Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/724860.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Bandom, Fall_Out_Boy
  Relationship:
      Patrick_Stump/Pete_Wentz
  Character:
      Pete_Wentz, Patrick_Stump, Joe_Trohman
  Additional Tags:
      Butt_Plugs, Dubious_Consent, Public_Sex
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-03-17 Words: 3181
****** Patterns in the Sound ******
by coricomile
Summary
     "Don't fucking be a dick, you motherfucker," Patrick grits out,
     pressing his forehead to his folded arms. The rough fabric of the
     seat is chafing against his elbows and if Pete doesn't do anything
     soon, Patrick is going to quit the band right the fuck now and
     hitchhike back to Chicago.
"No."
Patrick crosses his arms over his stomach and leans forward against his legs,
squirming to look up at the front row of seats. It's dark in the van, even
darker outside. Andy's still driving, fingers tapping agitatedly against the
steering wheel, antsy with too much caffeine. Joe, who has next shift, is
snoring next to him, feet twitching in the space between the seats. They've
been driving too long, and Patrick feels like he's going to crawl out of his
own skin if he doesn't get out soon. Pete scoots closer, nudging at Patrick's
thighs until Patrick unfolds them and sits back.
"Think about it," Pete says, his voice rumbling against the softness of
Patrick's belly. It doesn't do much to endear Pete to him. Patrick pushes his
head away with one hand, the other curling around the sharp edge of Pete's
shoulder. He feels uncomfortable, the strange unease that always comes when
Pete's this close to him settling into his gut.
"No," Patrick says again. He looks out the window, watches the mile markers
pass in a too-fast blur and wonders exactly how many miles over the speed limit
Andy's going. Pete touches his stomach and Patrick flinches away from it, the
urge to suck his puppy fat in stronger than his urge to protest further.
Cool fingers slide under his shirt, crook to hold onto his belt. Patrick
swallows. He's young and stupid and still a little starstruck, but he has lines
and Pete isn't going to cross them this easily. Pete's breath is hot on his
thigh, even as he thumbs open the clasp of Patrick's belt buckle.
"You can't make me," Patrick says. It's petulant, and he sounds exactly as old
as he is, but Pete just laughs, wiggling his fingers into the give of Patrick's
old jeans.
"I totally can," Pete tells him, leaning up to mouth at the faint line of hair
under his belly button.
Patrick's half-hard and fighting it, hand gone tight on Pete's shoulder, teeth
grit to stop himself from making any noises to alert Andy or Joe. Pete's tongue
slides wet over his skin as he wraps a loose fist around Patrick's dick,
jerking lazily. Pete's not his first- that honor went to Brooke Johnson in
ninth grade- but he's got enough experience that Patrick still feels
intimidated. Pete laughs again, thumb sliding over the head of Patrick's dick.
"I want to fuck you," Pete says, nudging Patrick's jeans lower. Patrick closes
his eyes, trying to thrust up into Pete's hand without throwing Pete to the
floor. He's having a hard time remembering what he's arguing about. "And I want
to do it hard." Patrick whines, biting down on his lower lip and thumping his
head back against the seat. Pete's hand tightens, his elbow digging into the
soft skin of Patrick's thigh. "And I want to do it whenever the fuck I want."
Patrick feels hot, stuffed in under his jacket and shirts and Pete's heat all
over him. Pete bites at the skin above his hip, licking away the sting. His
shoulders are doing a good job of keeping Patrick still, and Patrick can't make
his hand let go of Pete's hoodie, fingers clenched tight. He's sixteen and
hasn't had anything but his own hand in too long, and Pete knows his buttons
like he installed them himself.
"Tell me you'll do it," Pete says, squeezing tight around the head of Patrick's
cock. Patrick bites his lip. Fuck Pete and fuck his fucking hands and his
stupid fucking face and-
"Fine, fine, what the fuck ever, just get me off, asshole," Patrick hisses,
jerking up when Pete twists his wrist sharply. Pete laughs again, lifting up so
Patrick can rock into his hand.
The van's engine stutters, the lights of passing cars making the van's insides
glow for a moment, and Patrick comes, face pressed into his forearm, biting
down onto his own skin to keep from embarrassing himself. When he's able to
breathe again he opens his eyes in time to catch Pete wiping his hand on the
knee of Patrick's jeans, smirking to himself.
---
Patrick's half asleep when the van jerks to a stop. He startles, knee jerking
up into the small of Pete's back. Pete doesn't move even when Andy switches the
engine off, doesn't look away from the book he's reading by the glow of his
phone.
"You want anything?" Andy asks over his shoulder, elbowing Joe roughly to wake
him. The sound of Joe's shoulder cracking into the door makes Patrick wince in
sympathy.
"We're good, " Pete says. Patrick opens his mouth to protest- he wants a
Snickers bar and he wants it fucking now- but Pete digs his fingers into the
thickest part of Patrick's thigh to cut him off. "How much farther?" Andy
checks the map, the paper crinkling and tearing at the places Joe had folded
wrong.
"Four hours," he says as Joe tumbles out onto the pavement. "Sure you don't
want anything?"
"We're set." Pete watches Andy crawl out of the driver's seat, waits for the
door to slam shut, before dropping his book and phone, reaching up blindly for
the lock button. Patrick's stomach turns. It's too late to back out now. He's
not a coward and he's not the type to go back on his word.
It's alarming how quickly Pete throws himself into the back of the van where
the bags are, landing hard enough to shake the whole thing. Patrick can hear
him digging through his bag, hear the thump of Pete's spare shoes hitting the
floor, the softer sound of his array of books joining them following soon
after, then the sound of his entire bag being dumped out.
Patrick has two choices, and both are unpleasant; he can either stall and get
caught or man up and take his pants off. Pete makes a sound in the back,
apparently finding what he was looking for, and Patrick lets out a slow breath.
He's got this. He can totally do this. It's just a- It's just.
"Ass up, Stump," Pete says, throwing a leg over the back of the seats. He
straddles it, leaned forward to keep his head from pressing against the roof.
He's got a half-empty tube of Wet in one hand, and Patrick's steadfastly
ignoring what's in his other hand.
"Pete, I don't think-"
"You said," Pete reminds him, waving the lube at him. "Pull your pants down and
turn the fuck over."
Patrick clenches his jaw. Fuck Pete and fuck his stupid fucking mouth. His
belt's still undone, and his jeans are old enough that he doesn't have to
actually undo them to work them over his hips if he wiggles a little. Pete
whistles, the sound echoing against the windows.
The front of his boxers is sticking to his thighs, which is gross enough that
he almost forgets that Pete's watching him. He peels the soft cotton away from
his legs, startled when firm hands grab him from behind. Pete's strong enough
to keep him from toppling between the rows- thank god, because there's shit
down there that Patrick doesn't even want to think about- and he somehow
manages to set Patrick back down onto his knees.
Patrick's reconsidering the option of crawling under the disgusting seats as
Pete walks his fingers over the bumps of Patrick's spine, taking the time they
don't have to spare. He feels exposed which, hey, he totally is, and his heart
skips a few beats at Pete's silence.
"Don't fucking be a dick, you motherfucker," Patrick grits out, pressing his
forehead to his folded arms. The rough fabric of the seat is chafing against
his elbows and if Pete doesn't do anything soon, Patrick is going to quit the
band right the fuck now and hitchhike back to Chicago.
"I'm enjoying the view, asshole," Pete says, sliding down to awkwardly straddle
Patrick's calves, his jeans rough against the backs of Patrick's thighs. "Calm
the fuck down."
"I swear to god, if Andy and Joe see, I'm going to kill you, Wentz-" Patrick's
voice breaks when Pete's cold, wet finger slides down the crack of his ass.
"I'm so glad that you're not ashamed of me," Pete says dryly, pressing the tip
of his middle finger in. "It could really cause a strain in our relationship."
"Fuck off," Patrick replies dumbly, squeezing his eyes shut. It feels so
fucking weird, not like the handful of times he's done it himself. Pete slides
his finger all the way in, his knuckles brushing agianst the curve of Patrick's
ass. The lights of a car backing out of the lot shine in through the window,
and Patrick tries to force himself to relax. The sooner they get this over
with, the less humiliated he'll be.
It seems like it's a little too soon when Pete slides a second finger in, but
Patrick's dick still twitches, the brush of Pete's fingertips against his
prostate giving him a reason to rock back against Pete's hand. Pete leans down
and presses a kiss to the slick nape of Patrick's neck, crooking his fingers up
hard. Patrick's hips jerk and, fuck, he's hard again, his dick curving up
against his stomach.
"Stick it in already," he says, curling his hands in the slight give of the
seat.
"I love it when you talk dirty, Stump," Pete says, the grin in his voice
obnoxious. Patrick doesn't get the chance to reply- not that he knows what he
would say to that anyway- because the weirdly soft silicon of the butt plug in
Pete's free hand is replacing Pete's fingers.
It feels strange, getting thicker through the middle. Patrick tries to arch
away from it, unused to the feeling, but Pete holds him still, pressing it all
the way in slowly, muttering soft, soothing noises. Patrick feels full, and
he's having trouble trying to figure out if it's a good full or a bad one. The
base of the plug settles against him a little awkwardly, holding him open.
"Don't touch this," Pete says, leaning forward to press his mouth against
Patrick's jaw. "Don't move it, don't take it out, don't do anything to it." He
jabs his knuckles against the plug, and the tip of it presses against Patrick's
prostate, firm. "Don't jerk off, don't even touch your dick. You want to get
off? You come to me."
"I'm not yours to-" Patrick cuts off on a moan, rocking back against the toy
against his will. "You can't make me."
"I totally can," Pete says, like deja vu. As much as he hates to admit it,
Patrick knows it's truth. Pete smacks a hand against Patrick's ass before
yanking his boxers and jeans back up. The locks click, and Patrick has enough
time to do up the clasp of his belt before Andy and Joe are piling back into
the front.
"I don't really fucking care," Andy says, shoving the map at Joe. "If you get
lost wake Pete up."
"But Pete can't navigate like you can." Joe tosses a bag of Skittles over his
shoulder at Patrick- who is still kneeling up awkwardly on the seat- and gives
him a quick smile through the rearview mirror. Patrick swallows and gives him a
weak smile in return.
"I am a navigational master, motherfucker," Pete crows, clambering over the
middle row to stick his head between the front seats.
The van lurches, knocking Patrick back down. He lands awkwardly, sitting
heavily on his own foot, and the plug presses up into him, the jolt of
ohgodohfucksogood that rockets through him almost violent. The sound of the
engine covers up his embarrassing groan, but Pete looks back at him, a knowing
grin tucked into the edges of his mouth.
After a few moments of squirming, Patrick finds that there's no way to sit that
doesn't put pressure on the plug. Fuck Pete and fuck his stupid ideas and his
stupid sex toys.
Patrick ends up laying on his hip in the seats, his feet pressed to one of the
doors, his head against the other. He can't sleep like this to begin with, but
the added pressure of the plug inside him and the constant throb of his dick
isn't really helping him at all. He closes his eyes, breathes through his
mouth, and tries to think of music instead.
It only kind of works.
---
They make it to the venue with barely enough time to get their gear and go.
Patrick's constantly aware of the press of the plug inside him, but he can't
stop to relieve himself of it, and he spends most of the back and forth run
hiding himself behind cases and amps, the heavy feel of Pete's eyes on him
unavoidable.
He's three steps away from a detour to the bathroom- there's no way he can play
like this- but a hand around his arm jerks him back and cuts him short. It's
Pete- of course it's Pete- the edges of his smile sharp as he yanks Patrick
into a sound room.
"Pete, what the fuck-"
"Now," Pete says, shoving Patrick up against the wall. His eyes are dark, hand
hot against Patrick's chest. Outside, Patrick can hear the opening band playing
through their set, the music vibrating through the walls and against his back.
"No-" He's cut off by the hot, hard press of Pete's mouth to his, and it's
suddenly hard to remember why this is a bad idea.
Pete shoves his knee between Patrick's thighs, pressing up, and Patrick jerks
against him. There's a hot mouth on his throat, sucking too hard, leaving a
mark, and Pete's hand is already at his belt, tugging the fake leather hard
enough to force Patrick's hips forward with it. It's overwhelming, the thump of
the bass offbeat against the sudden race of his heart, the room too hot even
though Pete's shoving his jeans and boxers down. Then, it's skin on denim,
Patrick's cock heavy against Pete's thigh.
The wall disappears from behind him, his shirt sticking to his back, and Pete
tugs him away from it pulling even as Patrick stumbles over his pants, legs
tangled up, one hand around the back of his neck like a vice. It's almost too
hard, the bite of Pete's nails in the bruise he's left painful, and Patrick is
pantless in public. He nearly laughs.
Pete shoves him down across the soundboard, presses against his neck until he
bends over it. A fresh wave of embarrassment hits him, but its overthrown by
the rush of want as he hears Pete undo his own belt, as he feels the way Pete
has to struggle to shove his pants down with only one free hand.
"I'm going to fuck you so hard you'll feel it tomorrow," Pete says against his
cheek, lips sliding across slick side of his jaw. "You want it?" Pete's free
hand, done with his jeans, trails down over his back, slides through the sweat
that's pooled in the dimple above Patrick's ass. Patrick sucks in a breath
before Pete presses against the base of the plug with the heel of his hand.
"Tell me you want it."
Patrick can feel Pete's dick against the back of his thigh, hot and hard, damp
at the tip. They don't have the time for this, and Patrick's been hard since he
woke up. He shoves back against Pete's hand, whining as a sharp shock of
pleasure spirals through him.
"Tell me, Stump," Pete says again, the pressure of his fingers around Patrick's
neck going tighter.
"I want it," Patrick chokes out through grit teeth. His fingers slip on the
soundboard, unable to hold onto anything. He's staying up through force of
will, Pete's hand anchoring him. There's the sharp sound of a condom wrapper
tearing open, then the slimy feel of it as Pete rolls it on one-handed.
"Say please." Pete's fingers wrap around the base of the plug, pulling it back
slowly. He shoves it back in almost too hard. Patrick lets out a rush of
breath, his dick so hard it hurts.
"Please," he says, stomach tight. Pete laughs, a hot huff of breath against
Patrick's shoulderblades, and then the plug is out, the hollow sound of it
hitting the floor drowned out by the toobigtoobigtoobig pressure of Pete
pressing inside.
Pete thrusts forward, Patrick's hips butting forward into the soundboard. He'll
have bruises that sit right under his belt, a solid line from side to side.
Pete's hand moves from Patrick's neck to his hair, fingers shoving under his
hat to tangle up in it, tugging his head back.
Pete's cock is different from the plug; hot and harder and thicker and attached
to Pete. Patrick tries to push back, to get Pete to just where he wants him,
but Pete tugs his hair harder, making him arch backwards, his hands scrabbling
to keep him up.
"You're going to feel me for days," Pete says into his ear, leaning forward.
Their shirts are still on, and Patrick can feel the cotton rubbing his skin
raw, but that doesn't matter because Pete's thrusting into him at a quick, hard
pace, breath ragged against Patrick's jaw.
Patrick can't reach down to jerk himself off, will fall if he even tries, but
Pete seems to get it, reaching down to grab at him, pumping roughly. He's a
little of sync, his hand faster than his hips, but he bites down on Patrick's
shoulder, and Patrick's coming on the soundboard, his choked off moan bouncing
off the walls.
Pete's hips are still snapping forward, the slap of them against Patrick's ass
loud in the room. The fingers in Patrick's hair tighten, pull. When he opens
his mouth to cry out, Pete shoves the fingers of his other hand in, forcing
Patrick to suck his come from them. It's salty and bitter and a little gross,
but it seems to do it for Pete, his thrusts speeding up until he stills
suddenly, coming into the condom.
They're still for a moment, breathing hard. Pete lets his fingers slide from
Patrick's mouth, a wet trail left over his swollen bottom lip and chin, wiping
them off on the hem of Patrick's shirt. Patrick's mouth feels stretched and
raw, cracked at the corners. The fingers in his hair loosen and then disappear
entirely. He hisses when Pete pulls out.
The soundboard's wrecked. Patrick tries not to look at it as he bends to grab
his underwear and jeans from the floor, wincing as it pulls at something
unpleasant. There's no music, which means they opener is over- has been over-
and that Andy and Joe will be looking for them soon. Patrick does his belt up
looser than usual.
Pete grabs him before he reaches the door, hand still damp, and kisses him.
It's not as hard, not as rough, and Patrick tries not to think about what that
means. Pete grins at him when he pulls back and slips past.
Patrick's left feeling strangely empty.
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