Give Me A Taste Of What You're Really Like (Peterick)

I'm Sorry My Conscious Called In Sick Again.

Warning for smut and stuff (honestly this story was smut waiting to happen so)

Pete's desperate ,so desperate, nothing seems to be fucking working, or y'know getting the *Desired Effect* he's literally on the verge of going up to Patrick and just crushing his fist square into his jaw. Pete's so pissed, he's either gonna end up punching him or shoving his mouth onto his, either way it's gonna fucking hurt.

Honestly he's tried every-fucking-thing, okay maybe not everything, like actually talking to Patrick for one, whatever. Like that would even work, it'd probably end up with them killing each other some way or another. Whether it's Pete hurling a chair or Patrick using a stapler--a shudder racks throughout Pete's body at the visual, never mind. He's not even gonna ponder over that horrendous image ....

So tired he's actually considering giving up and just forgetting about Patrick and his face, his god damn attractive face with those fucking cheek bones--those cheek bones--no he cannot even let that sink into his mind, not now.

He is in a meeting at the moment so he needs to keep the "Emotionless Zombie" act up right now, while it's difficult for him to even stay still for too long everyone else in the room seems to be turning it into an art form.

Their boss is just blabbing on and Pete can barely focus especially when a hand places itself on his knee and he gives a slight jump, though not hard enough to make a scene and alert anybody, he squints his eyes in bemusement because Joe and Brendon are sitting across from him, who the fuck. Pete turns his head and, holy shit.

Patrick, Patrick is fucking touching his leg, why? He chokes back a squeak when Patrick's hand glides up gradually meeting the inside of his thigh and he wriggles slightly in his seat. What is he doing?

Pete's sure his entire face is flushed bright crimson as he grits his teeth and cranes his neck to lean over to Patrick and whisper out "What are you--" Patrick quickly shushes him by squeezing his hand tightly and a small whimper escapes Pete's throat.

Okay that alerted some gazes, Joe's looking at him funny and Pete's honestly feeling funny--fuck, fuck.

The hand skims a little higher and Pete just became aware and discovered the hardening of his cock and Patrick needs to stop, but how the fuck does he stop it. Pete contemplates the idea of just letting out a shriek and staggering up right out of his chair stumbling and making it crystal-clear that something is indeed wrong. But that would probably end in flames...Pete doesn't want to get the guy fired, isn't this what he wanted?

Well not technically, Pete never asked to be groped in an office full of a bunch of people he doesn't even know, witnesses. Sure the thrill is somewhat a rush of adrenaline coursing through him. The chance of being caught really adds to the whole his jeans are beginning to become extremely painful problem. So is Pete's dick while Patrick is a major dick who's a pain in his ass and not in a good way. Fuck's sake.

"Patrick." He hisses and moves to clutch at Patrick's hand but Patrick fucking slaps his fingers away, what the hell.

In punishment Pete assumes Patrick's fingertips slide up, trailing over his inner thigh before pressing against the heated denim between Pete's nearly quivering legs and no, no, no.

Pete clenches his eyes shut, scrunching his face up in pain almost while he swallows back the moans he so desperately wants to sound, he's about to fall out of his seat. Pete's brain is a panic, practically vibrating against his cranium.

His thighs twitch and tremble when Patrick begins to knead his hand and fuck, it hurts, the rough material is rubbing against his dick and he's currently going commando at the moment for boxer briefs and skinny jeans don't mix, quite a horrid combination really.