Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6913786.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Fall_Out_Boy
  Relationship:
      Patrick_Stump/Pete_Wentz
  Character:
      Pete_Wentz, Patrick_Stump
  Additional Tags:
      Early_Days, Pre-Van_Days, Scumbaron, Consensual_Underage_Sex, Plot_What
      Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, Pre-Band
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-05-20 Words: 4166
****** Some Kind of Casanova ******
by scarredsodeep
Summary
     Pete delivers pizza when he doesn't have a show. He asks Patrick to
     come with him. There's more than one way to interpret such a
     request...
     (Set in the earliest days of Fall Out Boy.)
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
Patrick is half hard and half sick, sliding into the passenger seat of Pete’s
low-slung black car. It’s a two-seater, the upholstery worn through and
stuffing pouring out, the smell of pizza almost-but-not-quite covering the
muskier smell of Pete: sweat, some kind of body spray, smoke, toothy smiles.
Patrick is not sure why he agreed to this. He has heard one thing about Pete
Wentz: he is trouble. Some kind of bass-playing Casanova, in more bands than he
can possibly care about, with some kind of flint-edged talent that everyone
wants to grab hold of. When Pete is happy, he is known for smiles and
generosity and easy kisses, for his sense of adventure and laughter and fun.
When Pete is not happy, he is known for recklessness, self-destruction, a tired
and sullen face and a slow, sad smile, hollow jack-o-lantern eyes, and
disappearing acts.
So maybe Patrick has heard more than one thing about Pete Wentz. Patrick has
been listening, has had his ear to the ground, so to speak. There are three
girls and one boy in his year alone who claim to have fucked Pete Wentz in this
very car. That’s the main thing Patrick has heard about Pete, in point of fact:
sex happens in this car. It is not a car for the unwary or the prudish or the
enthusiastically virginal.
And here Patrick is, in it.
Is it any wonder his palms sweat, his stomach turns, his dick surges in little
heartbeat blips like it’s still deciding whether he should fuck or flee? Not
that Patrick came here to fuck. Patrick came here to—well, like he said,
Patrick is not sure why he agreed to this.
Patrick has spoken to Pete Wentz exactly once, in the comfort of Patrick’s own
home, where Pete made him sing with eyes on his throat like a hungry wolf, and
Patrick was glad because eyes on his lips meant there were no eyes on his
crotch, where things more embarrassing than singing were happening. Pete has
eyes like whoa and they sunk into Patrick’s like inky hooks, his lips parted in
pleasure and expectation. Patrick stood, singing, sixteen years old, and did
not know what to do with his hands. His mother was in the next room. He tried
very, very hard to think about that, but his treacherous cock had other ideas.
No one in the next room now. Just him and Pete, who is lounging in an
exaggerated way in the driver’s seat, one Van out the window and his head
rolled back on his headrest to grin at Patrick, one hand resting at his thorny
throat. He is wearing torn black jeans and a girls’ Bulls t-shirt and at least
two belts, and (Patrick is pretty sure) eyeliner. It is all impossibly cool.
Music plays on the stereo, bass-heavy and rumbling through the speakers into
Patrick’s lungs, but he can barely hear it. Pete blinks slowly, the speed of
caramel melting, and Patrick adds half a heart attack to his physical inventory
of half-states. Why in god’s name did Patrick think it was a good idea to come
here, to get into this car.
“Hey,” Patrick squeaks.
Pete’s grin splits and widens, teeth sharp and white. Patrick tries to casually
arrange his legs to conceal the aforementioned treacherous cock. Pete delivers
pizzas on weekends when he isn’t playing shows. He’s asked Patrick to tag along
with him tonight so they can discuss “their possibilities.” Patrick assumes he
means as a band, but he can’t be sure. He has heard certain legends.
“Hello, Patrick,” Pete says with his wolf’s smile. “Welcome to my office.”
“Oh yeah? This is where you broker business deals?” Patrick isn’t sure, but
he’s either embarrassing the hell out of himself or bantering. He hopes it’s
sexy banter. Patrick is a little tongue-tied, a little breathless, realizing
how much he wants Pete to find him sexy. Pete is 20 years old. It seems
dangerous and a little insane, to want to be found sexy.
Someone pounds on the roof of Pete’s car and Patrick yelps, rendering the whole
sexiness quandary a moot point, probably. Unless Pete’s into girlish yelping.
Patrick hasn’t heard any legends about that. Better not to think about what
Pete’s into, Patrick decides, crossing his legs more firmly. Causal, be causal.
Pete pulls his feet into the car, opens the door, and exits all in one smooth
motion. He might actually be a liquid, barely contained in honey-browned skin.
Patrick thinks about what it would take to burst that thin film, for the liquid
to rush out, over him, gushing…
These are unhelpful thoughts to be having. Pete bounces back into the car,
dropping hard into his seat and causing the whole car to jolt with his
movement, and Patrick is glad to be physically torn from his reverie. It must
be the smell. That’s what’s wrong with Patrick. He’s having some sort of
allergic reaction to Pete’s body spray. Pete deposits an insulated pizza bag
ungraciously onto Patrick’s lap, and Patrick is grateful for that too. The bag
is large and awkward, hot and greasy and smelling of cheese, and there is
definitely no way Pete will notice his erection through two layers of
insulation and a pizza, no matter how insistently it’s hardening against
Patrick’s thigh.
Covertly, Patrick scopes out the backseat. There’s not much space: one narrow
bucket seat. Not much room for two—not with any kind of… mobility. Patrick
wonders if that means the action happens in the front seat, in these very
seats. A delicious shiver chases across his skin.
“We’re going to Northbrook,” Pete announces, handing Patrick a slip of receipt
paper with a name, address, and pizza order on it. Patrick focuses on reading
the words and breathing deeply. His heart attack is intensifying. It’s got to
be at least three-quarter strength by now. “This is a very confusing
neighborhood, I must warn you. We might get lost.” Pete waggles his eyebrows
and the heart attack amps up to 85%.
“Like Little Red Riding Hood,” Patrick manages, displaying his super cool knack
for saying the stupidest possible thing at any given moment. The last thing he
wants to be doing is reminding Pete of how young he is. Patrick pulls the brim
of his hat down lower in attempt to conceal his blush. At least there’s enough
blood left in his general body to generate a blush. Based on what his dick is
doing in the warm pizza-y privacy of his covered lap, he’s probably looking
corpse-pale, anemic.
Pete looks at him sideways, navigating the car out of the alley behind the
pizza place and towards their destination. “Don’t worry, we’ll stay on the
path.”
A few moments pass without conversation. Pete sings along to his stereo without
real commitment. He bobs his head to the beat. Patrick grows increasingly
sweaty beside him.
Finally Patrick says, “So it looks like we’re going to be spending a lot of
time in cars together.” This is an impossibly stupid thing to say, and if there
was any oxygen in his body going anywhere but his penis, maybe he could
formulate an intelligent utterance, but that’s just not who he is today. “Um,
because of the band. If the band happens. It seems like the band is happening.”
“Looks like,” Pete says noncommittally. “We’ll see. You got any songs?”
Patrick is worried that if he says yes, Pete will want to hear them, so he
makes an ambivalent noise. Not using words was a mistake, however, because
silence settles over them again. When there is silence, Patrick’s brain fills
it with suggestions about the different activities that may have occurred in
this car in the past, and those that may occur in the future. He shifts a
little in his seat, the hot weight of the pizza bag providing friction for his
cock to slide against, which is overall a bad idea. This is a bad idea, this is
a really incredibly bad idea, Patrick tells himself, rocking his hips in
torturous slow motion so he can feel it again, again. He’s looking at Pete’s
profile, he’s looking at Pete’s mouth, he’s imagining the dark wet hollow
inside—
A small and horrifying sound escapes Patrick’s lips, a throaty exhalation that
is not unlike a gasp, and he freezes in his subtle movement against the pizza
bag. “You okay?” Pete asks, glancing at him with an unreadable look in his deep
brown eyes. Patrick trains his mortified eyes on the weave of Pete’s thorn
tattoo. He would rather throw himself out of this moving car than meet Pete’s
eye right now.
Hoping desperately that his breathing sounds normal, that his voice isn’t as
strangled as it feels, Patrick blurts out bullishly, “So what did you want to
see me for?”
Pete looks at him again. They’re deep in the suburbs now. It is a bit like a
dark and scary forest. “Were you serious about the business transaction thing?
Because I just thought we could hang out, get to know each other better. I
don’t have, like, an agenda. Do you? You look like a kid with action items that
need addressing.”
Yes, and here’s one bursting out of my pants now, Patrick would say if he were
bolder or more sexually experienced or less of a dork. Pete is inscrutable:
Patrick truly cannot tell if everything out of that coy mouth just sounds like
a come-on to his perverse and burning ears or if it actually is one, whether
this so-called Casanova has lascivious intentions.
Somehow one of Patrick’s hands has slipped beneath the pizza bag. As they wend
slowly through Tim Burton-esque ‘burbs at school-zone speeds, he begins to
stroke himself through his jeans. Patrick has not decided to do this. It’s just
happening. He doesn’t know whether or not he wants Pete to notice, or rather,
he wants both of these things intensely, at the same time.
“Knowing each other better sounds good to me,” Patrick croaks. He’s thinking
about Pete’s skin again, how much of it there is he cannot see and how queasy-
excited he feels about what he can see. V-necks should be illegal. He wants to
catalogue Pete’s tattoos with his tongue, starting with the thorns and working
downwards. He’s seen Pete’s shirt pull up during a basement show; he knows
there are reasons to go downwards. He knows exactly where he’d like his mouth
to be.
Patrick has never had such lewd thoughts before in his life, never rubbed his
own cock while looking someone else in the eyes, certainly never done this with
another guy. This was not his plan when he came here tonight. Admittedly, there
was a certain daydream, this morning in geometry class. But it wasn’t a plan.
And it didn’t involve rubbing his dick on a pizza bag with Pete all the way
over there, in the driver’s seat. It involved—
Oh. Pete’s gaze, darting glances under his bangs, dark eyes and furrowed brow,
has alighted on the back of Patrick’s own hand—the one on top of the insulator
bag. Patrick’s breath catches audibly in his throat and Pete freezes, lifting
his own black-nailed hand so it floats across the car, just skimming the hairs
on the back of Patrick’s hand where it hovers, not quite touching. He doesn’t
pull back. The gesture is as clear as words, clearer: Is this okay?
This is not okay. This is electric agony. Patrick is going to come all over
himself if they go on like this. He cannot stand it. He feels a little crazy, a
little reckless, and entirely invincible. He licks his bottom lip, deciding. He
flips his palm up, presses his hand into Pete’s, weaves their fingers together.
For just a moment, their hands hold. It might be his own exploding heartbeat,
but he thinks Pete squeezes.
Then Pete does pull away. He takes his hand back from Patrick and applies it to
the steering wheel, turns the car up a driveway with what Patrick
thinks—hopes—is regret on his face.
“Be right back,” Pete says lightly, putting the car into park and hoisting the
pizza off Patrick’s lap before he has time to prepare. Caught red-handed—cock-
handed. The interior of the car is dark. It’s hard to know how much Pete sees.
He doesn’t react, anyway, just turns and opens his door, slides out without
look back. Patrick tries to view this as a good thing. The interior light kicks
on when the door opens, leaving his swollen dick plainly visible under his
flushed hand.
But a large part of him wants Pete to see.
He watches Pete walk up the driveway, hips and ass framed by low-rise jeans.
Patrick’s hand resumes its motion, faster now, up and down along his hard-on,
rubbing against the seam of his jeans. He is filled with the mad courage of
lust, a bright horny insanity from which anything is not only possible, but
also a very good idea. Panting, he formulates a plan. He watches Pete wait,
receive payment, deliver pizza. He makes eye contact with Pete as he walks back
to the car, lips parted around his breathing. Pete half-smiles at him, unaware
of what Patrick’s hand is up to inside the car.
This time, Patrick doesn’t try to hide what’s straining in his pants, but Pete
Wentz, like some kind of gentleman, does not look. He tosses the insulator bag
into the back and shifts the car into gear. “The thrilling lifestyle of the
rich and famous, right? This is why I wanted you to come. I get bored.”
“I’m not bored,” Patrick hears himself say. He reaches across the center
console, all nine miles of it, with an embarrassing trembly hand. He wants
this. God, does he want this. And if half the rumors he’s heard are true, maybe
Pete does too. Dart-like, before he can change his mind, Patrick drops his hand
to Pete’s thigh. Pete makes a soft sound of surprise, looks at Patrick with
wide, startled eyes.
Patrick moves his hand up slowly, like a question. “Patrick, this isn’t why I
asked you to come with me,” Pete says. He sounds slightly horrified, but
Patrick hears longing too. Pete doesn’t push Patrick’s hand away, doesn’t take
his eyes off Patrick’s face. Is Patrick imagining it, or is his chest heaving
slightly with quickened breath? If Pete doesn’t look back at the road soon,
they’ll both be dead.
“But I want to come with you,” Patrick replies. His voice is low in his throat,
almost a purr, and he can’t quite believe his own audacity. Suddenly he’s some
kind of Lolita. Pete makes a helpless sound in his throat (Patrick quite likes
this) and finally tears his eyes away, back to the road.
Patrick marshals his courage and moves his hand up. Pete makes another sound,
this one louder, as Patrick finds his dick, half hard, anticipating him.
“Patrick!” Pete gasps, Patrick running his thumb to trace the length of it,
using the rest of his hand to curl around Pete’s balls. Pete squirms in his
seat, pushing back into Patrick’s hand. “You don’t have to—”
“Do you want me to?” Patrick doesn’t know where this sexy, slutty voice is
coming from or what happened to his usual dork tones, but he is so, so
grateful. He can’t quite believe this is happening. Maybe he’s still in
geometry, daydreaming. Maybe he really will come in his pants.
“God, oh god,” Pete says, and Patrick doesn’t care if it’s a daydream or not,
he’s all in. He rubs Pete’s dick harder.
“Because I want to,” Patrick says, his voice dropping into a whisper.
“Yes,” Pete moans, staring at the road with singular desperation. Patrick
undoes his seatbelt and leans, the gearshift digging pleasantly into his
pelvis, using his other hand to dig for Pete’s zipper under all those belts.
The car swerves jerkily off course and back on course again, jolting them over
the rumble strips, Pete cursing in a long and breathy stream. Patrick gets his
hand in Pete’s pants and moans aloud when his fingers find the hot velvet skin
of Pete’s cock, fully hard now. The pulse of it pushes into Patrick’s hand,
swelling against his grip, and Patrick works his own hips against the
gearshift.
“Jesus, Patrick!” is the last thing he hears before his mouth finds Pete’s
cock. He hasn’t done this before, only ever imagined it, but he knows what he’s
imagined would feel good, so he does that. He pushes his head down, parting his
lips over the head of Pete’s cock, letting his tongue smooth its surface and
its sides, seeking, lubricating, encouraging it to slide deeper—filling his
mouth, nearing his throat. Pete is close to nonverbal now, emitting panting,
pleading noises and unfinished fragments of Patrick’s name.
Sucking Pete’s dick is better than Patrick imagined it. The movement of his
head and tongue are quickly losing synchrony, becoming frantic, as he imagines
swallowing Pete Wentz’s come and feels his own cock near bursting. He realizes
he is moaning too, licking and sucking like Pete’s dick has a candy center,
like it holds his salvation.
The car accelerates as Pete’s hips lift off the seat, the noises he’s making
growing more urgent. The fingers of one hand are tangling in Patrick’s hair,
stroking the back of his neck with tenderness instead of force. Patrick had
imagined this was a pretty standard Friday night if you were Pete Wentz, but
based on the soft, eager, grateful noises Pete is making, maybe not. Excited,
near to exploding, Patrick grinds his pelvis into the gearshift, rubbing his
cock across it, close and close and—
There is a hideous, gut-squeezing squeal as Patrick humps the car into neutral.
It slides sideways, dropping out of gear, and the engine cuts out. Patrick’s
teeth scrape the side of Pete’s cock as he slides off it, flung against the
dash with the sudden motion. The car comes to a halt on the road’s shoulder,
back end fishtailing. Luckily, there are no other cars around, a cursory glance
out of the slightly steamed windows reveals. Patrick can imagine nothing more
mortifying than a concerned motorist appearing at the window just now.
Until Pete’s laughter unwinds, a low growing chuckle that spools out of him and
fills the car. Pete’s cock rises from his groin, hard and glistening and
obscene; Patrick’s chin is wet, his cheeks burning, his own inseam damp with
pre-come. And Pete is fucking laughingat him.
“Are you fucking laughing at me?” Patrick demands, just to confirm, sliding
back into his seat with whatever scrap of dignity is still available to him.
Pete can only nod, laughing so hard now he doesn’t have the breath to speak. To
Patrick’s growing horror, tears appear at the corners of Pete’s crinkled eyes.
Patrick crosses his arms over his chest, feeling angry and ridiculous, his own
erection still throbbing uncomfortably and showing no appreciation for
righteous anger.
“Fuck you!” he says, but this only makes Pete laugh harder.
“Come here,” Pete gasps, smiling broadly, his teeth reflecting streetlights,
his arms extending, his hands finding Patrick’s shoulder and chin. Like an
asshole, Patrick thinks, ignoring the way his skin thrills at the touch. “God,
are you all right? I never would have let you take off your seatbelt if I’d
known you planned on running us off the road.”
Pete looks at Patrick’s outraged face and just keeps laughing, cupping his
chin. The hand on Patrick’s shoulder tries to draw him closer, but Patrick
resists it. “I thought you were going to go out the windshield!” Pete is still
laughing, awfully derisive for someone with a red wet dick poking out of their
pants, and Patrick scowls harder.
“You are so fucking sexy,” Pete says, eyes sparkling, “that I worried you’d be
the death of me. But I never dreamed you’d be so direct about it.”
Since Patrick doesn’t yield when Pete tries to guide him by the chin, Pete
moves instead, leaning into Patrick’s space to put his grinning mouth on
Patrick’s own. The kiss is so sweet and surprising that Patrick forgives Pete’s
laughter without meaning to, his slightly wilted hard-on rallying to the
forefront of his attention as Pete’s soft lips press against his, as Pete’s
teeth gently bite his lips open, as Pete’s tongue tentatively enters his mouth,
undertaking a slow deliberate exploration that is nothing like Patrick’s greedy
lapping of Pete’s cock. Pete’s hands meet around Patrick’s cheeks, holding his
face with an unimagined tenderness, and Patrick sinks into the kiss, all but
undone.
He’s reaching for Pete’s waistline when Pete breaks the kiss and pulls away,
breathless and dazzled. Streetlights suit him, Patrick thinks dazedly, with
whatever part of him is even capable of thinking anymore. Pete leans back and
for a horrible moment Patrick thinks he’s moving away, changing his mind—but
then Pete finds his seat release and the driver’s seat falls flat, yielding far
more room for mobility than Patrick had guessed. Still showing that damnable
grin, all those tempting teeth, Pete tumbles back into the seat like a cat in
the grass and slowly draws Patrick down on top of him.
“We don’t have long,” Pete says into his ear. This time Patrick definitely
detects a trace of regret. Pete’s lips brush Patrick’s ear while he whispers;
Patrick’s body shudders in response. His hips settle on top of Pete’s, cock to
denim cock, and Patrick is beginning to chafe, Patrick is very much of the
opinion that they should not be wearing pants at all.
“And I don’t want to rush with you,” Pete is whispering. “After all, you said
there’d be lots of car rides…”
Patrick’s hips are moving with a level of desperation he’d find embarrassing,
if he was even remotely in control. “Fuck you,” he growls again, looking down
at Pete. “You said we could get lost together.”
And then their mouths collide, crashing together at Patrick’s pace, because
Patrick is on top, Patrick is in charge. Patrick’s hands slide up under Pete’s
shirt and Pete’s hands fumble with Patrick’s zipper, and the moment their bare
cocks touch is almost too much, Patrick almost comes just from that, and Pete
is kissing up into his mouth with tongue and teeth and need, and Pete’s dick is
slick with Patrick’s own spit as they grind their hips together, and before
he’s even remotely ready for it to be over Patrick is crying out, Patrick is
biting down onto Pete’s collarbone, Patrick is coming into Pete’s pubic hair
and across Pete’s belly, and into this sticky mess between them Pete thrusts
and moans and tips his head back, eyes squeezed closed, jaw clenched in either
misery or ecstasy, and he comes too, hot onto Patrick’s skin and shirt and
jeans. Patrick collapses down onto him, gasping for breath, resting his
forehead on Pete’s shoulder, his disbelieving hands stroking and exploring and
treasuring the Pete skin beneath him, now that things aren’t so urgent, now
that there’s time.
“I’ve never done that before,” he confesses to Pete’s shoulder.
“Me neither,” says Pete into his ear. Pete turns his head, bites Patrick’s ear
gently, presses a sloppy kiss into the side of Patrick’s head. Patrick has lost
his hat during the fray, he notices distantly. It is hard to care much about
his physical existence from this plane of sublimated divinity. “You’re supposed
to be some kind of Casanova,” Patrick accuses contentedly, nuzzling into Pete’s
shoulder with defenseless sincerity. No matter how many times he’s gotten off
imagining Pete getting off, if this is the first blowjob-turned-car-crash Pete
has experienced, he’s okay with that. One does strive to be memorable.
“I guess we’re both full of surprises,” Pete says, a happy hum in his voice.
“Speaking of which, I can’t wait to see what you have planned for our next
delivery.”
“Next delivery?”
Pete grins. Patrick likes it so much it hurts. “I don’t get off until 11. We’ve
got a full night’s work ahead of us, ‘Trick. And I am definitely not letting
you leave after that.”
Pete eases them up into a seated position, pushing off one elbow and using the
other arm to clasp Patrick to his chest, leaving a small and perfect bite on
Patrick’s neck. “Just don’t crash my car next time, ‘kay? For some funny
reason, you make me want to live.”
As Patrick peels himself off Pete and starts mopping himself up with a truly
inadequate paper napkin, Pete’s phone begins to ring in the cupholder, as if on
cue. Pete answers, grinning sin at Patrick, fishing his own pizza place napkin
out of the backseat. “Hey, boss. No, just a little car trouble. Absolutely. I’m
on my way back now.”
Pete starts the car, steers them back onto the street. This time, he takes
Patrick’s hand.
End Notes
     I am so EMBARRASSED, I feel like you all know way too much about me
     right now, I WROTE THIS ON AN AIRPLANE LIKE A TRASHLORD. This is the
     first time I've ever written acontextual smut. I hope you like it???
     What a weird thing to say. #scumbaron #likelordbyronbeforeme
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