Pete was one scrappy motherfucker. He had been ghostwriting for Green Day, which left him with a little more erotic playroom lyric-wise than the usual Revenge/Lovesick/Teenage Trauma songs that he wrote for Fall Out Boy. Countless songs written about the girl who couldn't give two fucks about a word that came out of his mouth.
Makeout Party Fuck time Lady Cobra Fell for you Last of The American Girls
All among others, word got out that they had been written about you. Oh, but you were so aloof. Two faced. You would get just enough attention to make a boy fall head over heels, then you would disappear like a vape cloud out the window.
He shouldn't have been planning what he was. Not at this party. But he found himself thanking emo Jesus for the two inch inseam of your shorts as you smoked on the couch. Music was blaring, smoke was heavy and around half of the people there were shitfaced. And God, Pete was really planning on bringing some lyrics to life.
So he started a fucked up game of truth or dare.
Begrudgingly, you chose dare. This led to him daring you to seven minutes in heaven with him, which you one again, begrudgingly complied. He loved that you acted like you hated his guts. When you told him he reminded you of a cracked out weasel, or a scrappy raccoon. "A motherfucking sorry asshole with a libido bigger than William Beckett's dick." That one was his favorite.
"Dares a dare, now what? Because I'm sure as fuck not making out with you."
You muttered, sinking against the wall of the closet.
"Oh, no the fuck you don't. You're not playing, you're sitting there. Hate to break it to you, but you've gotta participate."
Pete grinned, flicking on the old party light on the wall that had been used for other games like this one.
"And what am I supposed to fuckin do, huh? I am participating. I'm in the fuckin closet."
You deadpanned, scoffing.
A beat passed, before Pete lifted his shirt just enough for you to see his hip bones. With a tap of a finger against pale skin, he shot you a look. "Kiss me there."