Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy > A Little Less Lost Boys, A Little More Light
A Little Less Lost Boys, A Little More Light VI - "In His Arms"
by ingrid
0o0o0o0o
It's only seven p.m. and already Patrick's concentration is shot. Words float in front of his eyes, indecipherable and he rubs at the tired lids for the umpteenth time before trying again to digest a portion of the morbid encyclopedia covering the center of his desk.
His personal library has grown to impressive proportions in recent years, through purchases over the Internet and by other, slightly less legal, means.
It wasn't as though the City Library had been actively circulating its copy of Crowley's "The Enochian Tablets" anyway.
So quiet in here tonight. He can hear the whirr of his computer's fan buzzing in his ears and he tiredly considers taking a gun to the whole stupid machine, except that he needs it.
Whirrrrr. Ticking sounds in the near distance and he starts rummaging around for earbuds to his iPod. There has to be something in his songlist that'll help him concentrate ... something mellow and not too distracting.
Or loud and not too distracting, it doesn't matter.
No luck. The iPod is nowhere to be seen, but there's humming, coming from somewhere behind him. A pair of slim arm wind around his neck and ...
"Still working on that GED?"
Lightly mocking, and Patrick leans back into Peter's embrace. "Yeah. Seems like the High School of the Black Arts didn't like my senior project."
"Which was?"
"How to Create Spells Using Roadkill."
"Huh." Pete leans his chin on Patrick's shoulder. "You'd think they'd go for that. Environmentally friendly, cruelty-free ..."
"I know. Except that crushed raccoons are only good for spells on other raccoons." Patrick shrugs. "Win some, lose some." He raises his arm to pull Pete even closer, when he feels his iPod's earbuds wrapped around Pete's neck. "Aha. I was looking for these."
"Yeah, sorry. I borrowed it. It's too quiet in here."
Patrick can't help but agree with him. Sighing, he flicks past another dusty page in the book. There's nothing here, he thinks miserably, nothing here that can help us out of this mess.
Damn it all.
He reaches to slam the book shut when Peter's hand stops him. "Don't give up," he says quietly. "I know you can figure this out. I have faith in you."
With that, Pete lets go of him and hops onto the massive desk. He stretches out on his back across it, catlike, the headphones in and music blasting.
Patrick peers at him for a moment and hears tinny bits of whatever Pete is listening to. The sight of him is soothing and when he returns to the book, he finds his concentration again.
According to this particular book, the ability to dematerialize is an ancient part of vampire lore, but never to the point of disappearing entirely. An animal symbiotic is usually needed -- a bat, a wolf, certain insects, but never just ... nothing.
Patrick keeps searching through the mountains of words, taking the occasional note with Peter sprawled out beside him. He smells like toothpaste and some futzy soap they had lying around but rarely used. The herbal odor of the blood blend clings beneath all that, a reminder of the insanity hovering just beneath the normality, making Patrick search all that much harder.
Nothing. Still ... nothing that gives him any clue to how and why Beckett is so powerful. His rumored great age might have something to do with it, but what is it? Is he a hundred years old? A thousand? Vampires, theoretical immortality aside, very rarely live more than a couple of hundred years, due to the violence surrounding them, from human hunting, as well as from their own kind.
It's dangerous being a vampire, almost as dangerous as meeting one - death by stake or fang is common among them. Even more die of depression and madness, Patrick knows this well enough and he swallows hard as Pete runs his hand gently over Patrick's arm, his eyes still closed, the music still blaring in his ears.
Patrick wants to save Peter from this fate. From dying as he is now, either by the Others or by his own hand, which Patrick knows he'll do if a cure isn't found before the turning is complete. He's pretty sure no amount of begging will convince Pete otherwise, although perhaps ...
Peter's hand continued to wander, his knuckles grazing Patrick's cheek. He's humming still, but the earbuds are out, white wires lying across the taut lines of his throat.
/Maybe he'll stick around for this/, Patrick thinks, turning his head to brush a kiss against the back of Pete's hand.
Scent of soap and faint traces of herb-infused blood linger on Pete's fingers. A touch of calluses on the tips from playing his instrument night and day, a tickle of hair on the back of his wrist and Patrick bites his lip, thinking about tasting the softness of Pete's lips.
Pete seems to be thinking the same thing, because it's only seconds later when he dives in to take the kiss Patrick offers him. His tongue is soft and hot and Patrick groans into Pete's mouth, not caring as he shoves the book, hell, half the contents of the desk out of the way to make room, molding himself atop Pete's welcoming body.
He's a little more careful with the iPod and Pete laughs at his delicacy with it, before pulling Patrick closer, reeling him in with his legs. They are both sprawled across the desk and any clumsiness is forgotten as Pete wriggles out of his shirt, leaving an expanse of warm skin for Patrick to explore with his fingers and tongue.
God, it's so /good/, and Patrick can't help but kiss Pete savagely, pulling at his lips with his teeth, his thumbs circling hard little nipples, the sweat sheening over Pete's chest and throat. He bites at them as Pete rises up against him, moving with him, crying out, his hands scrabbling at Patrick's clothes.
"You're going to keep that hat on, aren't you?" Pete laughs breathlessly, pulling at various items of clothing, groaning when Patrick massages him through his pants.
"Yeah, I am. Deal," Patrick replies, batting frantic hands away. He unzips Pete's jeans, and God, his mouth is already watering in anticipation. "It's the source of my strength."
"Right. Oh, God ... oh, please ... right ... oh," Pete murmurs as Patrick slides down his body. He makes another plea, this one hoarse and shamelessly straightforward. "Please. Patrick ..."
Patrick can hear his own heartbeat, the pounding blood through his ears and he wonders if Pete can hear it too. Probably, and the thought makes him pause, but only for a second, because Pete ... oh God ... so beautiful.
Pete's looking down at him, watching him, dazed through thick lashes and it takes every bit of Patrick's concentration to lower his gaze and take Pete's cock in his mouth. Solid and hot, and he licks from base to tip, again and again, reveling in the noises Pete makes, as if he is dying.
Slim hips are undulating violently under him and Patrick has to hold on to avoid getting tossed off the desk, but he has more coordination that he thinks and it's easy to pin Pete down and just /suck/, hard, using his tongue and free hand to drive him crazy.
Pete cries out and loses it, thrusting raggedly as Patrick swallows and it's bitter-good, different, and he's dizzy with triumph and the thought Pete's orgasm is enough to send him over, wetness spreading over his jeans.
"Crap," Patrick gasps, looking down, but he doesn't have time to complain as Pete grabs him harshly by the neck and yanks him in for a vicious kiss.
Patrick can just feel the sharp tips of Pete's fangs, hear the little growls coming from the back of his throat, but he's surprisingly not afraid. This is, and will always be, Pete. His best friend ... his soulmate. The guy he clicked with one afternoon as kids, playing music together, the kid who laughed, but not unkindly, at Patrick's weird clothing choices and thought he was the most talented guy in the entire universe even though he could barely play.
How long ago was that? Did it matter? It was then, as is now, just them. Always.
Pete pulls back and searches Patrick's eyes, as if he can read Patrick's mind. Shit, Patrick thinks, maybe he can. "You and me," Pete says, his eyes overbright in the dim light coming from a single desk lamp. "Right?"
"You know it." Patrick swallows hard past the sudden lump in his throat. "Always."
Pete smiles. "Then we have nothing to worry about."
And Patrick prays it's true, with all his heart.
~*~
The rectory of St. Anthony the Abbot - the patron saint of butchers and gravediggers - is exceedingly quiet this evening as the Priest sits in his favorite lounge chair, reading an ancient, dogearred book, dust still settled into its cracked spine, its age-yellow pages crumbling at the corners.
A grandfather clock ticks behind him and he doesn't bother turning around when he hears light footsteps pad over the thick carpets of his chamber.
The maker of those footsteps takes a seat opposite of him, but the Priest doesn't look up from his book -- he hasn't finished his page yet.
He's rather the stickler for small things like that.
"Reading a real copy of the /"Necronomicon"/, I see," William Beckett tsks slightly, lounging against the high-backed, black leather chair. "My, my. Whatever would the Archbishop think?"
The book on the Priest's lap slowly closes. "He'd think I was wise to keep up with the other side." His manner turns ice cold. "Why are you here?"
Beckett daintily plucks at some imaginary bit of dust on the lapel of his immaculate white suit. "I need some more of your special little potion. Seems like I'm running a tad low."
The Priest frowns. "That's supposed to last longer than this. Didn't I warn you against wasting it?"
Beckett rolls his eyes with a long-suffering sigh. "I've been busy."
"You've been foolish," the Priest interjects sharply. "I told you to let me handle this."
"Yes, yes ... " Beckett replies impatiently with a careless wave of his hand. "And you'll be handling it even better when you give me what I need."
For a long moment, the Priest merely stares at him, before slowly rising. He turns toward the wall, where a locked safe is hidden behind a painting of St. Anthony.
Oddly, there is no turn lock on the front of the safe. Instead, the Priest mutters a few words in some ancient tongue and the faceless metal slides open, revealing rows of small colorless vials.
Vials containing the same oil he'd given to Peter some nights before.
He hands one to Beckett with a warning. "There will be no more for another six months. So I suggest you use it sparingly, as I told you to."
Beckett's upper lip curls back, but he makes no movement. "Whatever ... Father."
An obscene emphasis on that last word and The Priest laughs dryly, before closing the safe with a wave of his hand. "Remember, William. I am like God to you. So keep repeating to yourself ..." He bends in low, whispering in Beckett's ear. "I am the Lord, thy God and whatever the Lord giveth, the Lord can taketh away. Without mercy."
Beckett doesn't reply. He wraps a shaking fist tightly around the vial, his knuckles whitening and listens to the Priests soft chuckles echo through the room.
~*~
tbc ...
Feedback and comments are much appreciated. Thanks for reading.
by ingrid
0o0o0o0o
It's only seven p.m. and already Patrick's concentration is shot. Words float in front of his eyes, indecipherable and he rubs at the tired lids for the umpteenth time before trying again to digest a portion of the morbid encyclopedia covering the center of his desk.
His personal library has grown to impressive proportions in recent years, through purchases over the Internet and by other, slightly less legal, means.
It wasn't as though the City Library had been actively circulating its copy of Crowley's "The Enochian Tablets" anyway.
So quiet in here tonight. He can hear the whirr of his computer's fan buzzing in his ears and he tiredly considers taking a gun to the whole stupid machine, except that he needs it.
Whirrrrr. Ticking sounds in the near distance and he starts rummaging around for earbuds to his iPod. There has to be something in his songlist that'll help him concentrate ... something mellow and not too distracting.
Or loud and not too distracting, it doesn't matter.
No luck. The iPod is nowhere to be seen, but there's humming, coming from somewhere behind him. A pair of slim arm wind around his neck and ...
"Still working on that GED?"
Lightly mocking, and Patrick leans back into Peter's embrace. "Yeah. Seems like the High School of the Black Arts didn't like my senior project."
"Which was?"
"How to Create Spells Using Roadkill."
"Huh." Pete leans his chin on Patrick's shoulder. "You'd think they'd go for that. Environmentally friendly, cruelty-free ..."
"I know. Except that crushed raccoons are only good for spells on other raccoons." Patrick shrugs. "Win some, lose some." He raises his arm to pull Pete even closer, when he feels his iPod's earbuds wrapped around Pete's neck. "Aha. I was looking for these."
"Yeah, sorry. I borrowed it. It's too quiet in here."
Patrick can't help but agree with him. Sighing, he flicks past another dusty page in the book. There's nothing here, he thinks miserably, nothing here that can help us out of this mess.
Damn it all.
He reaches to slam the book shut when Peter's hand stops him. "Don't give up," he says quietly. "I know you can figure this out. I have faith in you."
With that, Pete lets go of him and hops onto the massive desk. He stretches out on his back across it, catlike, the headphones in and music blasting.
Patrick peers at him for a moment and hears tinny bits of whatever Pete is listening to. The sight of him is soothing and when he returns to the book, he finds his concentration again.
According to this particular book, the ability to dematerialize is an ancient part of vampire lore, but never to the point of disappearing entirely. An animal symbiotic is usually needed -- a bat, a wolf, certain insects, but never just ... nothing.
Patrick keeps searching through the mountains of words, taking the occasional note with Peter sprawled out beside him. He smells like toothpaste and some futzy soap they had lying around but rarely used. The herbal odor of the blood blend clings beneath all that, a reminder of the insanity hovering just beneath the normality, making Patrick search all that much harder.
Nothing. Still ... nothing that gives him any clue to how and why Beckett is so powerful. His rumored great age might have something to do with it, but what is it? Is he a hundred years old? A thousand? Vampires, theoretical immortality aside, very rarely live more than a couple of hundred years, due to the violence surrounding them, from human hunting, as well as from their own kind.
It's dangerous being a vampire, almost as dangerous as meeting one - death by stake or fang is common among them. Even more die of depression and madness, Patrick knows this well enough and he swallows hard as Pete runs his hand gently over Patrick's arm, his eyes still closed, the music still blaring in his ears.
Patrick wants to save Peter from this fate. From dying as he is now, either by the Others or by his own hand, which Patrick knows he'll do if a cure isn't found before the turning is complete. He's pretty sure no amount of begging will convince Pete otherwise, although perhaps ...
Peter's hand continued to wander, his knuckles grazing Patrick's cheek. He's humming still, but the earbuds are out, white wires lying across the taut lines of his throat.
/Maybe he'll stick around for this/, Patrick thinks, turning his head to brush a kiss against the back of Pete's hand.
Scent of soap and faint traces of herb-infused blood linger on Pete's fingers. A touch of calluses on the tips from playing his instrument night and day, a tickle of hair on the back of his wrist and Patrick bites his lip, thinking about tasting the softness of Pete's lips.
Pete seems to be thinking the same thing, because it's only seconds later when he dives in to take the kiss Patrick offers him. His tongue is soft and hot and Patrick groans into Pete's mouth, not caring as he shoves the book, hell, half the contents of the desk out of the way to make room, molding himself atop Pete's welcoming body.
He's a little more careful with the iPod and Pete laughs at his delicacy with it, before pulling Patrick closer, reeling him in with his legs. They are both sprawled across the desk and any clumsiness is forgotten as Pete wriggles out of his shirt, leaving an expanse of warm skin for Patrick to explore with his fingers and tongue.
God, it's so /good/, and Patrick can't help but kiss Pete savagely, pulling at his lips with his teeth, his thumbs circling hard little nipples, the sweat sheening over Pete's chest and throat. He bites at them as Pete rises up against him, moving with him, crying out, his hands scrabbling at Patrick's clothes.
"You're going to keep that hat on, aren't you?" Pete laughs breathlessly, pulling at various items of clothing, groaning when Patrick massages him through his pants.
"Yeah, I am. Deal," Patrick replies, batting frantic hands away. He unzips Pete's jeans, and God, his mouth is already watering in anticipation. "It's the source of my strength."
"Right. Oh, God ... oh, please ... right ... oh," Pete murmurs as Patrick slides down his body. He makes another plea, this one hoarse and shamelessly straightforward. "Please. Patrick ..."
Patrick can hear his own heartbeat, the pounding blood through his ears and he wonders if Pete can hear it too. Probably, and the thought makes him pause, but only for a second, because Pete ... oh God ... so beautiful.
Pete's looking down at him, watching him, dazed through thick lashes and it takes every bit of Patrick's concentration to lower his gaze and take Pete's cock in his mouth. Solid and hot, and he licks from base to tip, again and again, reveling in the noises Pete makes, as if he is dying.
Slim hips are undulating violently under him and Patrick has to hold on to avoid getting tossed off the desk, but he has more coordination that he thinks and it's easy to pin Pete down and just /suck/, hard, using his tongue and free hand to drive him crazy.
Pete cries out and loses it, thrusting raggedly as Patrick swallows and it's bitter-good, different, and he's dizzy with triumph and the thought Pete's orgasm is enough to send him over, wetness spreading over his jeans.
"Crap," Patrick gasps, looking down, but he doesn't have time to complain as Pete grabs him harshly by the neck and yanks him in for a vicious kiss.
Patrick can just feel the sharp tips of Pete's fangs, hear the little growls coming from the back of his throat, but he's surprisingly not afraid. This is, and will always be, Pete. His best friend ... his soulmate. The guy he clicked with one afternoon as kids, playing music together, the kid who laughed, but not unkindly, at Patrick's weird clothing choices and thought he was the most talented guy in the entire universe even though he could barely play.
How long ago was that? Did it matter? It was then, as is now, just them. Always.
Pete pulls back and searches Patrick's eyes, as if he can read Patrick's mind. Shit, Patrick thinks, maybe he can. "You and me," Pete says, his eyes overbright in the dim light coming from a single desk lamp. "Right?"
"You know it." Patrick swallows hard past the sudden lump in his throat. "Always."
Pete smiles. "Then we have nothing to worry about."
And Patrick prays it's true, with all his heart.
~*~
The rectory of St. Anthony the Abbot - the patron saint of butchers and gravediggers - is exceedingly quiet this evening as the Priest sits in his favorite lounge chair, reading an ancient, dogearred book, dust still settled into its cracked spine, its age-yellow pages crumbling at the corners.
A grandfather clock ticks behind him and he doesn't bother turning around when he hears light footsteps pad over the thick carpets of his chamber.
The maker of those footsteps takes a seat opposite of him, but the Priest doesn't look up from his book -- he hasn't finished his page yet.
He's rather the stickler for small things like that.
"Reading a real copy of the /"Necronomicon"/, I see," William Beckett tsks slightly, lounging against the high-backed, black leather chair. "My, my. Whatever would the Archbishop think?"
The book on the Priest's lap slowly closes. "He'd think I was wise to keep up with the other side." His manner turns ice cold. "Why are you here?"
Beckett daintily plucks at some imaginary bit of dust on the lapel of his immaculate white suit. "I need some more of your special little potion. Seems like I'm running a tad low."
The Priest frowns. "That's supposed to last longer than this. Didn't I warn you against wasting it?"
Beckett rolls his eyes with a long-suffering sigh. "I've been busy."
"You've been foolish," the Priest interjects sharply. "I told you to let me handle this."
"Yes, yes ... " Beckett replies impatiently with a careless wave of his hand. "And you'll be handling it even better when you give me what I need."
For a long moment, the Priest merely stares at him, before slowly rising. He turns toward the wall, where a locked safe is hidden behind a painting of St. Anthony.
Oddly, there is no turn lock on the front of the safe. Instead, the Priest mutters a few words in some ancient tongue and the faceless metal slides open, revealing rows of small colorless vials.
Vials containing the same oil he'd given to Peter some nights before.
He hands one to Beckett with a warning. "There will be no more for another six months. So I suggest you use it sparingly, as I told you to."
Beckett's upper lip curls back, but he makes no movement. "Whatever ... Father."
An obscene emphasis on that last word and The Priest laughs dryly, before closing the safe with a wave of his hand. "Remember, William. I am like God to you. So keep repeating to yourself ..." He bends in low, whispering in Beckett's ear. "I am the Lord, thy God and whatever the Lord giveth, the Lord can taketh away. Without mercy."
Beckett doesn't reply. He wraps a shaking fist tightly around the vial, his knuckles whitening and listens to the Priests soft chuckles echo through the room.
~*~
tbc ...
Feedback and comments are much appreciated. Thanks for reading.
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