
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/880150.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Bandom, Fall_Out_Boy
  Relationship:
      Patrick_Stump/Pete_Wentz
  Character:
      Patrick_Stump, Pete_Wentz
  Additional Tags:
      Teen_Wolf, Alternate_Universe_-_Werewolf, Alternate_Universe_-
      Supernatural, Bondage
  Series:
      Part 2 of Teen_Wolf_AU_Verse
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-07-12 Words: 2309
****** something which is worth the whole ******
by coricomile
Summary
     The problem is that Pete is giving him time to think.
Patrick can feel his nerves piling up on the drive home, his knee bouncing just
off time to the obnoxious house music playing on the radio. His jeans are
uncomfortable, not really wet anymore but kind of sticky instead, which might
be worse. He can't stop moving.
The problem is that Pete is giving him time to think. Really, Patrick thinks,
Pete's giving him a chance to back out scot-free. Which, on one hand is good
and makes sense because Pete is a werewolf and Patrick is so very, very fragile
and human. On the other hand, Patrick can't stop thinking about the heat of
Pete over him. His dick gives a pathetic little jerk in his sticky jeans.
At least he knows where his body stands on the issue.
Patrick trips out of the car when Pete pulls into his driveway, his legs stiff
and his feet refusing to cooperate. He's sure Pete's stupid werewolf hearing is
picking up on the weird rhythm of his nervous heartbeat. Like he needed to be
anymore transparent.
They crawl up the trellis carefully, tumbling into Patrick's room onto the pile
of blankets he'd left under the window. The alarm clock on his nightstand
blinks a steady green one thirty-six AM. He has to be up for school in five
hours.
Pete, still shirtless and comfortable that way, throws himself onto Patrick's
bed, sprawling out from one edge to the other. It's so painfully normal that
for a moment Patrick forgets that they're supposed to be -- that they were
going to have sex. For a long moment, Patrick watches him, standing in the
tangle of thick quilts, mud from the field smearing across the worn flower
prints. He wants this so badly it makes his hands shake.
"You don't have to do anything," Pete finally says. His eyes are closed, head
tilted back to rest between the pair of pillows at the top of the bed. They
curl up just over his cheeks, hiding his face from full view. More than
anything, Patrick wants to see his stupid face. “We can just hang out or
whatever. Watch Full House re-runs.”
“I want to,” Patrick says, because he really, really does. “I just--” He’s just
worried about being left behind like everyone else Pete has ever hooked up
with. He’s just worried about being ripped to shreds, literally and
figuratively, if Pete can’t control himself. “Would you freak out if I tied
your hands behind your back?”
That...was not actually what he had planned on saying. He’s not really sure
what he had planned on saying, something about consequences or their friendship
or something relevant, but now that it’s out, he can’t think of anything else.
Pete sits up slowly, each one of his ab muscles bending and crunching in ways
that Patrick didn’t think could actually happen.
“I was unaware you were into the finer art of bondage,” Pete says. Patrick is
not looking at his face because he’s too busy looking at his abs, but he can
hear the cheesy grin in every syllable. The heart monitor beep, beep, beeps
away.
“I hate you,” Patrick says. He kicks off his dirty shoes and peels off his
muddy jeans and crosses his arms over his chest. If this is going to be the
last time he ever gets to do -- anything, actually, if Pete breaks free -- he
is going to make it good. “Help me find something.”
For once, Pete doesn’t bitch about being ordered around. He paws around the
room curiously, testing tensile strength of anything he comes into contact
with. Patrick stops his tests after the third sweater makes a mess of scrambled
yarn on the carpet.
Just as he’s about to send Pete out to the garage to find real rope, Pete pops
triumphantly from Patrick’s closet with an old bike cable. He drops it at
Patrick’s feet like a cat presenting a dead bird to its owner, cheeks puffed
out in an impossibly wide smile and hands held out in front of him. He doesn’t
bother pretending like he’s not watching Patrick’s ass as he bends to pick the
cable up.
“Turn around,” Patrick says, like he has any idea of what he’s actually doing.
The cable is a little dusty, but the plastic around the steel is mostly intact.
He was too lazy to change the code from the default when he got it, so it
unlocks without much fuss.
Pete folds his arms behind his back, the big parts of his forearms slotting
into the lean lines of his wrists easily. It pulls his shoulders back, makes
him look broader than he normally is. Carefully, Patrick winds the cable around
and around and around, tight enough to make the skin around it look just a
little red. It’s probably too tight, probably cutting off circulation to Pete’s
hands but-
“Can you get out?” Patrick asks. Pete pulls and tugs for a few seconds, but the
cable holds. Hopefully, Patrick thinks as he leads Pete back to the bed, that
it’ll be enough. “I’m not really sure about what to do.” He settles Pete onto
the edge of the bed, staring very hard at the way Pete’s thighs move. He will
be honest, but he doesn’t have to watch Pete laugh at him for it.
“Whatever you want,” Pete says simply. He tries to shrug and nearly topples
backward for his efforts. “It’s just sex. Enjoy it. Don’t think so hard.”
“Just sex, my ass,” Patrick grumbles. He’s sixteen. There is no such thing as
just sex. “Anything I want?” Pete grins up at him, eyebrows raised and teeth on
display.
“Anything you want,” he repeats. The freedom is a little daunting.
“Okay,” Patrick breathes. He can do this.
Heart stuttering in his chest, he leans in and kisses Pete as gently as he can.
This they’ve already done. This is familiar and good. Pete lets him lead, lets
him take his time and learn his way around. When he pulls back, a little
breathless but less shy, Pete’s eyes are wide and dark.
Patrick sinks down to a crouch in front of him, bullying his way between Pete’s
thighs. It takes a few moments of learning how to balance for both of them but
when they’re both steady and stable, Patrick takes the time to learn the shape
of Pete’s arms and waist and chest.
Pete’s so warm under his fingertips. He had always been a little warm before
the bite, but now he’s like a furnace, burning himself into Patrick’s skin. Any
trace of bruises left from earlier are gone. It makes him a little mad, for no
reason at all. He wants to be able to say he was here, write his name over
every part of Pete he touches -- his tense arms, his smooth stomach, the
growing swell of his dick.
“Stupid werewolf healing,” he mutters, pressing his mouth to one of Pete’s
sharp, sharp, sharp collarbones.
Even though he knows it’ll fade, he sucks a mark into the soft skin there,
biting and a little brutal. Pete lets him, laughs into it even as his breathing
picks up speed. When Patrick pulls away, the little bloom of color slowly fades
back into tan skin like it hadn’t been there at all. He frowns and tries again
and again, all the way down to Pete’s stomach. The bruises disappear like
they’re chasing him, a fading line of where he’s been like a roadmap.
He can feel the heat of Pete’s dick right under his jaw. He ducks down and
presses the point of his chin against it. It’s weird for him and probably
weirder for Pete, but he can ignore it because Pete makes a choking little
sound that shoots shivers down Patrick’s spine.
Belatedly he realizes Pete’s still got his shorts and shoes on. They struggle
for a moment to get them off, Pete’s braying laugh bouncing off the walls on
the wrong side of too loud. Finally, with Pete leaned back on his arms and hips
tipped up like he’s doing some sort of strange, dirty yoga, Patrick manages to
tug them off. And, Jesus, Pete’s beautiful. Okay, so he’s still struggling to
sit himself up, dick wiggling against his stomach and legs flailing, but --
“I know I’m pretty, but I could use a hand,” Pete huffs. His hair is going
curly around his face, fucked up in the back already from twisting around.
“I like to watch you struggle,” Patrick answers, because he does. Still, he
helps sit Pete up on the edge of the bed again, thighs open wide and cock
curving out at him like an invitation.
“You’re an asshole,” Pete says. “Get undressed and touch my dick to make up for
it.” He waggles his eyebrows, just like he does every time he calls Patrick a
stupid pet name, or makes a bad joke, and Patrick wonders why he was afraid of
this. Pete’s just... Pete.
“Does that really work for you?” Patrick asks, even as he scruffs his shirt and
throws it toward the hamper.
“Evidently,” Pete says smugly, watching Patrick step out of his jeans with his
dark, dark eyes.
“I hate you,” Patrick says again, for good measure.
Naked and suddenly shy, he settles back into his spot between Pete’s thighs.
Without his t-shirt between them, he can feel the way Pete's muscles jump when
he moves can feel the strange tickle of leg hair against him, little details
that make everything seem less real as he takes them in.
In theory, he knows what to do now. In practice, he's a little shaky. Pete hums
above him, quieter than he normally is. For some reason, Patrick had thought he
would be pushier, greedier. Instead, he rides out Patrick's hesitant, soft
touches without complaint, sighing whenever Patrick hits anything particularly
sensitive.
When Patrick presses a kiss to the inside of Pete's thigh, the heart monitor
skips. Pete's skin tastes warm and salty, his pulse beating a steady rhythm
under Patrick's tongue. His cock jolts, tapping against Patrick's jaw as he
moves up, up, up.
Patrick wants to say something witty, something to discharge the tight rush of
nervous air around them, but when he looks up all he can see is the darkness of
Pete's eyes narrowed in on him and his words dry up. Instead, he wraps one of
his shaky hands around Pete's dick and gives it a few experimental tugs.
He's trying to listen to the heart monitor, but the sound takes a backseat to
the breathy groans Pete's trying to bite back. He twists his wrist in time to
the way Pete’s breaths sound, just a little uneven and just a little too fast,
but Pete doesn’t seem to mind.
For a terrifying moment, the heart monitor speeds up. It’s shrill and sharp,
barely muffled behind Pete’s back. Patrick starts to pull away but Pete whines
low in his throat, a tangled up plea for him to keep going. When he comes,
Patrick laughs with relief.
“It’s not polite to laugh,” Pete pants. His eyes are bright, face flushed and
hair dark with sweat. He’s fucking gorgeous.
“Sorry,” Patrick says half-heartedly. “Fear reaction.” His legs ache when he
stands, a little wobbly. If he doesn’t get off soon, he’s going to explode.
“Come here,” Pete says, even though Patrick can’t get closer. Not really.
Pete presses his face against Patrick’s stomach. His skin is slick and hot, and
his breath is warm against Patrick’s boxers. Patrick’s knees go weak. He has to
grab onto Pete’s shoulders to steady himself. Carefully, gently, Pete’s teeth
close around the waistband of his boxers.
“This could get messy fast,” Patrick says. He can’t see anything past the dark
spread of Pete’s hair, but he can feel the steady way he’s moving. The laugh
muffled against his thigh makes him groan.
“A little help?”
Patrick wiggles out of his boxers, letting them stay wrapped around his ankles.
He takes two breaths, and then he can’t breathe at all because Pete’s mouth is
around his dick. It’s messy and wet and eager. Patrick curls his fingers in
Pete’s hair, curled in around him.
He can’t help the way his hips jerk forward. Pete groans, vibrations shivering
right into Patrick’s bones. Pete leans into it, fights Patrick’s hands pushing
him away. Patrick wants to be good, wants to push Pete back just enough for him
to breathe, but oh -- oh, it feels so good the way Pete chokes a little when
Patrick’s hips buck.
“I’m gonna come,” Patrick pants. His nails bite into Pete’s shoulder, into his
scalp. It has to hurt, but Pete just picks up speed. “Pete, I’m gonna--”
Patrick jerks and comes, the feel of blood slick on his hand.
He trips a little on his boxers as he tries to crawl up onto the bed. He is
very steadfastly not looking at the little crescent shaped cuts on Pete’s
shoulder seal themselves shut. Hopefully, his sleepy mind whispers, werewolf
blood isn’t enough to transfer it over.
“Dude, I can’t feel my fingers,” Pete says after a moment. He flops back,
bouncing back on the mattress. There’s a suspicious white stain near his mouth
that makes Patrick feel hot all over.
“I’m enjoying the afterglow,” Patrick grumbles. Still, he coaxes his clumsy
fingers into undoing the lock. Pete shakes it off and immediately wraps himself
around Patrick, all arms and legs and too much heat too soon. “Oh my god, get
off.”
“Later, pumpkin,” Pete coos. Patrick hates him. “You have school in three
hours.”
“Die in a fire, you asshole,” Patrick grumbles. He tucks his head under Pete’s
chin and tries to pretend like he doesn’t love being right here, like it
doesn’t feel like home. Pete hums and pulls him closer.
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