Chapter Text
“Who do you think pitches and who catches?”
Reggie spits some of his soda down the front of his white t-shirt.
“Bobby, dude, you can’t just ask something like that.” The shirt is fucked. His mom is going to be more irate than usual. “It’s none of our business.”
“They’re our best friends and bandmates. Ragging on their sex life is a hundred percent our business. Our duty, really.” Bobby takes a deep drag on the joint he’s been nursing for the last half hour and then offers it to Reggie on the other side of the couch.
He accepts it with twitchy fingers and inhales even longer than Bobby. He’s not much of a smoker, but he’s going to need something to calm him down before the restart of his existential crisis.
It’s building in his gut like acid, threatening to claw its way up more violently than the alcohol did after Reggie consumed too much at their house party gig last weekend. He didn’t mean to get that drunk, but he had to. It was the only way to forget about what he’d witnessed, even if the memory was only dulled for the night.
Reggie had seen them.
He’d been roaming the unfamiliar halls looking for a beer pong partner. Two cute girls challenged him to a round after Sunset Curve played their set in the backyard. There was no way in hell he was going to ask Bobby. His aim was shit and he’d just take both girls for himself by the end of the night. Alex and Luke may have been together, but they were always solid wingmen for Reggie when he needed them. Sure, all the ladies seemed to prefer them, but they didn’t know there was no chance they’d be going to bed with the frontman or drummer. That always left Reggie, and that was cool.
He was used to being a consolation prize. Reggie just wanted to be wanted.
He had found them tucked into a dark corner of a spare bedroom, the door only half kicked shut in their haste. Luke was on his knees, his face nestled right into Alex’s crotch like he lived there. The only sounds that carried into the hall, where Reggie held himself tight against the ugly floral wallpaper, were the echoes of house music blasting from the speakers below and—somehow even louder—Luke, who was moaning as if it was his cock getting sucked.
Reggie should have interrupted. What if someone caught them other than him or Bobby? Alex would have a meltdown. Reggie could have just shut the door too. Both decent plans. But he ducked for cover instead. It’s what he did in tense situations. Mom flings a picture frame off the mantle? Move your ass back up the stairs or out the front door, whichever is closer. Dad chucks a half-empty beer bottle across the kitchen? Protect your head and pray that was the last of the six-pack.
But why did Reggie get so nervous now? He’d seen Alex and Luke make out before, and he’d certainly seen them naked over the years of shared locker rooms and bedrooms. He guessed it was a little different when you combine the kissing and the nudity.
Reggie, god help him, had peered back into the doorway. The beer in him made him loose, less fidgety than usual, and he was actually quite proud of how smoothly he moved. The front of his body pressed into the door jam, his hand gripping the edge so tightly that he was sure one of his rings was going to indent the wood.
And he watched.
Alex was beautiful and strong, dominant in a way Reggie didn’t often see from him as he mumbled unheard words over Luke’s moaning. The moonlight from the window cast a long rectangle of light from above his blonde hair and all the way down to the middle of Luke’s back where he kneeled, his tee stretched tight against his shoulder blades and his hands clasped onto Alex’s hips. The drummer’s own hands were split between petting Luke’s hair and holding up the bottom of his pink hoodie for a better view—better for him and Reggie, Reggie thought—of Luke at work.
And he was working efficiently. Luke, their fearless leader—always so in control in Reggie’s eyes—whimpered and moaned around Alex’s cock like he was writing a song for it. His head moved up and down in a rhythm Reggie was sure Alex was counting in his head. The blonde watched Luke so lovingly, the most calm he’d ever looked while not sleeping. His hands weren’t twitching at all.
Huh, Reggie had thought that was a permanent thing for Alex.
How could he manage to be so chill, though, with Luke giving what Reggie believed was probably the best head he’d ever seen? His dad had an uncomfortable about of tapes in his “hidden” porn stash. But this? This was intimate and private and AlexandLuke and Reggie’s head was spinning because he was hard and it was wrong but he still didn’t run away. Why—
“Sshh...”
Reggie froze, his hand having traveled towards the front of his jeans. He hadn’t really decided to move it there. Honestly. It was just sort of happening. It took him a second or two to realize Alex was shushing Luke for his downright slutty noises and not Reggie for his labored breathing. His own panting echoed between his ears and roared around in there like Alex beating on the drums.
Luke pulled off of Alex with an obscene, slick sound. He let his boyfriend guide him with a tug on his scalp to rest his cheek on Alex’s hipbone. Luke darted his tongue out to try to lick at Alex’s tip, looking put-out by not being allowed to dive in again even though his chest was heaving like he’d been held under water for an eternity. Reggie found himself questioning what Luke’s damp breath would feel like fanning over his cock.
“You’re too loud, baby,” Alex cooed—fucking cooed—at Luke so loving and so sweet and somehow so dirty, and Reggie had to rest his forehead against the wall.
They weren’t like this in public, weren’t like this in front of Reggie. They were normal. All jokes and average flirtation. Alex wasn’t big on PDA. He held Luke’s hand when they chilled on the couch in the studio or he threw an arm around him while they rested in the sand late at night outside Reggie’s house. They’d watch the bassist try to dunk Bobby under the waves that crashed just loud enough to drown out his parents screaming at each other back home.
Luke and Alex stole kisses and shared the occasional secretive smirk that Reggie really didn’t ever find that secretive, but maybe they did have secrets. They had entirely different personalities just for each other.
Reggie felt a little left out.
Luke, seemingly desperate to do something with his mouth, bit at Alex’s pelvic bone. Reggie was jealous of his perfect teeth, how they shined bright white even from several feet away, his mouth and jaw thick and messy with spit. But Reggie decided he was probably more jealous of Alex because he found himself digging his blunt fingernails into his own hip, trying to mimic the sensation. It was too soft through his shirt, but he was frantic and dizzy, and it was just enough to tease at something in his head he couldn’t quite reach.
He should have run from the feeling, the longing. It felt dangerous, like standing on the edge of a volcano, but he couldn’t move. He didn’t want to.
He was such a shitty friend.
But how was he supposed to just stop watching the show when Luke moaned again? It was louder than ever and oh-so-bitchy with a defiant glare up at Alex.
The drummer’s face morphed into something akin to anger but not quite as vicious. His hand tightened even more in Luke’s hair and the defiance in the kneeling boy’s eyes flickered out, his eye lids fluttering shut and his hands squeezing their anchor points at Alex’s hips. Reggie wondered if Luke was struggling not to touch his own cock. Reggie was failing in that department himself again, but Luke had always had more resolve than him.
“Don’t,” Alex began, his voice raspy and dark and delicious, “be,” his hand pulled at the hair in its grasp, “a brat.”
He forced Luke back to his cock swiftly, shoving him downdowndown. There was a lovely little gagging sound that made Alex moan, and then Luke was humming in contentment. His right hand flew down and rubbed at his own dick. He whimpered again, but softly this time, obediently, with Alex’s member still all the way down his throat.
Reggie massaged at himself in tandem with Luke’s motions. It was rough, maybe too rough, but he kept up with the furious grinding, like matching Luke in a duet. The pressure felt suffocating and all-consuming, but Reggie didn’t want to breathe anyway. Luke wasn’t. He couldn’t.
Reggie was sure the sound of Luke gagging on dick was only outmatched in lewdness by Alex’s absolute authority. He looked fucking taller somehow, his back arched against the wall and his grin wicked while holding Luke against him tightly. Their lead singer looked as if he liked the abuse, liked being used for—could Reggie even call it a blow job anymore? Luke wasn’t moving his head, and his shoulders were completely relaxed as he rubbed his hand fervently on the front of his jeans while Alex’s cock just seemed to make itself at home in his esophagus.
Reggie had a fleeting thought as he ground his own hand into his dick, wondering if he’d be good at it like Luke, wondering if he’d take the abuse just as well, wondering if he could be—
“Good boy.”
He turned his head so fast that his neck was going to hurt the next day and bit down roughly into the fabric of his shirt. Reggie fucking came in his jeans like he was fourteen again and watching the girls’ volleyball team practice outside his house on a particularly hot Saturday morning. Only this time there were no girls involved, and wasn’t that just a spine-tingling revelation.
Reggie kept his shirt in his mouth, afraid he’d be panting too loudly without the interference. The spots in his vision cleared enough to see Alex brutally yank Luke off his knees, Alex’s cock glistening and absolutely soaked in the moonlight. Reggie was faintly bummed he missed the moment Alex had finally let Luke breathe—“let” because Alex was in charge—but then the blonde was eating Luke’s face and Reggie wasn’t thinking of anything else other than the fact that Alex’s left hand had a vice grip on the side of Luke’s neck and his right hand was going for the boy’s fly to—
A different couple crashed out of the bathroom down the empty hall, all wobbling limbs and giggles, and Reggie sobered up and found the single grain of sense he had left in his head. He bolted.
He slid away from the door leading to his bandmates and slunk down the hallway to head back to the party. In a brief moment of guilt and friendship—where had that been ten minutes earlier?—Reggie spun back around to block the couple from seeing his friends. But, before he could make it the few steps, and thankfully before the new duo stumbled into the lit space the open doorway created, the door slammed shut.
Alex had probably come to his senses too.
Reggie staggered down the stairs, cringing at his wet boxers, but he deserved at least that inconvenience.
He needed a drink, needed to forget.
Bobby was at the beer pong table with the two girls Reggie left behind hanging all over him, and that was just fine all of a sudden. They greeted Reggie sweetly, Bobby introducing him with a wink like he just assumed they wouldn’t know Reggie without his help. For some reason, that was just fine too.
They drank and they danced. They touched him with soft hands and smelled like bubblegum and laughed at his jokes, but none of it felt like anything he needed any more. He could barely focus when one of the girls smothered him with lip-gloss kisses.
He only thought of strong, fisted hands and whimpers prettier than any song Luke ever sang before.
It was all Reggie ever thought of anymore.
“You really haven’t thought about them fucking, man?” Bobby snatches the joint back with narrowed eyes. Reggie hadn’t realized he was hoarding it.
“Nope.”
That sounded convincing. Reggie was proud of himself. He wasn’t nervous. Not a bit.
Bobby’s still staring at him, though. His eyes are doing some sort of stupid know-it-all thing, like he can tell Reggie’s a big fat liar.
“You totally have,” Bobby decides, leaning back in his seat with a dopey smile.
“Screw you.” Reggie pouts and crosses his arms. The soda soaking his tee is making his skin tacky. It’s probably not the only reason he feels icky all over. “You’re the weird one for bringing it up.”
Bobby shrugs, indifferent and effortlessly chill. Reggie’s jealous. He hasn’t been chill for days.
“Hey! No getting high before practice, Bobby!” Luke and Alex appear through the garage doors—together, of course—and Luke grabs the joint out from between Bobby’s fingers. “You good, Reg?” he offers it to Reggie, who waves him off. His tongue feels thick when Luke looks him in the eyes. He salivates and he can almost taste the spit-damp cotton of his shirt again.
“Asshole,” Bobby groans when Luke throws the joint to the ground. “How come Reggie can smoke and I can’t?”
“‘Cause Reggie’s his favorite.” Alex nudges Luke with his elbow as he walks by to get to his drum kit, and they share one of those smiles. The ones that make Reggie’s belly warm because he knows what they mean now. Familiarity. Intimacy—intimacy he should know nothing about but craves incessantly nonetheless.
During practice, Reggie stands right against Alex’s drums, watching raptly as the boy wails on the instrument with the same sweaty muscles he had used to hold his boyfriend down on his cock. He fists his sticks with the same fingers that tugged viciously at Luke but also caressed him lovingly. Reggie all but sprints to Luke’s side to share his mic when he beckons him over with a nod. He watches the shape of his lips when he sings, watches the stretch of his throat when he holds a long note. He knows what that mouth looks like around a dick, what those teeth look like buried in skin.
He revels in the euphoria he finds in watching them, hushing the guilt and drowning it out with the new music they’ve created in his veins.
Mistake or not, they’re the most addictive drug he’s ever tried, and Reggie is hooked.