Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5559527.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Fall_Out_Boy, Bandom
  Relationship:
      Patrick_Stump/Pete_Wentz
  Additional Tags:
      Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, Smut, First_Time, Van_Days, Anal_Sex,
      Rimming
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-12-28 Words: 4440
****** You Feel First Kiss Good ******
by Jiksa
Summary
     “Do you want more lube?”
     “No,” Patrick mutters, crossing his arms over his flushed face. He
     sounds resigned now, past anxious and frustrated, well into
     disappointed and, if Pete isn’t mistaken, edging on embarrassed.
     “Just give me a minute.”
Notes
     Biggest thanks to immoral_crow for beta reading and for being the
     most supportive bear to be creative around.
     Warnings for Patrick being 17 and sex that starts off a little faily
     and hurty.
See the end of the work for more notes
“Do you want more lube?”
“No,” Patrick mutters, crossing his arms over his flushed face. He sounds
resigned now, past anxious and frustrated, well into disappointed and, if Pete
isn’t mistaken, edging on embarrassed. “Just give me a minute.”
Pete sighs, brushing the hand that isn’t drenched in KY against the fleshy
inside of Patrick’s left thigh. He dips his fingertips into the grooves of
slowly fading pink stretch marks without thinking, trying to soothe the anxiety
bubbling in his gut. It’s a testament to how out of it Patrick is that he
doesn’t complain or twist away or lift his arms to glare accusingly at Pete. He
just lies perfectly still, everything in him coiled tight like a spring. “We
don’t have to do this.”
“I want to,” Patrick insists, but he sounds sullen and he hasn’t been hard for
a while, so Pete can’t help but take that with a grain of salt. “Just give me a
minute.”
Pete stays mostly still, running a hand gently over the insides of Patrick’s
thighs and his lower belly. He’s careful not to touch his dick and even more
careful not to move the four fingers still buried inside him. There isn’t
really anything sexy about this anymore, there’s been too much pain and whining
and pushing since they started for that to still be the case. Patrick is still
vice tight around his fingers and Pete can swear that’s Patrick’s heartbeat
thrumming around his own knuckles. The muscles around his fingers flutter
occasionally, small twitches when Patrick shifts a fraction of an inch. Pete
assumes it’s involuntary, unlike how the muscles worked around him when Patrick
was bearing down earlier, trying desperately to accommodate Pete through the
burn.
“Trick,” Pete tries after a few moments of radio silence. Patrick huffs out an
irritated, wet sound against his crossed forearms. His fingers are wrapped
tight around each tricep, blunt nails pressing into the pale flesh. “Maybe we
should—“
“Just—more whiskey,” Patrick interrupts. Pete thinks Patrick could probably
reach it himself, but that would involve sitting up and moving around with
Pete’s fingers still inside of him, which doesn’t seem likely to end well for
either of them. “I just need to relax.”
That easily settles it for Pete. He’s not into this if Patrick has to drink his
way through it. They can try again a different time. If Pete gets his way,
they’ll have an entire lifetime to figure this out. “I’m going to pull out,”
Pete warns. “I don’t think—“
Patrick does glare at him this time, looking thoroughly betrayed. “You don’t
want to fuck me?”
Of course Pete wants to fuck him. He’s wanted to fuck him since he first opened
his front door wearing knee socks and argyle, since he first opened his mouth
to sing behind his shitty old drum kit in his mother’s basement. He’s wanted to
fuck him since that first time Patrick leaned close at a rest stop in the
middle of the night between somewhere they’d been and somewhere they were
going, when his lips parted and his breath hung in the frozen air between them
and Pete met him halfway. He’s wanted to fuck him since that first time Patrick
rutted up against him in a messy motel bed, frantic and beautiful and moaning
quietly against Pete’s hand over his mouth, while Joe and Andy slept in the bed
beside them. He’s wanted to fuck him for as long as he can remember, but first
times are important and he needs to get this right for Patrick. He shakes his
head. “Maybe we should just sleep.”
Patrick immediately reaches down and pushes Pete’s hand out of him with no
fanfare. “Go wash your hands,” he says, bringing his legs up against his chest
and hugging his knees. His cheeks are flushed deep red and he’s looking at the
sliver of light spilling of the motel bathroom. His eyes look suspiciously
shiny and it breaks Pete a little. He reaches for him, but Patrick shrinks back
against the headboard. “It’s gross. Please wash your hands.”
“It’s not gross,” Pete argues weakly, because it kind of is, but he’s
emotionally invested enough in this that it doesn’t matter as much as it
otherwise would. There are more important things right now. “Hey, it doesn’t
matter.”
“It matters to me,” Patrick says in a small voice, and Pete doesn’t really
understand why, or how things went this pear-shaped, or what he can say to make
things better. “You should get to fuck your boyfriend.”
Pete frowns, crestfallen at the tone in Patrick’s voice. Patrick knows Pete’s
been with a lot of people, that there have been numerous girlfriends and
fuckbuddies and one night stands before him. He knows that’s a sore spot for
Patrick, that he’s worried he doesn’t measure up, that he isn’t experienced
enough or smart enough or good enough for Pete. It’s a laughable proposition to
anyone but Patrick, but he doesn't see it that way. “It’s cool, we’re both a
little nervous. You haven’t really done a lot of this stuff yet, it gets better
with practice. I promise.”
Pete reaches for him again, but Patrick actually flinches this time, brow
furrowing over his still averted eyes. Pete has fucked up, that much is
abundantly clear. He's off his game for some reason, has never been this
nervous with anyone else he's fucked before. “I think you’re awesome,” he says
softly, pleadingly. “I really like you, it’s not just about sex for me.”
“Great,” Patrick snaps, sniffling a little. “Because you’re obviously not going
to get any of that from me. That shit fucking hurts.”
Pete sighs, flexing the fingers of his lubed-up hand and rotating the wrist to
work the stiffness out of his joints. It isn’t the first time he’s fingered
Patrick, but it’s the first time they’ve tried to take it this far. They hadn’t
really talked about fucking until about a week ago, when Patrick had gone
looking for batteries in Pete’s shit and had stumbled across the condoms he’d
stashed in his backpack before they’d left for this last tour. “Um,” Patrick
had muttered, holding up a stupidly long strip of ribbed Trojans and looking
mildly horrified. “Pete?”
Pete had given a small, guilty shrug, trying to suppress a grin at the color
blooming in Patrick’s cheeks. “Just in case,” he’d said casually, mindful that
Patrick was still mostly pure as freshly fallen snow and still actual jailbait
in some states. “If you wanted to.”
Patrick had ducked his head a little, the rim of his trucker cap obscuring his
face as he studied the rubbers in his hands. “Do you?” he’d asked after a
while, meeting Pete’s eyes with an unreadable expression. “I mean. Want to…
with me?”
“You have no fucking idea how much,” Pete had replied breathily before his
brain had a chance to weigh in with an appropriate strategy. He’d hastily
amended, “When you’re up for it. No pressure.”
“Hmm,” Patrick had said noncommittally, tucking the rubbers back into Pete’s
backpack and going next door to ask Joe and Andy for batteries. Pete had
already been asleep when Patrick had snuck back into their motel room later
that night, curling up in his arms like he usually did. They’d jerked each
other off the next morning and things had gone back to normal after that.
Until their next motel night, when they’d drunk a third of a bottle of whiskey
and Patrick had pressed up against him like a wanting little thing and asked if
Pete wanted to fuck him. Pete had rolled him onto his back and accidentally
explained in great technicolor detail just how badly he wanted to be inside of
Patrick’s sweet ass, how he couldn’t wait to feel him tight and hot and slick
around him, how his ass was the thing wet dreams and jerk-off fantasies were
made of.
It was meant to be dirty talk, sweet talk even, but now the whiskey’s worn off
and he can’t help but re-frame it as pressure and expectations, and things that
have ultimately ended up hurting Patrick. “It’s not meant to hurt,” he says
apologetically. “Maybe I went too fast.”
“Or maybe I’m just a bad fuck.” Patrick pulls the covers over his knees,
sounding thoroughly defeated, like this is somehow concrete evidence that he
can’t keep up with Pete. “Can you please just go wash your hands?”
“You are not a bad fuck,” Pete sighs. His right hand is still sticky and smells
like plastic and sweat and the inside of Patrick’s body, but he doesn’t want to
leave Patrick like this. “I love the shit we do together, I love your mouth and
your hands and how you feel against me. I don’t have to fuck your ass to get
off with you.”
Patrick scoffs, disbelieving. “But you want to.”
There’s no point in lying, Pete supposes, not after how transparent he’s
already been. “Yeah, if you want to. If you don’t, we don’t have to. Some guys
don’t like getting fucked, and that’s cool, too.”
Patrick finally looks at him, inspiring a renewed wave of anxiety in Pete’s
gut. “Do you?”
Pete cringes a little inwardly. “It’s not my favorite thing,” he says
neutrally. “But sometimes, if the mood strikes, sure. Why, do you want to fuck
me?”
Patrick sighs and rubs his eyes. “No.”
“Didn’t think so,” Pete says, trying to keep the relief out of his voice.
They’ve only been doing this for a few weeks, but it’s become abundantly clear
that Patrick likes it on his back, or on his knees, or underneath Pete any way
he can get it. Pete’s slipped him a finger during a fair few blow jobs already,
but Patrick has yet to express any interest in reciprocating. “It’s not really
my thing. And it’s cool if it isn’t yours either.”
Except for how Pete is pretty convinced that it is Patrick’s thing, by how he
fists his hands in Pete’s hair and digs his heels into the mattress and moans
open-mouthed and wanton with his eyes squeezed tightly shut, how quickly and
gracelessly he comes in Pete’s mouth, how hard he clenches around Pete’s one or
two careful fingers when he unravels around them.
“I want to,” Patrick says again, and he actually sounds like he means at this
time. He drops his chin down to rest on his knees, looking up at Pete through
pale blonde lashes. He looks innocent, younger than his 17 years, and it
reminds Pete again how vulnerable Patrick is in his hands. How so many things
they do together are firsts for him. “I just didn’t think it would hurt this
much.”
“I’m sorry,” Pete whispers, leaning in to press his forehead against Patrick’s.
He runs his clean hand through the baby hairs at the nape of Patrick’s neck,
pressing him closer. He wants to kiss him, but he doesn’t know if that would be
okay. “I just wanted to make you feel good. Maybe I went too fast.”
“It’s okay,” Patrick mumbles, pressing his own hand against the back of Pete’s
and leaning heavily against him. “I kind of freaked out. Just wanted to be good
for you.”
“You’re already perfect for me,” Pete says firmly, pulling back to search
Patrick’s eyes for evidence that he gets that. He doesn’t quite know what he
sees in return, but it seems soft, trusting, fond. “I want you, not your ass.”
Patrick giggles a little, the sweetest little embarrassed sound. “Okay, okay.
Can we try again sometime?”
Pete feel safe to kiss him now, and he tilts Patrick’s chin with his thumb
until their lips are brushing. Pete’s tongue sweeps against Patrick’s lips
until they part, and then he swallows the whimper that leaves Patrick’s throat.
Patrick’s legs relax, dropping sideways to accommodate Pete’s body between
them. Patrick’s arms come around Pete’s torso, pulling him closer. This is
Pete’s favorite part, how pliant and responsive Patrick is for him. “Yeah,”
Pete agrees, biting gently on Patrick’s lower lip and tearing another whimper
from his mouth. “Next hotel night, if we get a room to ourselves. I’ll put on
some Marvin Gaye, get you really nice and warmed up, eat you out for hours if
you want me to.”
Patrick frowns at him, like he doesn’t think he’s being serious. And, sure,
okay, Pete doesn’t think it’s likely that they have any Marvin Gaye CDs in the
van, but he’s willing to track one down first chance he gets. “Eat me out?”
Patrick asks skeptically. “You’re making fun of me.”
“I’m not making fun of you,” Pete promises, brushing a thumb over the rising
flush in Patrick’s cheek. Pete’s been trying to take it slow with him, hasn’t
wanted to overwhelm or freak him out, but he’s been dreaming of burying his
face in his ass since the first time he got Patrick out of his pants. “I’d like
to.”
Patrick’s face is bright, beautiful red, but he doesn’t look away this time. “I
know you think I’m pretty, but you do know I’m not actually a girl?”
The penny drops with a resounding metallic ring and Pete bites the inside of
his cheeks to keep from laughing. “Come shower with me,” he murmurs, nuzzling
Patrick’s nose. “I guess we are kind of gross.”
Patrick takes Pete’s offered hand and follows him into the shower. It’s a
rickety old thing with laughably low water pressure, and it takes forever for
Pete to adjust the water temperature to a comfortable level. Patrick stands
flush against his back while he fucks with the dials, his forehead resting
against the back of Pete’s neck, as though he can avoid being seen if he just
stays close enough. Patrick had made him turn the lights off in the room
itself, but under the harsh fluorescent light over the bathroom mirror, Pete
can see Patrick’s body in all its glory, in all its perfection and
imperfection. He can’t help but glance at the mirror, to take in Patrick’s
pale, thick thighs, his round, meaty ass, the stretch marks that curve around
his hips, the swell of his fleshy belly where he’s pressing it against Pete’s
lower back. He doesn’t really understand what it’s like to be that self-
conscious about his body. He wishes Patrick didn’t understand either.
Before Pete can protest, Patrick is shampooing his meticulously straightened
hair and guaranteeing that Pete will have to wake up 30 minutes earlier
tomorrow morning to tame it back into submission with his usual combination of
heat and product and frustration. Patrick is one of the few people in the world
who’ve seen Pete’s hair in its natural state since he started straightening it
regularly.
“You have an afro,” Patrick had said strangely the first time he saw it, as
Pete was toweling off at a rest stop in Michigan. Pete had hastily pulled a
beanie over the mop and grumbled as he climbed into the backseat of the van.
Hours later, he'd woken up with his head in Patrick’s lap and Patrick’s
fingertips gentle against his scalp. He couldn’t find his beanie for days after
that, until he rummaged through Patrick’s backpack trying to find Chapstick one
night and found it tucked into a side pocket.
He closes his eyes and lets Patrick take care of him. They get clean and
Patrick gets handsy again. Before Pete knows it, he has to valiantly stop
Patrick from dropping to his knees with a hand under his armpit. As appealing
as a shower blow job sounds, they have a bed to themselves and precious time to
waste on each other.
"Come to bed with me," he says instead, handing Patrick a towel. The twin sized
bed they were on last has a visible wet spot, no doubt slick with lube from
when Patrick sat up earlier. Pete tucks the condoms and lube back into his
backpack and slips into the clean bed beside it. He doesn’t bother with
underwear. Patrick joins him moments later, slipping quickly underneath the
sheets and pressing himself flush up against Pete again. He’s noticeably hard
against Pete’s hip, and Pete rolls him onto his back and presses him into the
mattress and kisses him. They’ve done this before, grinding and rutting up
against each other and fucking into each other’s hands, but Pete has other
plans. He wants to make things up for the disaster earlier, make him come so
hard he sees stars.
“Roll over,” he murmurs into Patrick’s ear once he’s loose-limbed, panting and
leaking in Pete’s hand. Patrick goes willingly and wiggles until Pete’s dick is
flush against his crack. Pete keeps his hips painstakingly still and spends a
long time pressing kisses to Patrick’s temple, his cheeks, the back of his
neck, his shoulder blades. He links their fingers together and presses Patrick
into the mattress, the way he knows Patrick likes. It doesn’t take long until
Patrick’s grinding up against him, getting friction from the mattress beneath
him and Pete’s dick against his ass. “Shh,” Pete says. He has no doubt that
Patrick could get off just like this, but he wants more than that for him now.
“Pete,” Patrick begs, sounding relaxed and breathy and about ready to blow.
“Please.”
Pete has to take a fortifying breath and very explicitly not think about
spreading Patrick’s legs and pressing his way into that tight wet heat and
fucking him into the mattress until he comes apart beneath him. “Let me eat
your ass.”
Patrick stiffens. He twists underneath Pete and turns his head until he meets
his eyes. His voice cracks deliciously. “What?”
“I want to use my mouth on you,” Pete explains, running a hand over the warm
swell of Patrick’s ass. “You don’t have to kiss me after if it grosses you
out.”
Patrick holds his gaze long enough to ascertain that Pete is absolutely not
making fun of him and that he is well aware Patrick isn’t a girl. Pete can tell
the instant the penny drops for him. “Is that… Um.” He swallows and presses his
face into the pillow beneath him. Pete can’t help but grin. He has no doubt
that Patrick’s face is bright red once more. His voice sounds muffled when he
finally says, “Okay.”
Pete presses another kiss to his temple, a lingering kiss that’s hard and full
of things he doesn’t have words for yet. He spreads Patrick’s legs and pulls
him up on all fours, careful to keep touching and kissing his skin and staying
close to him. “Only if you like it, okay?"
Patrick murmurs an affirmative sound into his pillow. Pete trails a row of
kisses down Patrick’s spine, pausing at each vertebra and taking his time.
Patrick’s breath catches audibly when he reaches the base of his spine, and
Pete gently spreads his ass cheeks apart, runs his thumbs down each side of his
crease, taking it all in. Patrick smells clean, but there’s a slight undertone
of musk and fresh sweat that makes Pete’s mouth water. He draws the tip of one
finger from Patrick’s tailbone across the fuzzy light brown hairs circling his
tightly drawn up hole, across his taint and down to cup his balls. Patrick
moans and curses and humps the air around his fat, swollen, leaking dick. Pete
takes pity on him and spits into his hand before giving him a few slow, loose
strokes.
He licks his lips, gets them wet and slick with saliva, before he leans down
and touches the flat of his tongue to Patrick’s hole. It’s dead quiet for the
first few licks. Patrick holds himself frozen, like he’s been shocked, until a
high-pitched whining sound Pete’s never heard before tears from Patrick’s
throat and he presses wantonly back against Pete’s tongue.
The muscles in his ass move deliciously under Pete’s hands, and he spreads him
wider, presses closer. He closes his eyes and loses himself in it, lapping
hungrily at him, taking what he wants and hoping Patrick will want more. He
jerks Patrick in time with his licks, trying to move with Patrick’s gyrating
hips, and soon Patrick’s legs are trembling all over and he’s moaning nonstop,
shameless like Pete’s never heard him before. Pete breaches him with his
tongue, fucking his way inside him and Patrick opens up under his mouth, lets
him in and begs deliciously for more.
It doesn’t take long before he’s close. Pete can almost taste the orgasm on
him, feel how heavy and hard his dick is in his fist, feel him coil tight like
a spring, hear his breath catch, and then—
“Stop." Patrick’s voice is a fucking wreck, he’s wet with sweat and spread open
for Pete like a feast. “Condoms," he orders, panting as he tries to pull
himself together. Pete can’t help but look at his wet, twitching hole, the hair
shiny and matted down with saliva between his cheeks, his balls drawn up close
to his body. “I want you inside of me."
Pete gently turns Patrick onto his side again, lying down beside him. He cups
Patrick’s cheek, feels the heat boiling beneath his skin. “You sure?"
Sweat clings like dew to Patrick’s forehead, his cheeks are flushed a dark
blood red and his bangs are hanging wetly in his eyes. “So sure," he whispers,
craning his neck to seek Pete’s mouth. Pete meets him halfway and drinks in his
warm, wet breaths. “Feels different now. Better.”
“Yeah?” Pete smiles against his mouth, reaching down to touch his chest, his
belly, his sides. Patrick lets him without tensing up or stretching out or
flexing his abs, like he’s too relaxed to care about that now. It's a fucking
relief. “You taste fucking delicious, you know that?”
Patrick’s nose scrunches up in displeasure. “Don’t,” he whines, glaring at him.
“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just say that. Gross.”
Pete laughs and presses a kiss to Patrick’s jaw, before reaching into his
backpack for supplies again. “Sure.”
When he comes back, Patrick’s rolled onto his back and spread his legs for
Pete, exposing his wet, swollen hole and the hard line of his dick curving up
against his navel. It's a fucking sight, Patrick spread out like a willing
virgin sacrifice.
Pete makes quick work of the lube and soon he’s two fingers deep in him.
Patrick’s back arches beautifully off the sheets, one hand around the back of
Pete’s neck and his heels dug deep into the mattress as he grinds down on
Pete’s hand. He’s gasping, moaning, begging, a litany of encouraging sounds
that Pete drinks greedily from his open mouth. Patrick takes three fingers
easily, loose like he’s still stretched from earlier or like he’s finally not
nervous anymore. Pete moves to lube up a fourth finger, careful not to hurt
him, desperate to make it good for him, but Patrick shakes his head and hugs
both of his knees to his chest, spreading his legs impossibly wide. “Come on,”
he urges. “Want you.”
And fuck. Pete sheaths and slicks himself up with shaking, clumsy fingers, and
then he’s on Patrick, holding his legs open for him and leaning as close as he
can while Patrick reaches down to guide him inside. There’s a little
resistance, and Pete watches Patrick’s brow furrow, watches Patrick work
through the tension and bear down and open up and then his eyes roll suddenly
back into his head and his mouth parts in a grimace and he digs his nails into
Pete’s neck as Pete slides home. “Fuck,” Patrick mewls once he can draw enough
breath to speak. “Fuck. God. Fuck.”
Pete frowns. “This okay?”
“So fucking big,” Patrick groans, his face still screwed up against the
intrusion. “Pete.”
It takes every inch of restraint Pete has to stay still once he bottoms out,
deliciously deep inside Patrick’s warm, yielding body. He strokes Patrick’s
cheek again, his thumb slipping in a droplet of sweat near his eye. “Does it
hurt?"
“Burns," Patrick mutters, meeting Pete’s gaze. His eyes are unfocused, wild,
hungry. He’s more beautiful than Pete has ever seen him, and Pete has to lean
down to mash their mouths together and swallow every broken sound that leaves
Patrick’s. “Mostly okay."
Pete feels drunk with the feel of him. It's never felt like this with anyone
else. “Do you want me to fuck you? Or just hang here for a while?”
The hand around Pete’s neck slips down his side before wrapping tight around
Pete’s hip. Patrick bucks experimentally up against him and they both curse at
the feel of it. Pete presses his forehead to Patrick’s, almost dizzy with
anticipation. He feels a flutter of movement against his belly and realizes
Patrick has started jerking himself off – hard and fast and desperate.
“Want you to fuck me,” Patrick pants, twisting up against him. “Just – fast.
It’s better when you’re moving."
Pete pins him down and starts thrusting into him, letting Patrick’s hand on his
hip set the pace. He does want it fast, and Pete tries to give him what he
wants without blowing his load in seconds. Patrick doesn’t last long either,
and Pete sees a creamy white stripe shoot across his chin before Patrick
tightens up all over, his whole body shuddering under and around Pete. Pete
licks the come from his skin, tasting Patrick salty and bitter as he snaps his
hips a final time and comes embarrassingly fast and devastatingly hard.
Patrick stays still until Pete’s stopped shuddering, his legs loosening their
grip around Pete’s hips and his body melting back down into the mattress below
him. He looks heavy, sated, completely, shamelessly and beautifully fucked out.
“Can we–” he says after that, and then there’s an uncoordinated scramble to
dispose of the condom and wipe lube and come off Patrick’s skin, to kiss lazily
and giggle breathlessly into each other's mouths, and then to pull the sheets
back over them and to get warm and entangled and still.
“So much for the next hotel night,” Pete mumbles once Patrick’s wrapped him up
like the littlest of spoons. He feels dizzy with exertion and adrenaline and
endorphins, so exhausted and so, so sleepy. Maybe they should talk, but it
doesn't feel like they need to say anything.
“Mmm,” Patrick hums, linking their fingers together. He presses a kiss to the
nape of Pete’s neck, burying his face in Pete's stupidly unruly curls. “I liked
that.”
Pete smiles, squeezing Patrick's hands in his and hugging them tight to his
chest. "Me, too."
End Notes
     Title from Pete's blog_entry_dated_November_13,_2003.
     Fun fact: this whole thing was written using speech recognition
     software, a microphone and no hands.
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