bandom: a mess of youthful innocence | pete/patrick; nc-17

A Mess Of Youthful Innocence
Pete/Patrick; NC-17; ~3000 words

More 14yrold!Patrick fic. Follows I Hope He Is A Gentleman.

I keep referring to this as baby!Patrick fic on AIM and that just feels so dirty. OH WELL. Thanks to pearl_o, adellyna, and ethrosdemon for, well, lots of things. Mostly enabling and listening to me babble. ♥

Also, I should mention that this takes place now. Well, not right now, probably in late September, 2007. Point is, there is text messaging and Guitar Hero and all that jazz. Because, um, I wanted there to be.

Okay, I will shut up now!

A Mess Of Youthful Innocence

Patrick wakes up way too early on Saturday morning to the incessant beeping of his cell phone. He fumbles for it on the nightstand, but all he does is knock his glasses to the floor before he realizes it’s not there. Which means it’s still in his backpack. Which is on the other side of the room.

Yeah, no. He is not getting up. No one that important is texting him. He just pulls his pillow over his head until the beeping stops, and goes back to sleep.

Two hours later, Patrick wakes up for real. He has somehow managed to get the house to himself all day. It’s going to be awesome. His plans include playing Guitar Hero at top volume and ordering pizza with everything on it that his brother hates. Because he can.

When he digs his cell phone out of his bag, it’s flashing “1 new message!” at him. He flips it open and gets hey wht r u doin? It’s from Pete.

Patrick’s stomach dips so hard and fast he has to put his hand on his desk to balance himself.

The incident with the couch and the, um, sex, had been on Thursday afternoon. On Friday, Patrick’s whole P.E. class had been dragged outside to play kickball on the tennis courts. Pete had been there, but they’d only been face to face for about ten seconds. Those ten seconds had consisted of Pete grinning and Patrick turning various shades of pink.

Then it had been his turn to go and kick the stupid ball across the stupid tennis court. Friday had kind of sucked. Patrick hates kickball.

He definitely does not remember exchanging cell phone numbers with Pete. Which probably just means Pete is a sneaky fucker; Patrick can believe that.

Patrick texts back nothing, home alone and sticks his phone in the pocket of his hoodie before he wanders downstairs to the kitchen. Cereal might distract him from the annoying way his stomach is still doing jumping jacks.

It doesn’t so much work, and Pete still hasn’t texted back by the time Patrick is rinsing his bowl out in the sink and putting it in the dishwasher. He pulls his phone out and stares it down, willing it to do…something. Then the doorbell rings and Patrick startles so hard he drops the phone and has to scramble to pick it up.

He opens the door and Pete is standing on the porch, covered in mud and grinning at Patrick so big that Patrick’s face kind of hurts just looking at it.

“Hi!” Pete says, and takes off his shirt.

“Hi.” Then Patrick’s mouth catches up to his brain, and he says, “Wait, what are you doing here? What are you doing?”

Pete is hopping on one foot, working off a soccer cleat. “Well, I wanted to see if this cute boy I know wanted to hang out, but then he didn’t text me back, so I had to go and play soccer in what was pretty much a field of a mud to take my mind off it.” He drops the shoe on the porch, splattering mud all over the concrete, and starts on the other one. “Luckily, the cute boy got back to me eventually and I came straight over.” The other shoe drops and Pete straightens up, grinning harder than ever.

“And here I am!” Pete punctuates that by pushing his shorts down off his hips. They hit the ground, and Patrick realizes he has Pete Wentz standing on his front porch wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs. The shade of red he turns is probably not found in nature.

“Oh my god,” Patrick says. He doesn’t know if he’s talking to himself or Pete, but it doesn’t really matter. “Oh my god, come inside. Mrs. Grey next door is going to have a heart attack if she looks out her kitchen window and sees you.”

Have a heart attack, and then call Patrick’s mother and tell her that her son is entertaining half-naked boys. And then Patrick’s life will be over.

“Well, at least she’ll die happy.” Pete turns and winks exaggeratedly at the house next to Patrick’s.

“Oh my god.” Patrick grabs Pete’s arm and drags him inside. He closes the door firmly and turns both locks. “Why are you stripping on my front porch? How do you even know where I live?”

He’s trying really hard not to just openly gape at Pete’s chest and arms and all the black ink marked across his skin. It’s not like Patrick hasn’t seen Pete shirtless before, he is always the first one to strip down when it gets hot in the gym, but. That’s so totally not the same.

“I know everything,” Pete says. “And I didn’t want to get mud on your mother’s nice carpets.” He’s smirking as he says it, so Patrick is pretty sure the real answer is more like ‘Because I wanted to.’

Patrick narrows his eyes. “You dropped me off the other day.” Because, duh. Pete is clearly, like, frying Patrick’s brain cells.

Pete shrugs and grins some more. It’s pretty infectious and Patrick finds himself smiling back. “Bathroom?” Pete asks. “I really don’t want to get mud all over shit.”

“On the left.” Patrick points down the hall. He still can’t believe Pete apparently dropped everything just to come see him. This whole thing is so weird; Patrick doesn’t even know where to start. But he can’t stop thinking about kissing Pete, or stop hoping that it’s going to happen again in the near future.

Pete gets about two feet down the hall, then stops and turns back to Patrick. “Are you coming?”

Apparently, Patrick is.

When Patrick gets to the bathroom, Pete is bent over the bathtub fiddling with the knobs. Patrick stares at him for a few more seconds before he manages to shake himself out of it and realize that Pete has turned on the shower. “What are you doing?”

Pete jumps under the stream of water, still in his boxers, thank god. Patrick probably would have passed out if he’d taken them off. “Wanna come in? The water’s awesome.”

“Um, no, that’s. That’s okay.” Patrick concentrates really hard on getting a towel out and putting it on the sink. “For, um, when you get done. I’m just gonna go find you some clothes.”

“No, hey,” Pete says. “Stay. Please? Just a second, okay?”

Patrick stays. He tries really, really hard to look at like, the pattern of the tile on the floor, but his eyes aren’t obeying and keep straying back to Pete. Pete is really, really hot. Not like Patrick hadn’t known that before, but now Pete is wet and practically naked in Patrick’s shower and Patrick is more or less being hit over the head with a sledgehammer. A sledgehammer with the words “Pete is hot” carved into it.

Pete sticks his head under the spray and rubs at it with his hands. It does interesting things to the muscles in his arms. Patrick gives up on not staring.

When Pete starts to climb out of the tub, Patrick holds the towel out to him like a shield. Pete takes it and rubs at his face for, like, half a second, before he drapes the towel over his shoulder and looks at Patrick. He’s grinning again. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Patrick says weakly.

Pete is crowding up against him. Patrick’s back hits the sink, the porcelain edge digs into his skin. Then Pete kisses him and he doesn’t notice anymore.

His hands settle tentatively on Pete’s waist. Pete’s skin is warm and damp, Patrick never wants to stop touching him. He’s totally getting better at the kissing thing, too. Pete is sighing happily against Patrick’s lips and pushing closer, and Patrick’s still nervous as hell, but Pete’s tongue in his mouth is definitely helping.

Pete slides his leg in between Patrick’s and rocks up, the friction makes Patrick hiss. Pete does it again. If he keeps it up, Patrick is going to come. Soon.

“Pete,” he says. Gasps, really. “Pete.”

Pete licks at Patrick’s mouth one more time and pulls away. “Hey, can I? Is this okay?”

And then he drops to his knees.

Patrick squeaks.

Yes, this is okay. It’s so okay Patrick can’t even find the words to say how okay it is. It’s even more okay when Pete undoes Patrick’s jeans and peels them down around his knees. His underwear follows and then there’s just Pete’s hand around the base of his dick and Pete’s hot breath against the tip.

Patrick is seriously going to die. It’s going to be fucking epic.

He is about to get a blowjob. A real one. Not even one that only exists in his imagination. And Pete Wentz is going to give it to him.

Actually Pete Wentz is giving it to him. Right now. Because that’s Pete’s tongue flicking out to lick the head of Patrick’s dick and that’s Pete’s mouth sliding down over him.

Patrick can’t really breathe. Or move. Or do anything except watch Pete suck him off and think about how it’s the most awesome thing ever and also, about how he is going to come in like, three seconds. If he lasts that long.

He manages to last more like thirty, under the hot pressure of Pete’s mouth and the slick drag of his lips and tongue. He even manages to put his hand on Pete’s head and curl his fingers in Pete’s hair.

But then Pete’s mouth tightens and he sucks harder and takes Patrick deeper and Patrick doesn’t even have time to like, warn Pete or anything, because he’s coming so hard that he has to clutch at the sink to keep from collapsing.

“Holy shit,” he says. You know, when he can manage words again. It still comes out kind of weird and strangled.

Pete rocks back on his heels and licks his lips. He’s practically beaming as he pulls Patrick’s pants back up and neatly zips them closed. “Yeah?”

Patrick nods vigorously. “Yeah.” And, also. “You, um, said that next time I could…” He trails off and ends the sentence with a vague hand motion that is supposed to signify, “Touch your dick.”

“Dude, yes,” Pete says. He’s on his feet in a second. “Where’s your room?”

“Um, this way.” Patrick leads the way down the hall and up the stairs. Well, halfway up the stairs, anyway. Because that’s when Pete presses him into the wall and kisses him until he’s breathless. It leaves Patrick in a little bit of a daze, and the next thing he knows he’s closing the door to his bedroom behind them.

Pete says, “Awesome,” and, seriously, Patrick barely even blinks before Pete’s boxers are on the floor and he’s throwing himself across Patrick’s bed, spread-eagled on Patrick’s comforter. “Do whatever you want!”

It would be the dorkiest, cheesiest thing Patrick had ever seen, except that Pete is naked and hard and, Jesus, so fucking hot. Patrick feels painfully young and inexperienced. He doesn’t even know where to start.

Pete pushes up on his elbows. “No, really. You can pretty much do no wrong here, man.”

Patrick is maybe freaking out a little. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, god, no. He is a fourteen year-old boy being presented with the opportunity of sex, of course he wants to. But he doesn’t really know how to. So he just stands there and fidgets with the sleeves of his hoodie.

“Hey, are you okay?” Pete’s eyebrows crumple together and he sits up a little more. “I mean, you know, we don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to. It’s totally okay.”

“No, no, I want to.” Patrick inches a little closer to the bed. If Pete gets up now then he might never come back. That would suck so hard. “I just don’t really…know what to do?”

“Just come here.” Pete pats the bed beside him. Patrick edges over and sits down gingerly, pulling his legs up under him. Pete takes his hand. “You can just, touch me, okay?”

Patrick can do that. Maybe. He splays his palm across Pete’s chest, his finger’s brushing the thorns tattooed across his skin. “Did that hurt?”

“Fuck, yes. Totally worth it, though.” Pete catches his hand in Patrick’s hoodie and pulls him down. The kiss is really chaste, considering Pete had his mouth on Patrick’s dick three minutes ago. “Totally worth it,” Pete repeats when it ends. Patrick isn’t sure he’s even talking about the tattoo anymore.

Pete frowns down at where his hand is fisted in Patrick’s hoodie. “Can you take this off? And maybe those, too?” He nods pointedly at Patrick’s jeans.

“Um, I guess?” Because that’s totally what he needs. To be both awkward and naked in front of Pete. But Pete looks really hopeful and Patrick does want to touch him some more. So he sighs and drags his hoodie over his head. He’s wearing a thin t-shirt under it, but Pete tugs at the hem and Patrick takes that off, too.

“C’mere.” Pete pushes at Patrick’s shoulder until Patrick stretches out on the bed beside them. Pete kisses him again, open-mouthed this time, and crawls on top of him. “Pants, now.”

Pete does all the work, unbuttons, unzips, and pulls Patrick’s jeans downs over his hips. Patrick is getting hard again, he blushes when Pete notices and grins gleefully. “So fucking hot, I’m not even lying. Jesus.”

Patrick doesn’t really feel hot. He feels naked and cold and more than a little unsure of himself. But then Pete is leaning over him again and it’s warm skin everywhere and Patrick is a little more okay with the naked thing. Because, wow. So much skin.

He brushes his hand down Pete’s side, bumps his thumb across Pete’s hipbone. Pete makes an encouraging noise and presses his mouth to Patrick’s shoulder. Patrick works up every last bit of his nerve and reaches to wrap his fingers loosely around the base of Pete's cock.

The skin there is hot against his palm and Pete's whole body shudders. His teeth scrape Patrick's collarbone and Patrick lets his head fall to the side. "Oh, fuck."

"Yeah." Pete tilts his head and presses his mouth to Patrick's, kisses him clumsy and wet. Anything Patrick might have picked up on the whole art of kissing thing is pretty much gone now, he can’t focus on anything except the drag of Pete’s dick through the circle of his fist. Their mouths slide together messily, teeth clicking together when Patrick pushes up into the kiss at the same time Pete tries to lean down. It doesn’t even matter; all Patrick is aware of in the whole world is Pete’s hard dick and hot mouth.

The way the tip of Pete's tongue is outlining his bottom lip is oddly intimate, feels funny and makes Patrick wonder about all the things he doesn't know about sex. Porn, the limited amount of it that he’s seen, anyway, doesn't show you how to flick your tongue over someone's eyetooth like Pete's doing, or how rough someone else’s stubble feels against your cheek.

Patrick’s hips jerk forward and Pete circles his arm around Patrick's waist and shifts under him. It makes the angle of Patrick's wrist weird and and hard to navigate, but his dick is sliding against the hollow of Pete's hip and, oh god. Oh, god.

“Tighter.” Pete’s hips roll and Patrick tightens his grip, tries to get enough leverage to move his hand faster. He can’t though, not really, and has to settle for rubbing his thumb over the head of Pete’s dick, copying what Pete did to him last time. It must be enough, because Pete groans and bites down on Patrick’s lower lip, hard enough to sting but gently enough to keep from breaking the skin. It’s hot. So fucking hot that Patrick’s not sure how he isn’t dying from it.

Pete comes first, and Patrick feels a surge of pride when Pete goes still and tense against him, sticky heat spreading between their bodies. Patrick just jerked someone off. Patrick just made Pete come. Three days ago, he'd never even kissed anyone, and now he has Pete's come on his fingers. It's a little surreal.

Pete presses messy kisses to Patrick's mouth and chin and the side of his neck, murmurs "Jesus, Patrick," against Patrick's skin.

“Oh, god.” Patrick pushes harder against Pete’s hip. He can feel the orgasm building at the base of his spine, spreading out and down and when he comes it’s sharp and fast and so intense he actually thinks he might black out. He buries his face in Pete’s neck and clutches at him, just holding on as he rides it out.

They lie there for what feels like forever, panting and clinging. Patrick brings his hand to his mouth and licks tentatively at his thumb, rolls the taste of Pete’s come around in his mouth. It’s not bad. He could maybe swallow, he thinks. Maybe.

“That is so not fair,” Pete groans. “Your mouth should be fucking illegal, I swear.”

Patrick grins at him and sucks one of his fingers into his mouth. It’s possible that he’s getting the hang of this sex thing.

Pete tugs Patrick’s hand away from his mouth. “Seriously, dude. You have to stop. I can’t handle it.”

“I’m hungry,” Patrick says. Because he is, he’s fucking starving. As if to prove his point, his stomach growls. Loudly.

Pete laughs. “Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do. You’re gonna order some pizza, and then we’re going to take a shower. Together. And then, oh, hey, is that Say Anything?”

“What?” Patrick follows Pete’s eyeline to the movies stacked on top of the television in the corner of his room. “Oh, uh, yeah. It’s my brother’s, I think. I’ve never watched it.”

“Oh my god.” Pete sounds a little horrified. Like Patrick has personally offended him. “Okay, and then, after the showering, which is going to be awesome, by the way. But after the showering we’re going to eat pizza and watch that movie.”

It pretty much sounds like the best plan Patrick has ever heard. “Can the pizza have mushrooms on it?”

“Dude, it can have any-fucking-thing you want,” Pete says. “Your wish is my command and all that shit.”

Patrick really, really likes the sound of that.