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"stop doing that, you're making me want to die."
pran is going to kill pat.
for more reasons than one, really, but currently for one reason. or more, he can’t really decide. anyway. the main problem with being angry at pat (for many reasons) is that it messes with pran's order of things. and when pran's order of things gets messed up he needs to walk back to his bedroom to recount the number of fluvoxamine pills he has left in the bottle just to be sure he took one this morning. it helps him calm down, whatever. but yeah, he’ll deal with it. but anyway.
in regards to the current problem at hand: he is going to murder his boyfriend. pat natapat is going to die.
why, you ask?
because see, pran— pran prides himself on his organization and all the ‘put-togetherness' he wants to exude. and yes, part of that comes from his clothing. of course it does. solid colors, button-downs, and nice-looking loungewear.
and see, he made the mistake of acquiring a collection of soft cotton shirts and fuzzy sweatshirts; the original intention was honestly more self-indulgent than anything else: pat likes soft things and pran likes it when pat touches him so it seemed like a win-win to empty his bank account to urban outfitters. (money was trivial compared to pat's hands wandering towards him to pet his clothing anytime and all the time.) but now, his closet is empty. his closet is empty because all almost all his clothes have been stolen.
and all of his clothes have been stolen, all by his stupid puppy boyfriend.
pat.
he kind of wants to strangle pat; pat’s stolen one too many pieces of his clothing.
and on top of that, pran was a few days late to laundry this week. being a few days late to laundry means that he has a very, very limited selection of things to wear right now while his clothes thump around in the apartment complex’s washing machines. he’ll pick up the soppy clothes tomorrow. it’s fine.
but as he gets home, completely drained from classes, and decides to take a shower he remembers that he doesn’t have a lot of clean clothes left. and he needs to shower before pat starts banging on his door demanding to watch some more episodes of the new k-drama they started roughly a week ago. hour-long episodes are long, pran is learning. but pat falling asleep on his shoulder halfway through isn’t too bad.
rifling through (empty) drawers, pran sighs heavily as he shuts the dressing table and moves back to his closet, decisively concluding that having sweatpants is a luxury he doesn’t need at the present moment, and a shirt would do the trick, to be honest.
the weather is warm: not scalding, but a sticky lukewarm, and honestly pran doesn’t think it’s that bad.
he glances over at the small drawer of his closet that is stuffed with pat’s own shirts and boxers, ones pran stuffed there when pat forgot to take his own clothes back after spending the night, always forgetting to pick them up. and pran, being the joy he is, kindly washed them and kept them in case pat ever wanted them back (or to use them as bribing material later down the line as he continued his collection) but he’ll digress.
pran sifts through the drawer and finds that everything is too bright, too orange, or too flashy until he finally swipes a soft, flowy gray shirt from pat’s little corner. the navy boxers pran pulls out next from the corner are probably the least flashy ones that pat owns so he’ll just have to accept defeat at this point.
pran shrugs to himself in resignation. it’ll work, just for today.
he drops the shirt and his other garments on the bed before snatching his towel from the closet door-hanger and walks into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.
yes, maybe pran showers with the water too hot, but he also puts too much creamer in his coffee and conditioner in his hair, so leave him alone. he’s trying.
when he does step out and get dressed again, he’s thinking that pat’s shirt is warm and soft. even after being washed, it smells like him. pran holds the collar up to his nose and sniffs before smiling. definitely pat.
he glances over in the mirror and quickly his smile turns into a scoff. pat’s not that much taller than him. really, not that much taller than him at all. they would argue about it as kids and they argue about it now. but pran’s stuck with the thick amber proof as pat’s downy shirt drops low to cut off a little more than halfway down his thighs, the collar wide and a few inches away from falling off pran’s left shoulder. he hikes up the neckline with a huff and turns around, going back to focus on shaking and the rest of the water droplets from his hair.
he eventually drops his butt down on his desk chair and continues rubbing his hair with the towel, pulling out a mindless sketching project he’s supposed to do for his blueprinting class, using a dark, sharp pencil to follow the trace marks that he made earlier, phone within reach as he waits for pat’s text.
pat, however, doesn’t really enjoy texting. it’s not his favorite. talking over the phone comes second to that, obviously, but there’s always nothing better than seeing someone in person and if he could choose, he’d choose the element of surprise over anything (or he’s watched one too many action movies and refuses to admit it).
it’s evening and the sun is setting as he gets to pran’s apartment, tired from having to wait nearly thirty minutes in line for dumping they could have for dinner. but hey, when you want dumplings you want dumplings. he doesn’t bother to go to his own room before giving pran’s door three knocks, shaking the dumping bag even though pran couldn’t see him.
“i brought dumplings!”
a beat.
“the door’s always unlocked, dumbfuck, get in,”
pat just snickers and turns the knob, pushing the door open. he doesn’t see pran yet, so he turns and locks the door behind him (just in case, relax).
he walks in and immediately recognizes the salty smell wafting through the air. “popcorn?”
a hum comes from the kitchen, drawing pat’s feet.
“make extra for me, i—" and whatever words that were going to come out die in his throat, perish, have a funeral, all of the above because pat is about to pass out.
pran is standing in the middle of the kitchen, one hand pushing against the counter as he reaches up to open the microwave.
and the worst best part.
pran is—
pran is wearing his clothes.
something new, fast, and full of heat starts curling in pat’s stomach and he’s thinking shit, this must be a recent thing. and he's way, way too into it. he feels like a horny fumbling teenager (he still kind of is).
and look, his eyes have always been on pran. from the day they started competing to now, his eyes always trailed after soft skin and taut muscle, calloused hands, and lithe lines down the back. but this was— this—
pat’s gaze hooks onto the neckline of his too-large shirt slipping down, down, down pran’s shoulders, surely exposing sharp collarbones in front, and on his back, well— pat nearly drools over the exposed plains of soft skin, shoulder blades shifting as with every move.
pran pushes up on his tip-toes to grab the popcorn from the microwave plate and shit— pat wants to kiss him until he’s crying, begging, and unable to remember his own name.
pat thinks his eyes might start to water because fuck, pat can see the backs of pran’s thighs, smooth and perfect, strong muscles shifting deliciously as pran adjusts his weight. pat wants to suck bruises up those thighs, to nip over the sensitive skin and make pran tremble and shiver.
pat wants to see those marks, late at night when he's wearing pat's boxers and lounging around the house, purple reminders littering those soft, soft thighs.
pat wants to touch him so bad. fuck, he’s staring. he should stop staring.
approach, dammit.
approach, he does eventually. he forces himself forwards even though his shoes feel like dumbbells on his feet, and the soles have been superglued to the floor. maybe it’s just all willpower.
he stands directly behind pran, inhaling warm shower scents, vanilla, fabric softener, and pran.
“hey,” pran greets him without turning around, somewhat aware of his presence and position in the room as he drops the hot popcorn bag on the counter.
pat doesn’t reply, instead, he slips his hands up under the hem of the shirt and rests them on pran’s hips, sliding them up to the narrowest part of his waist and relishing in the way pran involuntarily shudders against his palms. he’s about to press a kiss onto the warm, damp skin of pran’s throat when he’s rudely interrupted.
“what are you doing?” pran twists then turns around completely in his grip, back now pressing against the counter.
pran raises an eyebrow at him questioningly, somehow blissfully unaware that pat’s mind has fallen deep, deep into the gutter. it’s over for him, completely, when all he can picture is— when— there’s no way pran isn’t aware, right?
but looking up with pat with the sparkliest doe eyes, he realizes pran's completely oblivious.
and pat can’t help but want to slide one of the hands onto his waist up into his hair, to pull it and tug it in into even more disarray, to listen for pran’s breathy laughter as pat trails his fingertips all over pran’s body. he wants to feel pran’s spine arching up under pat’s hands, leaving his lips bruised and eyes completely hazed out and gone. dizzy and completely open, and—
“pat.”
and he can already feel the simmering jealousy if pran chose to wear those clothes outside, sliding to expose more skin with every step, eyes lingering on him, everyone wanting to reach out and touch but knowing pat’s the only one who can, knowing it because of the vibrant purple bruises pat would suck into the pillowy skin while pran whimpered and moaned against him. the marks would be covered by pran’s own shirts, but revealed in pat’s clothing, wide necklines sliding low and falling below the collar.
“pat?”
pran’s tone has edged into concern and pat can’t have that so he wraps his arms all the way around pran’s torso and presses himself into pran, burying his head into the junction of his shoulder and neck.
he exhales and pran twitches a bit.
pat plants a row of kisses down pran’s neck before sucking a light mark lower on his throat, feeling pran let out a shaky sigh and lean into him, relaxed.
pat smiles at that. “sensitive much?”
a whack to the back of his head, a warning. “watch your mouth.”
“sorry, sorry.” pat giggles, somehow keeping his voice stable. he pauses. “you’re wearing my shirt.”
pran makes a noise in the back of his throat that sounds like a question.
“you’re so— fuck.”
pran hums. “hm, eloquent,”
pat pulls away to pout at pran, fingernails dragging up and down his spine at slow intervals, appreciating the way goosebumps raise under his fingertips.
“and why— are you wearing my shirt?”
“because you stole all my clothes,” pran replies without hesitation, tilting his head with a scoff, and god, pat wants to absolutely devour him and finally shut up that snappy side of him, reduce him to a trembling mess.
no, calm the fuck down, pat.
pran is still, still completely unassuming in his arms, looking slightly upwards at pat.
“right,” pat coughs out. “sorry.”
pran darts a pink tongue out to wet his lips, coating them slick, about to open his mouth to talk when pat decides fuck it and kisses him quick and deep. it’s too short, way, way, way too short as he gets pulled away to the sound of pran’s pretty, pretty laughter ringing as two hands reach up to curl nimble fingers through the hair on the nape of pat’s neck.
pran’s still giggling when his hands retreat from pat and point to a cabinet behind them. “go, get me a bowl.”
pat wants to argue, but his mind is so cloudy that it’s all he can do; he turns and walks to the cabinet, seemingly on autopilot, before pulling out one of the larger plastic bowls they typically use for popcorn when watching shows together, easier to clean-up afterward. he uses the time he spends with his back to pran taking a set of deep breaths in a futile attempt to calm down.
and when pat turns again, blue bowl in hand, pran is sitting on the counter now, and pat wouldn’t be surprised if his own mouth started to water at this point.
he approaches far too fast to be considered unaffected, but pran’s eyes are still wholly innocent and unaware.
pat wants to ruin him.
he tosses the bowl carelessly to pran’s left where the popcorn bag remains unopened, steam slipping through the small tear at the top and filling the room with something sweet, salty, and buttery. but pat can ignore all of that, everything, because nothing matters even half as much as pran does right now, as pat situates himself between pran’s exposed thighs, skin sticking to the marble of the counter.
“what’s up with you,” pran tries to ask again, voice twinkling with a bit of mirth but pat can still tell he has little idea what’s actually going on in pat’s brain, and pat’s determining if he would scare pran if he let it all out.
so instead he runs his palms up the expanse of pran’s smooth thighs, from knee to where the boxers begin, fingers slipping under the thin fabric and pat can feel pran’s eyes following the motion, the room becoming more heated by the second, pran’s next exhale becoming weak and shaky.
pat leans back just to drink him in again, slightly blushy skin and barely damp hair with rose creeping up his collarbones from the warmth in the room, thighs almost obscenely spread as pat cages him against the counter.
pat groans deep in his throat. “fuck— why are you so pretty?”
pran laughs a bit at that, breathy and soft.
pat wants to touch him so, so bad. he wants to tangle his fingers and pull, until pran finally yields and drops all those guards and that bravado and cockiness he wears, wants to kiss him to pliancy, and most of all, pat wants to touch him, take his time, wants to make pran feel so, so good. but he’s always been nervous, inexperienced, and giddy.
and the thing about pran is he’s full of surprises, and as it turns out, pran’s comfort zone extends miles beyond his own. so much so that pat often finds himself backing off quickly after he finds himself going too far, too much. but now, he—
“you should try—“ he stumbles, fingers pressing into pran’s thighs, feeling the muscles twitch. “you should wear my clothes more often.”
and pat looks up just in time to see the quick spark and flash of recognition in pran’s eyes, the momentary shock before his eyes become knowing and his lips curl into that smirk pat loves, dimples just peeking out. “is that what this is about?”
pat just blinks confusedly.
“me wearing your clothes,” pran explains. “you like that?”
pat just nods and pouts when pran giggles at him, only stopping when he feels pran’s palms cradling his head and angling it to face him directly, eyes genuine, with the softest edge of teasing. “well then. i'll take the note."
and then his expression shifts a bit, eyes hazed over a bit as he looks at pat, expression becoming soft and eyes blinking lazily. the heat in pat's stomach only grows as pran's eyes grow darker and his breaths come quicker.
"pat,"
"yeah?" pat replies, but it's mostly air.
"you can't just look at me like that."
"why not?"
pran sighs, almost annoyed at having to explain himself. "god, pat, if you're going to stare at me like that, god, please kiss me.”
pat doesn't need to be told twice.
and pat makes sure to do it right this time. he races forwards and kisses pran slow, slow, and dirty, making pran gasp into his mouth as teeth scrap and catch on pran’s plush bottom lip, making him jolt. pat just pulls him closer, closer, before getting frustrated and grabbing his hips and pulling them flush against his own.
pran whines high and needy into his mouth and pat could probably come by hearing that sound alone, but this isn’t about him. this is about pran.
so he opts to tilt his head and angle his chin to kiss pran deeper, even nicer until pran’s grabbing at his hair like an anchor.
and when he tries to pull away to catch his breath, pat doesn’t let him, diving right back in and licking back into his mouth and pran, competitive as always, fights to keep up with the brutal pace he’s begun.
pat finally relents when pran starts batting at his shoulders, pulling away and the sight makes him dig his fingers so deep into pran’s hips that he’s sure he’ll leave bruises.
pran looks hot, dazed, head tilted up and mouth red and slick with saliva, rose painting his neck pretty pink. and fuck— his eyes, pran’s eyes are dazed, clouded, and teary, likely from lack of air, but his eyes are glassy and fucked-out and it’s the hottest thing that pat’s ever seen.
pat can’t help the grin that pulls at his lips. “you alright, baby?”
pran blinks away the haze and glares, closing his (admittedly crudely) spread thighs, tightening them around pat’s torso like he was trying to crush him.
“fuck you, i don’t wanna watch the show anymore.” he shoves pat in the chest and pat already misses that warmth, that heat, but he relents and steps backward still wearing a smile. pran brushes past him aggressively, but pat can tell from the twitch of his mouth that he’s not actually angry.
pat turns to the jingle of keys and watches as pran rummages around the living room table drawer for his wallet and phone. he swallows hard as the boxers, pat's boxers, slip lower and lower on pran’s hips until pran has to make a grab at them while leaning over, hitching them back up.
“what’re you doing?” pat leans against the kitchen counter, feigning intrigue.
pran scoffs at him playfully. “gonna go have dinner with wai, since you’re being a little bitch,”
pat smile only grows wider as he takes several long, fast strides towards pran and grabs him by the waist again, sticking his nose in pran’s neck and inhaling. “nah,”
“nah, what?” pran questions.
pat slides his hands under the shirt and fingers the hem of his boxers, feeling pran shiver and melt a bit against him like he’s a hair’s breadth away from giving in.
“you’re not going anywhere, not like that, and not without me.”
pat’s going to leave so many marks and dark bruises on pran that even pran’s own shirts won’t be able to hide the obsessive, teething puppy dog he owns. and he’s gonna enjoy every minute of it.