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Much as Patrick tries to hide it under formless pants, he’s got a lush little butt, just right for biting, groping, and the occasional smack.
"Stop it, you dick," Patrick snaps when Pete is showcasing this.
"I can’t help it," Pete says, giving Patrick his most effective puppy-eyes, almost as good as Hemmy. "It’s just so there.”
"It’s not actually funny." Patrick curls up defensively around his laptop. "Go away."
This is par for the course, so Pete doesn’t actually pay attention until an hour has passed and Patrick is still sulking. That’s just plain unnatural. There’s only room for one sulker in the band, and it’s gonna be Pete.
"Seriously, I get it," Patrick says when Pete goes to bug him. "I have a huge ass, ha ha, great. Can you drop it now?"
Pete blinks at him. “What are you even— dude, did you think I was making fun of your ass?”
Patrick raises an eyebrow.
And, okay, “Maybe I was, a little bit,” Pete allows. “But not like that! I appreciate your ass, Patrick, honest.”
"I can still strangle you," Patrick says.
"Don’t even front, you’ll totally lose it in the press follow up," Pete says, and snuggles up against Patrick.
~~
He’s worried, though, after that. It hurts him personally when people don’t appreciate the finer things in life. This is not the first time he’s had to go on a campaign to help someone appreciate the awesomeness of Patrick Stump; it’s not even the first time he’s had to do it for Patrick himself. Pete’s an old hand at this.
He starts it off with the brute force approach. Enough repetition and everyone believes you eventually: just ask any politician. “Your ass is looking mighty gorgeous today,” he tells Patrick first thing in the morning.
Of course, then Joe has to ruin it by chiming in with, “Or just mighty,” and Patrick glares daggers at both of them. He doesn’t resort to violence, though, which Pete counts as a success until he notices the dejected slump of Patrick’s shoulders and his stomach turns unpleasantly.
This may be slightly more tricky than Pete realized.
~~
On his next attempt, Pete is a little bit sneakier. For a definition of “sneaky” that includes announcing to thousand of fans, “And on the mike, Patrick Stump and his hot, delicious booty!”
Patrick takes the mike and says, mildly, “Pete, are you saying I talk out of my ass? Because if somebody here is….”
The crowd laughs, and the show goes over without a hitch. Afterward, Patrick corners Pete, grabs him by the shoulders and looks him in the eye. “Look,” Patrick says, “I get what you’re trying to do and I appreciate it, but can you not? I’m fat, my ass is fat, you love me anyway. It’s cool. You don’t have to bring the entire world into it.”
It’s not cool, at all, but Pete nods anyway, because what are you going to do?
~~
“Pete?” Patrick says, muzzy with sleep, trying to twist. He was sleeping on his stomach, the way he always does, in ratty boxers and a T-shirt.
This time, Pete accosting him didn’t even have anything to do with his current campaign. He just saw Patrick, twitching in his sleep like he was chasing rabbits or something similarly adorable, and couldn’t help himself. “Shh,” Pete says. He’s resting his cheek against Patrick’s ass, his hands bracketing Patrick’s lower back. “I’m communing.”
Whether Pete’s finally worn him down or Patrick’s just tired, Pete isn’t sure, but he’s not kicking him off. In fact, his breathing’s evening out again.
Pete can’t sleep, but he grins and stays right where he is.
~~
Whatever resistance Patrick’s had for Pete using him as a personal body pillow, Pete’s worn them down ages ago. He takes shameless advantage of this now, claiming Patrick’s ass as his new favorite headrest.
“That’s not even a word,” Patrick complains, but he’s not shoving Pete off, so whatever.
Pete gives his ass a little squeeze. “You’re so comfy,” he says, marveling in it. He rubs in little circles, losing himself in how soft Patrick is, how warm. Fuck, but Pete just wants to sink his teeth into that.
So, because he is Pete Wentz and delayed gratification was never his thing, he does.
Patrick yelps, satisfyingly, but doesn’t try to escape. Pete might be imagining things, but Patrick’s gasped, “What the fuck,” doesn’t sound entirely like an objection.
So he tries again, this time getting an unmistakable shudder. “Pete,” Patrick says, and now there’s actual warning in his voice. “If you’re fucking around with this…”
“Never,” Pete says, and he’s never been more honest in his life. He licks at the pale strip of skin between Patrick’s shirt and his pants, grabbing that ass with both hands, grinding his hardening dick against Patrick’s calf. He lets one hand rise and fall against Patrick’s ass, not hard enough to really hurt, just barely hard enough to make a sound.
Patrick snorts. “That sucked. You can totally do better.”
And Pete does, aiming his hand so it rings on contact. Patrick’s thighs tense and relax, his bare toes squirming at the edge of Pete’s peripheral vision. “Yeah,” Patrick breathes out, so smugly satisfied that Pete has to hit him again.
Unfortunately, the harder Pete hits the more satisfied Patrick sounds about it, until Pete’s hand starts hurting just as Patrick says, “Oh,” and stills under him.
“Did you just,” Pete says, unbelievingly, and sticks a hand under Patrick to check for himself. It comes back wet, and Pete licks it instinctively, learning the salt flavor of Patrick’s come.
“Now you get why I was so pissed about?” Patrick mumbles. “You weren’t just being a goddamned tease, you were a tease who was mocking me on top of everything.”
“Hey,” Pete says, indignant. “Remind me again which one of us got off and which one of us got left out to dry?”
Patrick flaps a hand at him. “So, fucking jerk off, I know you know how.”
Pete pouts. It’s kind of lost on Patrick, who’s not even looking at him, too busy basking in fucking post coital glow. “My hand hurts.”
Patrick sighs, loud and exaggerated, but he’s smiling when he finally turns to look at Pete. He opens his legs and pulls Pete up so he’s cradled between Patrick’s lush, strong thighs, rubbing his spent, wet dick up against Pete’s hard one. “Fine, you big baby.”
“Ooh, Patrick, I had no idea you were into that.” Pete says it on automatic, mostly occupied with finding a rhythm, kind of dismayed at the idea of coming in his pants — Patrick’s the teenager, not Pete — and then also kind of turned on about it. “Of course, I wouldn’t dream of—”
Patrick doesn’t let him finish the sentence, grabbing Pete by the nape of his neck and drawing him into a kiss, and it’s all soft warmth, like a dream, like his blankets on a winter day when he finally managed to sleep the night before.
Moving like waves but never breaking, not even for breath, until Pete shouts his climax into Patrick’s mouth and holds him tight enough to leave bruises on that fair skin. Patrick shudders again at that, and it doesn’t feel like overstimulation, doesn’t feel like anything bad.
“Yeah?” Pete says, grinning into Patrick’s shoulder.
He can tell Patrick’s rolling his eyes without looking, doesn’t bother to duck away from the swat to the back of his head that follows. “I don’t know why I even hang out with you,” Patrick says, but he’s still too smug and sex-stupid to sound actually put out.
“It’s because I make it worth your while.” Pete wiggles till they’re eye to eye and kisses the tip of Patrick’s nose. “Admit it, Stump, you’d be bored to tears without me around.”
“Maybe so,” Patrick allows. “But I wouldn’t get into half as many problems.”
His arms tighten around Pete. It occurs to Pete that the problem he came to solve probably still stands - Patrick is still not suitably impressed with his own vast amazingness - but he can work on it later. He thinks he might be able to come up with lyrics for that.