I never tried before." ― Mae West
John loves Christmas time.
No, really.
It's the only time the Company gets off its tightfisted arse and splurges for their contractors; hosting a do that rivals any John's ever attended. There's the usual drinking, music, presents shindig, of course. But the best bit is the annual Hit raffle. What the raffle consists of are names, thrown in supposedly at random. Every contractor is required to draw one. The interesting twist is that it's not whoever finishes the hit. That part's simple enough. It's whoever does it in the most creative manner.
The objective is complete creative destruction of the target.
It satisfies everything in John's competitive, blood-thirsty soul. Best of all, first place gets a month of paid holiday and their weapon of choice from the Company's infinite arsenal. John's had his eye on the XM500 sniper rifle all month. It isn't even available in most countries yet. It sure as fuck beats the jumpers he gets from his colleagues every year.
He wears a jumper to a hit one time and suddenly he's Mr. Rogers. He wishes he meant that figuratively.
So, it's with swagger in his step and a bit of rum on his breath that John makes his way toward the raffle set-up when they call his badge number. He passes one of his colleagues along the way: an older man they've dubbed, "formerly-known-as-Shoe Cleaner" for both his efficient way of neutralizing his targets with shoe polish, and an incident which resulted in the assassin having to amputate his left hand; thus ending his preferred killing method.
"Try to avoid cheating this time, Mr. Rogers." Formerly-Known-As-Shoe Cleaner remarks dryly. John casually wiggles his fingers in acknowledgement—with his left hand—and the older man goes pale.
There's a large mixing bowl on a pedestal, presented like some sort of divine sacrifice. He fishes around in the bowl when he gets there, savouring the delicious anticipation, and then drags out a small business card.
The weight of this particular card feels promising.
He sees a flash of pink hair from the corner of his eye and, suddenly, its owner is pressed against his side: an emaciated alpha girl who's calling herself Hunter. Or is it Huntress? Hunted. Hunted? Eh, it doesn't matter. She's hardly relevant and looks like she still needs a baby-sitter.
She peers over his shoulder, crowding his territory, and he snarls in warning, the alpha in him coming out. She ignores him in favour of reading his business card out loud.
"Patrick Watts, Bristol University. Interesting." She says, scraping her thumbnail against her teeth in thought. "I knew a Patrick Watts once. Some undersexed dork from Manchester. I gave him a tenner to show me his arsehole."
And he gives a shit because…?
"I've got myself a Mycroft Holmes, London. Want to trade?" She asks suddenly.
"Shove off, cunt." This is his pull. He can't explain it but he knows he's going to completely outdo himself with this Patrick Watts. And no cracked-out alpha is going to hone in on his territory.
"Always with the nasty tongue. One of these days I'm going to cut it out." She says; voice light but black eyes filled with retribution.
John knows better. He'll be sleeping with his pistol tonight. He wishes she would try something, just so he'd have an excuse to take her out without a fuckton of paperwork involved.
She makes a playful grab for his card. He sidesteps and shoves the card in his jacket pocket with a sneer, heading toward the building exit. He can hear her sighing dramatically behind him.
"But mine is too easy!" She calls. "Some toff government lapdog. What's yours? A professor?"
He reaches the door and leaves with a parting, "Why don't you go pay Shoe a tenner to show you his!"
"Tetchy git." He hears her mutter before he slams the door shut in satisfaction.
When he's finally alone in his bed later that evening, he pulls out his card and stares at it for a while. He tries to picture Patrick Watts' face but his mind goes completely blank. All he can see is a vague, skinny silhouette bent over with pale arse cheeks spread wide.
He rolls over onto his side, suddenly hard.
'Damn you, bitch.' He thinks darkly, shoving a hand down the front of his pyjama bottoms to grip his cock.
His mind supplies himself with the mental image again, only this time in loving detail: that same firm arse is presenting itself to be mounted; long, pale fingers spreading open the arse cheeks, giving him a fantastic view of the glistening pink hole in the centre.
"Oh, yeah," He hisses, thrusting hard into his hand. His cock is already leaking; primed and ready to go. He strokes his palm roughly up his length and palms his cockhead, smearing pre-come all over. It makes for easier gliding on the way back down, and soon he's establishing a fast, punishing rhythm.
In his fantasy, a deep, rather posh voice begs John to mount him; to knot him; to pound him good and proper into the mattress until they're both screaming themselves hoarse in pleasure.
John fucks his hand harder, imagining slamming balls-deep into that willing hole; of having his shaft swallowed hungrily, over and over until he comes so hard that he knots them both together.
And he would knot. He'd make this fantasy man take it all the way to the root until they were both so locked together, that they'd need nothing short of medical help to separate. Then he'd pump him full of his come for hours.
"Fuuuuck!" He groans and his balls draw up in warning. He's cresting and then suddenly, he's crashing; coming hard and painting his hand in globs of white.
As he lies there, panting and drowsy, he debates getting up and grabbing something to clean himself up with. In the end, hygiene wins out.
After John cleans his mess and has situated himself back into bed, he begins planning his tryst out of London and into the college town. Bristol is a bit of a trek but it'll be worth it. He has a few ideas on how to make things interesting this year, starting with a length of piano wire and a cigar-cutter.
He thinks of his pretty amazing jerk-off session and has a brief flare of sympathy for his target. After tomorrow, sex will be the least of Patrick Watts' worries.
'Hope you at least get some action tonight, Watts.' He thinks, and clicks off his bedside lamp.
Patrick is a Virgin. Capitalized, which makes it worse somehow.
Not for lack of trying, mind you. Although there was that one time with a girl from back home where he—
'Let's not go there.' He thinks. His poor bum's never been the same since.
He's quite a catch, if he does say so himself: tall, exotic eyes, fantastic pedigree, and a sharp dresser. Dare he mention coming in second place on the University Challenge quiz show, three years running? With his brains, he wouldn't even need to be fit—not to say he's lacking in that department. So, if he's still a virgin at 24 years old, it's hardly his fault. He may be an average beta, but any lady would be lucky to shag him.
'Oh, god. I could do with a decent shagging.' He bemoans, shifting restlessly in his chair. His skin prickles with sweat and his collar suddenly feels too tight. He loosens it and makes a mental note to check the thermostat on his way out.
Brian Jackson-one of the club's first reserves and a rather dim-witted alpha at that- looks up from thumbing through a copy of The Law of Physics, and eyes him in question.
Patrick flushes and scowls. "Mind your studies, Jackson! We won't win anything with that sorry excuse for an attention span!"
He's one to talk, though.
Brian sighs, checks the clock in exasperation, and looks back down.
Patrick can't fathom why the boy continues coming to his club; he's as dumb as a bag of well-intentioned rocks. And God help the boy and his intentions. Last year, their team had been thrown out of finals for cheating, thanks to the sorry prat. They had been so close to winning, too. It would have ended their three year losing streak to that toffee-nosed Salmon from Queens' College.
He's never quite forgiven the boy but he does try to rise above it all.
He takes a calming breath and then freezes, as he notices the faint scent of rut permeating the small classroom. He can feel his cheeks burning.
Oh, of all the-!
"Jackson!" He snaps again. Brian looks up again with a frown. "How many times have I told you about vacating school premises while in the midst of-of, well, you know!"
Brian looks confused. "Um, no, I don't actually know, Patrick. In the midst of what?"
"Instructor Watts!" Patrick corrects sharply and then blushes. "And your alpha… monthly-thing."
"I'm not calling you Instructor Watts, Patrick. You're not a bloody teacher," Brian hisses, slamming his book closed in irritation. "And I assume you mean rut?"
Patrick's cheeks flame and he looks around, hoping no one heard the boy's indecent outburst. And then is promptly dismayed. Does nobody bother to show up to these meetings?
"I'll have you know that I have my post-grad in mecha-" He starts.
"Mechanical engineering, of which you're the top of your class. Yes, I know! You've only reminded me of that every bloody day! That hardly qualifies you for teaching, does it? Do you get paid to teach? Are you a part of the faculty? Do you even have a parking spot?"
Patrick stiffens and clears his throat. "That's hardly relevant. We were discussing your public display of indecency!"
Brian rolls his eyes and stands up, as he shrugs on his jacket. "Yeah, I'm not in rut."
Patrick scoffs but leaves it alone. At least, that subject. "Where are you going? You haven't finished studying! We have finals next month-"
"I've got a meet-up with some friends and then I have to somehow catch the last train to Essex. Mad rush during the holidays." Brian says, and tosses Patrick the Physics study guide. Patrick's legs almost buckle as he catches it but he smoothly—if he does say so himself—pretends to tie his loafers at the precise moment.
Brian looks amused. "I'm off. You're welcome to join me if you ever decide to stop being such a Billy-no-mates."
Patrick bristles at that while Brian stares at him expectantly, as though he's the one who should be thankful for an invitation. He has more dignity than that. And besides, it's not as if he doesn't have a family or anything. He does just fine.
"As if I'd lower myself to such plebian social niceties!" Patrick sniffs, disdainfully. "Go if you must, but be back after break!" That said, he straightens himself up to his full height and glares down his nose at the boy.
Brian is just about to say something but he inhales sharply instead. A strange look crosses over his face and he gives Patrick a peculiar look.
"What!" Patrick demands, self-consciously. He discreetly sniffs at his armpits, but doesn't smell anything malodorous. Although, maybe he could do with another swipe of deodorant; he does smell a bit too musky for his liking.
"Nothing. I'm off." Brian mumbles, opening the door. He pauses in the archway. "Happy Christmas, Patrick. Be safe."
The classroom door clicks shut before he can respond.
"Instructor Watts," Patrick grumbles anyway, and as a bit of an afterthought, "Happy Christmas."
He returns to his desk, feeling more than a little dejected. He's forgotten all about Christmas, to be honest. It's not as though he has any plans. He thinks of his dorm and how empty it probably is, what with the students packed up and home for the holidays. He knows he has his cat, Sherlock Holmes, but it's hardly one for company.
He thinks idly of his mum and what she must be up to, but promptly dismisses the thought as her latest conquest slides into mind. He has no desire for another awkward dinner conversation with her flavour of the month; not with that dreaded three hour commute from Bristol to Ashton-Under-Lyne to contend with.
Maybe he could ring up Lucy. She doesn't celebrate Christmas, as far as he knows. They could go for a bite of Thai and kip back to his room for some Doctor Who and snuggles…
But no. He's forgotten all about the brutal falling-out they'd had last week when a musical debate went sour. As if Schubert compares to Beethoven!
He sighs and wonders, not for the first time, how he ended up cast in such a dismal role. Here he is, 24 years old, brilliant, attractive. Yet he's single, practically friendless, and more alone than he cares to admit. As much as he loves to wax poetic about his attributes—of which there are many!—there must be something he lacks that causes him to remain as he is, deprived of basic human contact and companionship.
Surely, it can't be him. Can it?
He rests his head on the desk, feeling both dreadfully melancholic and unbearably restless. His stomach aches, his nose is runny from that damned scent, and he is in dire need of some cuddles. He rubs his overheated face against the cool of the desk and groans.
"I'm entitled to a bit of self-pity, right?" He asks the empty air, face still mushed against his desk. He can't stand the silence and his words bring a small amount of comfort. His stomach suddenly cramps in response and he knows that if he doesn't rush to the loo this instance, he's going to have an accident in his trousers.
He clambers to his feet; thighs clenched shut to keep this from ending in tragedy, and winds up urgently waddling toward the closest toilet.
John takes one last drag of his cigarette before pitching it onto the University's steps, and grinding it under his heel. He looks up at the building sign, which some rich fuck has named the Student Union, and he sneers. He hates every entitled, posh arsehole on principle. Always having more pounds than sense, the lot of them. He takes a certain pleasure in eliminating the manky bastards of both their lives and their inheritances.
He is sure this Patrick Watts won't be any different. He almost hopes the man hasn't gotten laid.
As he is making his way up the University steps, a beta-scented student in a maroon jumper and an over-laden knapsack is carefully picking his way down them. John sticks out a leg and trips him.
He hears the boy cry out and a moment later, smells their blood in the air. He grins, sliding his tongue across his lower lip in excitement. He'd like nothing more than to turn around and lick the blood off of their skin as he presses his gun against their lower vertebrae. Just a quick taste, and then the muffled pop of his gun. He hardens thinking of them growing limp in his arms with the sharp taste of copper on his tongue.
He takes a deep breath to calm himself and continues up the steps.
He knows he's tempting fate but these places always put him in a dark mood. He can feel his blood simmering and the alpha in him spoiling for a fight. The sooner he gets the hit over with, the better. As much as he'd like to have a decent row, he can't risk drawing attention to himself. He can always find himself some alpha to rough up later.
It's with no small amount of restraint that John steps into the Student Union building. And then nearly loses control again; albeit for a different reason: Somewhere an omega is presenting for the first time.
Not just any omega, either.
The scent is nearly indescribable in its perfection. It calls to John in a way no other scent has done before. It's like a combination of all of his favourite things: the salty bitter of semen, the metallic tang of blood, and the humid simmer of late August. It's a blur of adjectives, really; completely nonsensical yet designed to rile the baser part of his soul.
All he can focus on is the burning intensity building in his body and the desire to fuck.
"Damnit," He grunts as his balls tighten in warning, before his cock jerks and leaks copious amounts of pheromone-laced pre-come. It may be nature's way of enticing a compatible mate, but it's more than a little not needed at the moment.
His legs quiver and nearly collapse under him. He steels himself, panting through his mouth, and is finally able to stand after the scent clears from his nostrils.
Whoever the omega is, he has triggered John's rut. Which is a bit not good.
A kid, no more than twenty years old, is at his side in a heartbeat and places a hand on his back to steady him. John growls as the baser part of his brain senses another alpha—and therefore competition-and they back off, hands help up in placation.
"Sorry, mate. No harm meant. You just looked like you were going to faint." The boy says. John glares at him but the kid still holds out a hand. "Name's Brian."
"Don't give a shit. Leave." John pants. His body is screaming at him to find the omega and mount him before any other alpha can stake their claim. He bites a knuckle hard enough to draw blood, and wills Brian to leave before he loses control and snaps the kid's neck.
Brian opens his mouth as if to say something but then inhales deeply, eyes widening in shock. He closes his mouth, seeming to think better of speaking, and shakes his head instead. He must be a goddamned mind reader because, not a second later, he wheels around and heads in the opposite direction.
"Well, best of luck to you both!" He calls over his shoulder. His voice sounds strained but cheerful. "Sorry blighter could do with a good shagging!"
John sneers in confusion but thanks every star in the sky that the little shit's out of his way. He pushes himself up, using the wall as support until his legs stop feeling like they're made of Jell-O. He tongues the blood from his knuckle absently, watching the kid fly down the hall.
A hell of a start to the day.
Patrick returns from a decidedly confusing trip to the loo and debates ringing a doctor. He's not sure what manner of civil unrest went on in his bowels to result in him shitting clear mucus for twenty minutes; but whatever's caused it doesn't seem to be abating. If anything, the cramps are getting worse.
He's in the process of mentally rearranging his schedule to include a three hour trip to his childhood doctor when the door flies open.
He can't quite see who's entered the room from where he's sitting but the scent of rut from earlier seems to have come with them. His stomach clenches and for one terrifying second, he thinks he's going to need another trip to the loo. Luckily, it passes after a second.
He leans over his desk and strains to get a look at whoever just entered the room, ready to snap at them for being so needlessly violent with school property. The words die on his tongue however as, not a moment later, the most enthralling man Patrick has ever clapped eyes on stalks into his line of vision.
And "stalks" is as apt a word as any, for he moves like a lethal powerhouse. The heavy scent of alpha pheromones are definitely coming from him, threatening to overwhelm the lemon scent of cleaning products the university favours.
Virile indeed.
The man is short yet incredibly fit; muscles tense under his well-tailored black jacket. He holds himself with his legs slightly widened and his shoulders back; dark blue eyes glinting as he reads the chalkboard behind Patrick's head. His hair is cropped short, a hybrid of blonde and light brown-dirty blonde?—which seems to suit his hardened features.
Patrick swallows a pool of saliva and leaps to his feet, unwilling to be at a disadvantage. He's not sure why he feels so threatened. Surely that the man is an alpha hardly matters. That idiot Jackson is an alpha and it hardly registers on his radar.
And as a Beta, it shouldn't matter. Yet something about the man's serious eyes and fierce, craggy face makes him feel like he's been naughty.
Like he is about to be punished.
He shivers.
"May I help you?" He asks, flinching at the sound of his voice. It sounds shaky, and a far cry from his usually deep baritone. He briefly considers that he's come down with a horrible case of the flu. It might even explain the mucus-y disaster in the loo.
The stranger looks him up and down, and frowns. Patrick fidgets.
"Depends." The man replies; soft-spoken despite his aura of confidence. "Is this where the University Challenge auditions are being held? And are you the instructor," he pulls out a little note card from his jacket pocket and reads from it, "Patrick Watts?"
Patrick nods and the man curses. He stiffens at the unexpected profanity but chooses to ignore it because, really, what's he going to do? Give this stranger a firm talking-to? The man could probably take him apart without any effort.
'Oh, yes please.' Something deep inside of him purrs.
Although the man looks to be closer to his early thirties and hardly a student, his club always welcomes new members. Some people aren't fortunate enough to attend uni right after high school, after all, so he's hardly one to judge. His own mum was a late uni-bloomer. He would love to have him—
'Hard and often.' The voice supplies, increasingly unhelpful.
-But the man needs to take care of his rut before he can safely accept him in a public setting.
"Instructor Watts, and yes, this is the correct room." Patrick hesitates and then presses on, determined to clear the man of the room before he does something embarrassing. "If you're here to audition, perhaps you should wait until you're not in-in, your monthly time of need."
The man scowls at that but says nothing.
Patrick briefly wonders if he's done something to disappoint his alpha and nearly kicks himself at the unwitting insertion of the possessive pronoun. Damn this man's overwhelming pheromones.
He takes a deep breath and tries to clear his head, but of course that doesn't help. He's just inhaled more of them.
"Right!" He tries again, desperate to change the subject. "What's your major?"
"Biochemistry." The man says shortly, looking Patrick up and down in an almost flirtatious manner. "Almost" being the imperative word; the fact that he looks like he wants to devour Patrick whole detracts from the whole romantic aspect of it all.
Patrick can't suppress his surge of delight at the look, though—backwater, as it may be. He tamps down the uncharacteristic urge to bare his neck in submission. Dear god, it's as if he's never seen an Alpha before.
He clears his throat and turns around, bending down to get a stack of student applications resting on his desk. He straightens immediately at the sound of a muffled groan coming from behind him. When he turns around, however, the man is looking at him passively; expression almost bored.
Patrick frowns. "If you could fill this out for me," he says, handing over a sheet of paper, "that would be wonderful."
Their fingers brush as he's handing over the paper and that's when all hell breaks loose. It's as if he's been shocked with a thousand watts of electricity, all designed to head straight to his cock. He feels himself harden yet his groin starts to cramp up, as it did earlier. It's such a peculiar feeling that he almost misses the sudden dampness at the seat of his trousers.
Almost, but not quite; he does believe he's gone and soiled himself.
Scandalized, he desperately tries to excuse himself but the man has a fierce grip on his wrist, unwilling to let go.
"If you'll excuse me," Patrick begs, tugging his hand free, but a low growl causes him to freeze. He looks up, and sees that the man's eyes have been almost completely drowned by his pupils, turning them an inky black.
"Excuse you to where?" The man asks quietly, his hand like steel around Patrick's wrist. He uses his grip to pull them closer together, his shorter frame a solid inferno against Patrick's taller one. His free hand wanders low until it reaches the curve of Patrick's bum where his fingers dig in.
"I don't know," Patrick admits as all rational thought floats away. The man is relentless, pressing their hips firmly together until their erections are nestled against each other. Patrick nearly swallows his tongue when he starts grinding against him.
He manages a dazed, "Oh" and stops fighting, eyes nearly crossing in pleasure.
Patrick has never done this with anyone, and it's made worse by the fact that his body is so sensitive. It's only been a few seconds and he's already dangerous close to coming.
It doesn't take more than a few thrusts before he is a clingy, quivering mess of need in the man's arms. His knees give out and the man seems to single-handedly hold him up. He barely registers that his wrist is free before something deep inside of him stirs at the show of strength. He gives up trying to rationalize and goes limp in the man's arms.
That apparently satisfies the blonde because he hums and begins walking them backward until Patrick is pressed against a wall. As his back connects with hard plaster, the man grunts and shoves Patrick up the wall, until his feet are dangling off the floor. He then reaches down and slings each of Patrick's legs over the crook of his elbows, until he's spread wide and vulnerable against the man's considerable length.
Patrick moans.
He's not entirely sure he is comfortable with this position; he's also not sure how this much shorter man is able to support his weight but kudos for managing. Those are the only coherent thoughts he is capable of before the blonde starts pounding against him, driving any further absurdity from his mind.
'On second thought, this position might not be so bad.'
He can feel himself babbling, as the angle drives the man's cock straight against Patrick's arsehole; both satisfying and maddening. He itches to rip off their trousers and demand the man stop teasing but he can't find the hand-eye coordination to do so. He claws the wall behind him in frustration.
"Shit," The man groans, his breath sobbing against Patrick's ear as he nuzzles him. "Why'd you have to be so fucking beautiful? This was supposed to be-"
Patrick tunes the rest of the sentence out as he melts at the compliment. He can't help it. He blames his insane, flu-addled brain, and the fact that nobody has ever called him beautiful before; not even a simple handsome. If he's being honest, he gets "goofy" and "odd" quite a bit.
To be told he's beautiful by this exquisite, insane man makes him want to alternate between weeping uncontrollably and purring in contentment. He leans forward and presses his lips chastely against the man's own, in gratitude.
The blonde's eyes widen as his pupils completely dilate, swallowing his irises whole. Patrick shivers in delight and pitches forward to press his nose against the man's neck.
It's the scent that does him in. He hasn't the words to describe something both equal parts terrifying and liberating. And once he has that undiluted hit of the man's rut, he's completely gone; coming fast and hard in his trousers with zero effort on his part. He should be embarrassed at his lack of staying power but can't be arsed as pleasure washes throughout him. Over and over, it crashes and ebbs; conquers and destroys until he's shaking apart and smearing snot, tears, and laughter against the man's skin.
The man swears loudly and thrusts once more, hard, before shuddering in completion against him. Patrick's legs fall to the floor. They gasp for air against each other, his face still pressed into the man's neck. He's still grinning and crying like an idiot as violent aftershocks course through his system.
"I don't even know your name but thank you for ridding me of this pesky virginity." He jokes after their bodies finally settle down.
The man cracks an eye open and chuckles. "It's John. And this? This is nothing. Give me a minute and I'll have you bouncing on my cock; up to your teeth in my knot."
Patrick doesn't know what to say to that. Several thoughts cross through his mind, each more illogical than the last, but they all seem to amount to these two things: The most insane man he's ever met has an absolutely ordinary name; and what they have is one serious failure to communicate.
The second's easily rectified; perhaps at a safer distance. The first, he's just going to have to deal with.
He gently pulls away, ignoring the man's—John's?- protests, and heads over toward his desk. When he looks over at the blonde, he's fully alert and—oh sweet baby Jesus—adjusting his cock through his jeans.
And what a cock it is.
Patrick runs a shaking hand through his hair and wills his hormones to settle down.
"Um, John. I think I might be a little unclear as to your intentions." He says, reluctantly looking away from the man's fattening bulge. Dear lord, has he heard of recovery time?
"Is that right," John drawls, his expression sated but his eyes amused, watching Patrick try not to watch his crotch. "You didn't seem too confused when you were nutting in your pants."
"Must you be so crude?" Patrick snaps, feeling his blood rush to his face and his grandmother roll in her grave.
But now that he mentions it, he is a bit damp and there's still the matter of him soiling himself—in the not good way.
John smirks and suddenly, he's stalking his way across the room until they're standing almost toe-to-toe. Patrick swallows.
"Oh, I could be so much worse." He promises darkly, and pulls Patrick down into a searing kiss.
It's like nothing Patrick has every felt before. That peck from earlier is nothing compared to the sheer inferno of this kiss; like comparing Rick Astley and Rachmaninov. It's as though he's drowning in complete madness and he likes it.
John doesn't so much kiss as conquers. It's all dominance, and teeth, and slick tongues thrusting madly against each other; making Patrick's knees weaken. He feels saliva pool against his tongue—his? John's?—and swallows greedily, moaning. John sucks in his lower lip, nibbling so hard he draws blood.
"I want to fuck you so hard that you never get me out of your system," John breaths through stinging bites and soothing licks of his tongue. "I want to come over every inch of your gorgeous body until you're dripping with my spunk and reeking of my scent."
Patrick gasps and clenches John's coat in his hands. Oh god, he wants that, too. Virginity is infinitely overrated.
John slams his hands on either side of him; caging his body and methodically destroying all of his defenses. "I want to take you apart with my hands and tongue until you're absolutely gagging for it. And when I'm done, I want to do it all again. Clear yet?"
Patrick thinks it's clear enough but says instead, "Maybe you could be a bit clearer. Tell me more." He can't help it. It's like bating a tiger, sure, but he's never felt this wanted in his life.
John's eyes darken and he grins against Patrick's mouth. "How about I show you instead?"
Or that. That sounds good, too.
TBC
A.N. More to come! Let me know what you think.