Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4307505.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Bandom, Fall_Out_Boy
  Relationship:
      Patrick_Stump/Pete_Wentz
  Character:
      Pete_Wentz, Patrick_Stump
  Additional Tags:
      Rimming, Public_Sex
  Series:
      Part 2 of BB!Patrick_Makes_a_Sex_Tape
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-07-10 Words: 1786
****** Tip of Your Tongue ******
by coricomile
Summary
     Something on the screen makes Patrick jump. He tightens his hand on
     Pete's thigh, fingers digging in. Pete makes a strangled noise and
     jets. He needs to be in the bathroom. Now.
The movie theatre is too hot. Pete can't stop squirming in his seat, crossing
and uncrossing his legs, tapping a rhythm against his knee. His arm is pressed
against Patrick's from elbow to pinky, sucking in his heat.
Patrick, for his part, is oblivious. His eyes are on the movie, wide behind his
brand-new glasses. He's leaning forward a little, popping Sourpatch Kids into
his mouth with one hand. Pete's doing his best not to look, but Jesus.
Patrick's mouth is open just a little, and he sucks on the candy before
actually eating it, and Pete- Pete is only human.
On screen, Christian Bale is doing crunches, narrating Patrick Bateman’s
morning routine. Usually, Pete would be all about this. Because, seriously,
Christian Bale. Today, though, he's stuck on the up-down of Patrick's hand,
stuck on the flick of Patrick's tongue across his fingertips.
He thinks about watching Patrick suck on his fingers before fucking himself
with them. It plays behind his eyelids every time he closes his eyes.
Pete's jiggling his leg. It's obnoxious, but it works out the energy that's
eating away at his insides. He's able to focus on the movie, at least, able to
get into the chase and almost forget that Patrick is with him. Then Patrick's
hand- hot and heavy- lands on his thigh. Pete stills. The hand stays.
Pete has gone to hell. He'd always pictured more flames. He stays very still,
afraid that Patrick's going to realize what he's doing and pull away. Pete
stares at the screen, but all he can see is Patrick's fingers in his mouth,
Patrick's hand wrapped around his cock. He feels his own dick twitch and,
Christ, his pants are too tight for this shit.
Something on screen makes Patrick jump. His hand tightens of Pete's thigh,
fingers digging in. Pete lets out a strangled noise and jets. He needs to be in
the bathroom. Now.
Pete rushes through the lobby, ignoring the shouts of the kids behind the
concession stand. He locks the door to the first stall in the bathroom and
shoves a hand into his pants without any prelude. He can still feel the heat of
Patrick's hand on his thigh. He's in the process of unzipping his fly when the
outside door creaks open.
"Pete?" Patrick sounds concerned. Such a good kid, always so concerned. Pete
bites back a groan. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," Pete chokes out. He reluctantly pulls his hand from his pants and
closes his eyes. When he opens them again, Patrick's sneakers are visible under
the stall door. The left one is untied, laces frayed.
"Dude, you bolted on Bale- are you sick or something?" There's a soft thump.
Patrick's leaning on the door, forehead pressed to it. Gross and kind of
endearing. Patrick all over.
"Or something," Pete says. He can make out the curve of Patrick's cheek through
the crack of the door. If Patrick tries, he'll be able to see exactly what
Pete's doing. It’s sort of hot. Sort of terrifying. Pete's about to make a
mistake. It’s what he’s best at. "So. I, uh, watched your video." Patrick jerks
away from the door. Coughs.
"What?"
"It was hot, y'know? I've been thinking about it." Pete leans back against the
wall. "Like, I'm gonna have jerk off material for the next, oh, forever."
Pete's heart is pounding. His palms are slick. He's a little freaked, but
still, he opens the stall door and yanks Patrick inside.
Patrick's face is red across his cheeks and nose, and he looks equal parts
embarrassed and angry. Pete has the decency to pull his hoodie down over his
hard-on, but he's pretty sure Patrick can feel it anyway.
"If you're fucking with me, I'll kill you." Patrick fists a hand in his hoodie
and yanks him in, kissing him. It’s hard and a little wet. He tastes like the
memory of sour candies and stale Coke, and Pete's a little stunned. He didn't
actually expect to get anything but slugged. This is why, when Patrick pulls
away Pete, maybe, overreacts.
He launches himself forward, pinning Patrick to the door, and presses their
mouths together. There's no way Patrick can't feel Pete hard against him, but
Pete's too distracted by the slide of Patrick's tongue to care. One hand is
wrapped up in Patrick's ugly sweater, the other fighting a losing battle to
knock Patrick's hat away.
Patrick kisses like. Well, like a fifteen-year-old, but that's hot in a way
Pete's trying not to think about. Instead, he rubs himself against Patrick's
hip and groans. He can feel Patrick getting hard against his thigh, can feel
his hands clenching and unclenching at Pete's hips.
"Jesus, Rick, you have no idea," Pete breathes against Patrick's neck. He works
Patrick's fly open with one hand, knuckles skimming across the soft skin of
Patrick's stomach.
Patrick looks terrified. His eyes are dark though, and he's grinding down
against Pete's thigh. He whines when Pete wraps a hand around him. Pete presses
his face against Patrick’s neck and bites down. He tastes salty. Sweet.
"What were you thinking about when you made it?" Pete asks, rubbing his thumb
in small circles at the base of Patrick's cock. Patrick's breathing stutters.
"Who were you thinking about?" Pete's pretty sure it's the adrenaline making
him this ballsy. That's why he doesn't think before he drops to his knees.
His calves are cramped, pressed to either side of the toilet, and if he leans
back he'll probably pull something. It’s worth it for the way Patrick looks at
him. He tugs Patrick's jeans and boxers down and presses his face to Patrick's
hip. The skin there is hot and damp, and Patrick's hands are moving from his
hat to Pete's shoulders to Pete's hair uncertainly.
"Pete," Patrick groans. His glasses are crooked, his lips red and wet. Pete
wants to tie him to a bed and fuck him for days.
"Talk to me," Pete says against the slick skin of Patrick's hip. Patrick's
thighs shake.
"Pete, you asshole, either suck my dick or get the fuck out." Patrick's hands
settle on Pete's shoulders, fingers twisting in his hoodie. Pete laughs.
Patrick’s thighs shake under Pete’s palms.
"Feisty," he says. He licks the head of Patrick's cock with a broad swipe of
his tongue. Patrick's head thumps against the door. Pete wraps his lips around
him and goes for gold. Pete, he's not really so much about sucking dick. But
Patrick's squeezing his shoulders and squirming under Pete's hands and biting
his lip to muffle sweet, high moans. Pete can live with this.
"You," Patrick says breathily. Pete looks up at him, flicking his tongue over
the tip of Patrick's cock. "I was thinking about you, and you came over after,
and I would so let you fuck me- Jesus, don't stop-"
"Turn around," Pete says thickly. Patrick whines, tugging at Pete’s shoulders.
"Just do it, dude." Ruefully, Patrick turns and braces himself against the
door.
Pete presses a kiss to the small of his back. He tastes sweat and skin, and he
loves it because it's Patrick. The kinky little fuck. He runs his tongue over
the swell of Patrick's ass, soft and round and warm, biting gently. Patrick
groans, presses back into it. Pete touches his tongue to Patrick's tiny pink
hole, cock aching at the thought of being inside him. He licks once, twice, and
then presses in.
Patrick bucks his hips. He's jerking himself off, and Pete wishes he could see
both sides, wishes they were somewhere else. He rubs soothing hands over
Patrick's hips and curls his tongue. The soft sighs are echoing off the walls,
coming back in surround sound.
"I want to watch you fuck yourself," Pete says. "Would you let me do that?"
Patrick says nothing, but he nods, pressing back into Pete's touch. He reaches
back blindly, fingers catching in Pete’s mouth, and Pete sucks at them. Gets
them wet, tongue splitting them apart. When Patrick takes them out, Pete unzips
his jeans and pulls his dick out. His hand is a welcome relief.
The angle is awkward, but Patrick reaches back and presses his middle finger
into himself. He twists his wrist, rocks back into his hand. Pete leans in and
licks around the finger, wriggling the tip in beside it. Patrick whines, high
in his throat. Pete wants to record that sound, listen to it when he can’t
sleep.
"Put another one in," Pete says, lips ghosting across the soft skin of
Patrick’s ass. He watches as Patrick pulls his hand back. Patrick crosses his
fingers and presses them to his hole, stroking. Teasing himself. Teasing Pete.
Pete bites at his hip, leaving a red mark behind. Property of Pete Wentz. "No
playing, dude. Seriously."
Patrick laughs, a little out of breath, and shoves his fingers in. His voice
cracks, and that's about where Pete's breaking point is. He jerks himself too
hard, too fast, and comes over his hand, moaning into Patrick's thigh. He yanks
Patrick's hand away and presses his own come-sticky fingers in, thrusting
harder than Patrick had. Patrick jerks back, swearing.
Pete wants to sink into his heat. Wants to bend him over and pound into him
until Patrick begs. He spreads his fingers and presses his tongue back in,
fucks Patrick with as much of him as he can. Patrick’s shaking against him,
pumping his cock. His elbow keeps catching Pete’s shoulder, sure to leave a
mark. Pete fits a third finger into him, stretching him wide, and Patrick comes
in thick stripes over the door.
It takes a few tries, but Pete manages to do up the fly of his jeans. Patrick
opens the door and almost falls out. He hasn't looked back, and that's making
Pete's stomach turn uncomfortably. Slowly, Pete stands. His legs are numb,
clumsy.
"Hey, are you okay?" He asks. Patrick shrugs. He's leaning against the sink,
trying to even his breathing out. His fingers shake as he tries to do up his
jeans. Pete, well, Pete's not really done taking risks today. He wraps his
hands around Patrick's hips. Kisses his hot forehead.
"You tell anyone about that tape and I swear to god-" Patrick still won’t look
at him.
"Dude, your home movies are for my eyes only. If, you know, you want them to
be." Pete tries not to freak out. Tries to keep his cool. If Patrick turns him
down now, after all of-
"Yeah," Patrick says shyly. His cheeks are still pink, and there's sweat
dampening his growing sideburns. He grins. "Yeah, I want that." And, as Patrick
kisses him stupid, Pete thinks about how awesome that is.
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