Pairing: Pete/various, but ultimately Pete/Jon.
Summary: Pete finds himself in the habit of fucking, but never making love.
Disclaimer: None of this is true. Nada.
[photography by Lady Vervaine]
"This time next year, let's be laughing together."
-Adam Jacot de Boinod, The Meaning of Tingo
Pete isn't a slut and he stands by that, despite what his friends, label, and the world say about him. He doesn't set out to fuck people, not exactly, but love making is far too serious, so instead, Pete satisfies himself and his conscience by agreeing to stop when he finally gets his fireworks. After all, Pete doesn't know when he'll find someone who just strikes him the right way and they'll end up rolling between the sheets or trying their best to stay on their feet while dicking around in the bathroom of some club and he'll hear the little whistles of sparks in the back of his mind.
He feels alone on most Fourth of July's because the howls of rockets remind him that he's missing love.
Despite popular belief, during the length of their relationship, Pete never once finds that he and Ashlee are making love. She's pretty and happy, dorky and sexy, but more often than not, she's a growling, scratching bitch in bed and Pete, he just can't really peg her in the love making field.
Is he in love with her? Possibly, but more often than not, he thinks it was the sort of love where asking your best friend to fool around is okay.
Pete's lying beneath her, thrusting into her thin body as he she controls the both of them, slamming his hips down each time she sits roughly. She laughs shakily as she shivers and Pete whines, mumbling, "C'mon, c'mon," while she pins his hands by his head and tells him not to touch because then there's nothing left to the imagination. Pete finds that she's a really big tease and maybe what could be considered easy in bed, but that's what he likes about her.
Ashlee's endurance never fails to amaze him either. He always comes before her, snapping his hips up and lifting them both off the bed with a long moan as he shoots inside the condom. Sometimes he thinks he disappoints her and sometimes he thinks she fakes her orgasm, but Pete never can be damned enough to ask, so he doesn't. Even if they do love one another, the sex is never more than the nature of fuck buddies, so Pete never feels that he has to ask.
Still, Pete wishes he'd found love in her because she's fun and definitely safe. She doesn't throw lamps at his head for going out with friends and sometimes she even tags along to the bars. Really, Ashlee is perfect until they both get bored, high five on it with a promise to call and hug one another goodbye.
They haven't talked since. Later, she'll write a song called Boys. Pete will smile when he hears it.
Patrick comes both before and after Ashlee, neither of them being at all special. Sometimes Pete's between Patrick's legs on his knees in the recording studio and other times he lets Patrick fuck him because that was the only way he agrees to it. Even though Patrick's fetish for argyle and Prince say otherwise, he swears he's straight and that Pete's just a body to share heat with. Pete takes what he can get, so he never complains.
He doesn't make love with Patrick. Instead, they make a lot of noise arguing because Pete has the tendency to ramble about stupid shit that ticks Patrick off. They yell and scream at one another between moans and after, Pete jokes that he just likes the color Patrick's face turns when he's seriously pissed, but on the edge of coming so hard inside of Pete's tight body, that he holds his rage in until a later date. Patrick shoves him and tells him to shut up and stay away on stage that night. Pete never listens.
Patrick has a bite mark on his palm from one incident where he makes the decision to push his hand over Pete's mouth in attempt to keep him quiet.
"Hemmy didn't mean to piss on your shoes, Patrick," he pants and Patrick growls, pushing his hand over Pete's mouth in which Pete licks and bites sharply.
That's the last time they have sex.
Pete still hounds him about it, but Patrick shoves his shoulder and tells him to fuck off,
which Pete doesn't do well, but does enough to satisfy him.
Gabe happens once on Honda Civic Tour. It's too damn hot and Pete has those tiny jeans on, riding low on his hips, and Gabe just kind of loses it and shoves Pete backstage. Neither of them know what they're doing on stage in the first place, but rather come to accept that the Heavens have aligned to provide some seriously good sex in a tech closet.
Pete turns around after Gabe pushes his jeans off his ass, his hands pushed to the wall, and bends down. He's no stranger to this and neither is Gabe, if his fingers had anything to say about it, so neither ask what's happening or if it's okay, instead assuming it is.
The wall of the closet is cool against the center of his hands as Gabe shoves in roughly, his hands dark on Pete's hips as they threaten to leave quarter sized bruises on his skin. He hears Spanish and he's never bothered learning the language before he commits every phrase to memory and looks them up with an online translator the next day. Unfortunately, his spelling makes it nearly impossible to decipher, but he sleeps better knowing he's heard papi in a whole new manner.
There is no repeat, though it comes close several times. Unfortunately, the only privacy they get is that of portable toilets, and somehow, neither of them can get in the mood when they're avoiding liquid blue disinfectant and the hand sanitizer dispenser keeps nailing Gabe in the small of his back. When the air conditioning breaks on Gabe's bus, they give up and decide it's not meant to be.
Gabe's still the biggest dick Pete's ever had inside of him.
Travis gets a taste of Pete Wentz when he comes to stay and procure artwork with Pete. They fuck all week long and paint's involved more than once. Travis never asks and Pete never tells him to, it just happens and they accept it.
Pete's painting, or trying to, the morning after the Great Fire (the aptly named accidental burning of several canvases just after midnight when Pete's too fucked on Ativan to really know what he's doing), and Travis grabs him, tosses him to his knees, and takes him from behind. He still doesn't know what Travis looks like when he comes, but he does know what he sounds like.
It works like that all week and no matter how hard Pete tries to switch it up, Travis doesn't want to see his face when they fuck, so eventually Pete gets used to the rug burn on his knees and occasionally his elbows. There's still a green handprint under Hemingway's couch Pete has never bothered scrubbing out of the carpet.
He never speaks up when Gabe and Travis argue about the length of their dicks. He instead sips at his drink of choice and smirks because neither of them know he's slept with them both.
Pete doesn't even plan on having sex with Hayley. They're at a Christmas party and she's got this tiny purple dress on that makes no sense since the majority of them are dressed in red or green, but then again, she'd stick out like a sore thumb with her hair anyways, so he guesses it just adds to her appeal.
He offers to buy her a drink and she laughs, says no, but he does anyway and he thinks that's where his first mistake is. Love isn't found at the bottom of an empty glass, nor is it found in bed with a drunk girl who's barely legal. On the way to the hotel room, Pete really thinks he can find fireworks with her, but when he leaves with his shirt tails untucked, he decides that her hair just looks like fireworks and that's what skewed his decision.
Pete feels guilty every time he hears Paramore or sees Hayley. She smiles and says hey and most of the time, Pete wonders if she even remembers it at all.
The look on Jeremy's face says she does.
Pete and Joe fuck on Young Wild Things. It's slow and messy, partly because Joe's high and Pete's got a bum leg. The rocker boot constantly gets in the way, but Joe's surprisingly patient, though under different circumstances and without the presence of weed, Pete's fairly sure Joe wouldn't have been nearly as understanding. It's slow and deep and Pete thinks maybe this is making love, but the way Joe swears and his eyes don't focus makes Pete think otherwise.
They don't come at nearly the same time and Pete finishes before Joe with a sharp buck of his hips into Joe's calloused fingers. He endures the thrusting for three more minutes until Joe comes inside him, panting and heaving with his curls sticking over his forehead and hanging into his eyes.
Joe rolls off him and Pete says, "Yeah," for no reason other than to hear himself talk.
Joe leans over and grabs his cigarettes and asks Pete to pass his lighter.
Pete fucks Ryan just before he signs Panic. No, he didn't ask for it, but Ryan's fan girling just pointed in that direction, and before long, Pete had him spread across his desk, his pale thighs pushed wide for Pete's body. Pete's never claimed to be a phenomenal lay, but those who've had the pleasure do.
Pete can appreciate a tight body and after, for years to come, he promises the sex had nothing to do with signing Panic. Ryan thinks different, as does his whole band, but the point is, Pete keeps his word either way. Ryan's young and naïve and when Pete finishes, he pats his cheek and ruffles his chin length hair before pulling out and moving to get his boxers. Pete never sticks around long and this times no different, so he smiles, welcomes Ryan to Decaydance, and pulls his jeans back on.
Later on, they'll have sex when they compare lyrics and Pete blames it on the music and rush of emotions, but it's never love making. Ryan gets the upper hand once and Pete decides it'll be the last time.
Phone sex occasionally ensues.
William has his go, but they're both as drunk as they've ever been in their lives.
Pete passes out before either of them finish.
Pete's visiting Angels and Kings some night in the midst of Honda Civic Tour when the entire Panic crew stops in for drinks and Pete persuades them to take pictures in front of the mug shot wall. He takes pictures with Ryan and they laugh and sex is lost that night because he's just having fun with friends, hanging in good company. Even Brendon curls an arm around his neck, hooks him in close, and Pete notes he smells like weed – like Joe does – but for once, Pete's not tempted to sleep with him, or anyone for that matter.
After the hubbub of pictures and drinks, Pete heads back to the bar to refill his vodka and tonic with just a twist of too much of lime. He doesn't expect to find anyone there since most everyone is scattered about with drinks already, but he spots Jon and waves to him. He and Jon are good friends and share the bassist talent, but they don't talk often or nearly as much as Pete would like to, mostly because life doesn't permit it.
"How's Hemingway?" Jon asks conversationally and Pete smiles, shrugging a single shoulder as he slides his empty glass to the bartender and orders up.
"He's okay. Chubby and still chewing on shoes. How's… tour?" Pete saves, really unsure of what to talk about with his friend at all. He's lost sight of what they have in common, but Jon grins warmly and Pete feels his heart skip a beat the way it had initially when he'd met up with Jon again after Panic had made the official decision to replace Brent.
"Same old, same old," Jon replies, lifting his drink to Pete's as the bartender sets it in his hand, and teases, "Jack Daniels and I have missed you."
Pete chuckles and takes a sip of his vodka and tonic, trying not to wince at the bite before he smiles up at Jon. "You two are close?" he jokes.
Jon laughs good naturedly, a homey sound from inside his chest and Pete can feel the tug just behind his heart as he winks and takes another sip of his drink. He looks at Jon and Jon looks at him and they just sort of stare at each other before they both look away bashfully and laugh.
"You should come see Hemmy. Ya know, if you're ever in the area when I am," Pete offers, reaching out with a hand to bump it against Jon's bicep.
Jon says, "Yeah. I don't know when that'll be, but sometime in the next century."
Pete rolls his eyes, but he knows with both their touring schedules, it's entirely possible. "Then maybe you should while you're here."
Jon's eyebrows raise, more out of surprise than anything, and he shrugs his shoulders. It's not that he doesn't want to, he's just not sure if it's a good idea. Maybe Pete's just being friendly, but Jon's got a long line of crushing behind him for the Wentz smile and he's not sure that he can keep his hands to himself after a couple of Jack and cokes.
He says, "Yeah," and Pete smiles – even, white, and bright. Jon knows it's a bad idea.
They leave the bar after saying goodbye to those that matter and when they step back into the cool New York evening, Pete straightens the striped hat that's on his head. Jon thinks he looks cute with it, sitting just so over his jet black hair, and he bites his tongue to keep himself from saying something stupid.
"So, I could totally offer to pay for a taxi, but I'm thinking New York feels too nice to pass up," Pete says, glancing over at Jon, who seems lost in thought as he looks up and down to the street and around in general. "Jon?"
Jon snaps out of it and turns his head to look at Pete, a sheepish smile on his face. "What?"
Pete rolls his eyes and says, "We're walking," and then proceeds to do so, leading the way back to his hotel where Hemingway's been staying the evening. The hotel doesn't know the dog's there, but Pete suspects they know something. It'd explain the glares at the desk every time he passes.
"Have you ever been to New York at Christmas time?" Jon asks, and it's just more conversation, but even in the dead of summer – or spring, technically – he feels that cheer kind of spread through him. Maybe it's the city, but Jon thinks it could very well be Pete. He just feels like Christmas and Jon bets he tastes like it too, if he ever had the chance to find out.
Pete says, "Yeah. To shop. Why?"
Jon shrugs and pushes his hands into his front pockets, pitching his shoulders forward as he looks down and then chuckles. "I don't know. It feels like Christmas."
Pete glances sideways at him, shaking his head, and snorts. "It's like May, dude. You know this?"
Jon says, "Yeah," and pauses before he sighs and continues, "It just feels like Christmas."
Pete doesn't understand, but that's okay, he thinks, because most people don't understand him either. At the moment, New York feels like lukewarm heat that sticks to his skin and pores and refreshes him with a city that doesn't try to drown him in Hollywood.
"My favorite part is the tree," Pete says five minutes later and Jon looks at him like he's crazy. "The Christmas tree. In Rockefeller Center?"
Jon gets it then and laughs, soft and airy, and nods, squirming his fingers deeper into his pockets. "You know, that's so typical of you."
Pete says, "I'm becoming predictable," and breathes a laugh and can't help but note how it doesn't match the light heartedness of Jon's, though his words aren't funny to begin with.
Jon grins and looks up, blinking against Times Square as he looks in Pete's direction. "Where are you staying anyways?"
"The Westin," Pete says, pointing ahead to a glass fronted building that kind of bounces the lighting of the city right back off. "It's one of those five star places the label won't pay for. I splurged and got a suite for me and my dog." He thinks he must sound lonely or pathetic, maybe a combination of both, but the answering smile says different.
Jon says, "I'd do the same with Dylan and Clover," and Pete doesn't feel like he's the only one. He returns the grin he'd gotten from Jon and holds the door open, already digging in the tiny pockets of his jeans for his room key. Jon momentarily wonders why there's no bellboy, but he figures it's unimportant.
The clerk at the hotel desk glares at Pete right on cue and while he shoots her a smile, she doesn't break the cold stare. Pete thinks it's maybe because he's bringing a guy back to his room and he almost feels obligated to tell her that they're not doing anything, that he's just showing Jon his dog. Pete remembers he owes no one an explanation and hits the button for the elevator before Jon can.
"Remember those pictures we took when Hem was tiny?" Jon asks as he leans back against the reflective silver walls that surround the elevator, the pads of his fingers creating dull fingerprints against it.
Pete nods, saying, "Yeah. I look at them sometimes." His eyes kind of unfocus as he thinks about it, thinks about how tiny Hemingway had been and their stupid matching track suits.
Jon smiles, though his teeth don't show. "Yeah. Me too."
Pete steps into the elevator and waits for Jon to stand beside him before he tries to remember whether his room is on floor twenty two or thirty two. "Uh…" he trails, fingers running over the buttons before he glances at his room key that's snug in his hand and decides it's probably thirty two.
"C'mon, Wentz. We only had a few," Jon teases, nudging his elbow against Pete's ribs. Their fingers brush when Pete hits the button and returns his hand to his side, a little bolt of electricity that travels up Pete's arm. Both look in opposite directions and should either of them be able to, they'd be whistling.
Up in the room, Hemingway is sleeping soundly, curled into one of the overstuffed chairs Pete's afraid to sit in when he's eating peanut butter and jelly from room service. Pete offers to wake him up, but Jon shakes his head and tells him to let him sleep.
"You're a bitch when you're woken up. I figure your dog is the same," Jon jokes and Pete rolls his eyes, shrugging out of his black blazer and letting it fall over the arm of the other chair similar to the one Hemingway has claimed as his bed. Jon does the same with his jacket, though he folds it in half once neatly.
Pete says, "Yeah, yeah," over his shoulder and tosses his hat in the pile that has his vest added to it as well.
Jon looks from where his eyes had settled on Hemingway to Pete."You've got hat hair."
"We can't all be perfect," Pete replies, but there's a grin hanging off his lips and he's not trying to be a smart ass. Not intentionally, anyways.
"It's cute," Jon says before he can stop himself and they both chuckle nervously. Despite their apprehension, there is no tension and neither is uncomfortable.
Pete's tired, though he always is, and he figures he should offer Jon a drink or some other commodity he has in his hotel room, but he's fairly sure they've both had enough alcohol, at least for one night. Hemingway's failed him on breaking the ice, so Pete collapses on his bed in a way he hopes isn't too suggestive because that's not what he's going for.
"Tired?" Jon asks, worrying his lip with his teeth as his hands return to his front pockets. He hooks a thumb over his shoulder back towards the door and says, "I can shoot out if you want."
Pete turns his head sideways, cocking it at an odd angle to look at Jon, and shakes his head. "I just made you walk like. Eight blocks here."
Jon laughs the same homey laugh Pete thinks he could listen to on repeat. "Yeah, but. I don't mind giving space if you're totally wiped, dude."
Pete says, "Nah. Come on," and pats the empty space beside him on the bed.
Jon thinks – no, he knows - that bed is dangerous, and he thinks of saying no for a moment before he approaches anyways and lays down beside Pete, his eyes staring straight up to the ceiling. He can feel Pete's eyes on him, the warm, honey brown that he always gets lost in when he looks too long, and he hesitates to meet them until –
"Hey," Pete murmurs, his hand reaching out until his bass calloused fingers loop around Jon's wrist and squeeze gently.
Jon looks. It's probably his biggest mistake of the evening, of the week, of the month, but he looks. Pete's eyes are even softer, even browner than he remembers from the last time they were close enough to pick up details like that. His lips quirk and Pete's do too in response.
Pete says, "I get it," and Jon just kind of stares at him, hardly hearing the whisper of Pete's words until he realizes he doesn't understand.
"Hm?" Jon mumbles, his hand moving to catch the fingers on his wrist with his own. He doesn't lace them, just pushes their fingertips together and watches their hands match up before looking back to Pete.
"It feels like Christmas," Pete says, and maybe he's making it up or associating Christmas with an entirely different set of emotions than Jon was, but for a moment there, Pete thinks he can feel it. Thinks he can feel the 'ho ho ho' and the rumble of reindeer feet. Pete decides it's the city.
Jon laughs and turns his head so that his eyes lock back on the swirled plaster of the ceiling and Pete pushes his fingers between Jon's, lacing them tightly. Jon's palm is warm and maybe a little sweaty, but it's endearing. When Pete shuts his eyes tight and concentrates, he can feel Jon's heartbeat through the center of his hand and he wonders if he can feel his too.
"I miss you," Pete mumbles, and it's offhand and random. They'd already shared hellos and I
miss yous at the bar, but this time it's in earnest and Pete means it.
Jon turns back to him and squeezes Pete's hand, letting them rest on his stomach as he thinks about what to say. He misses Pete more than he cares to admit, so rather than doing so, he leans forward and pushes their lips together. It's awkward positioning with the way they're laying, but he remedies the situation and sits up to hover just over Pete.
And damnit, Pete had been good. He hadn't kissed anyone the entire night, hadn't had some ball of urge inside him to fuck in the bathroom with any of his friends. But Pete's melting into the gentle texture of Jon's lips and Pete, he feels butterflies and he thinks his hand's the one sweating now, not Jon's. There are little whistles in his ears and shots of color on his eyelids when he shuts them and Pete smiles into Jon's lips, fighting off the urge to laugh because he's fairly sure that'd be rude.
He's right, Jon decides. Pete tastes like Christmas. Like frozen snow and too many drinks on the eve. Like the faint remainder of peppermint and snow angels in the front yard. He thinks if he wrote the songs for his band, he'd be all set for life circulating words around that flavor, around the feeling he gets in the pit of his stomach when he feels Pete's white teeth
against his lips as he smiles.
Pete hooks his thigh over Jon's waist and rolls on top of him, leaning low to deepen the kiss as his lips part for Jon's tongue. It's tentative and cautious – they've never been together before – and he wonders for a moment why he's so nervous to rub his tongue back against Jon's. Maybe because Pete's afraid of fucking up. He can fuck up casual sex and know it's not going to leave him heartbroken, but he can't fuck up his fireworks.
Jon doesn't let him, though. He pushes his hands up beneath Pete's t-shirt and lets his fingers splay against his ribcage, his thumbs brushing back and forth over each bone he can barely feel, and makes it known that he wants him. Pete forces their lips apart and sits up, tugging his shirt over his head before tossing it off to the side and watching it land over Hemingway's head. He thinks he could laugh as his dog hardly moves, but he doesn't, because Jon's sat right back up to catch his lips again.
Pete moans into the kiss this time, a low, rumbling sound he hardly ever makes while kissing someone and kissing alone, which kind of startles and excites him all at the same time. Jon's just different - his hands are different, just like his demands are, and Pete drops his hands down enough to pull at Jon's black t-shirt because it's not fair he's giving skin and not giving any back. They have to break their kiss again and Jon rolls his eyes as he gets his shirt off over his head, tossing it off the bed, but not making it quite as far as Hemingway.
When Pete's hands drop to Jon's belt, Jon stops him with his fingers wrapped loosely around Pete's wrist. He shifts the other over and onto him back before moving on top of him, putting Pete's thin frame in shadow beneath his own. Pete's hands rub up and down over his biceps and he licks his lips to dampen them once more, and Jon smiles, leaning down to press a tender kiss to Pete's lips.
There's a difference between them. Pete's used to fast and hard, getting it done before anyone can think differently, but Jon, Jon's the kind of guy who likes to be almost lazy about it. The kind of sex couples dream about having on Sunday mornings when they're married, but find they bicker far too much to have. Jon cherishes every thrust and every kiss and he commits them all to memory so that he never forgets what he has in that moment. In that moment, Pete's the last thing Jon wants to forget.
"It feels like Christmas," Jon mumbles as he trails his lips down to the side of Pete's neck and he can feel his throat vibrate just beneath his lips as he says it.
Pete replies, "Why?" and lifts his body so that their stomachs just barely graze, sending tiny shivers up and down Pete's spine.
"Because you taste like Christmas," Jon says honestly, licking a trail to Pete's ear and then sucking softly just below it. "Like… the Chicago kind. Snow up to your knees and red cheeked,
Pete's eyes shut at the image and he sighs softly, his head tipping enough so Jon can gain more access to his neck. He wonders if Jon knows that's his favorite spot or if he's just exceptionally good at figuring Pete out as he seems to have been all night. Pete decides to stop thinking because Jon's hand is between his legs and his mind is streaked with white out as each thought drops in levels of importance.
"Miss Chicago," Pete pants, eyes blinking and fluttering until he gives up once more and shuts them because they really don't need to be open anyways. Jon's beard scratches against his jaw and it's not unpleasant, just sends the same scurrying shivers up and down his back.
Jon says, "Chicago misses you," and palms Pete a little heavier, feeling his cock push up against the zipper of his jeans.
Pete thinks he's been half hard since their hands touched in the elevator, but it's possible it's when Jon looked at him five minutes ago. Timing doesn't much matter either way because Pete can feel his dick hardening with tiny bucks of his hips into Jon's palm, warm and firm against the denim. Jon's hips shift down into Pete's thigh and he can feel his arousal almost as much as he can feel his own.
"You should come home more often," Jon urges as he sits up and tugs at Pete's jeans, popping the button easily before he lowers his face and kisses over one of Pete's collarbones. Pete thinks he should be doing something, so he pushes his fingers through Jon's hair and lets the other hand slide down his back, fingertips bent so that his nails just graze his skin.
"If you're not there then there's no one to see," Pete answers cleverly and Jon chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest and making Pete's hands shake in his hair and on his back.
Besides the tender laugh, Jon doesn't say anything because he doesn't feel that he has to. He pushes his hand inside Pete's jeans as he thrusts down against his thigh, a groan ripping from his own throat as his fingers grip Pete's cock and stroke in a fluid motion, up and down.
Pete's hips jerk up and he's had plenty of hand jobs before, but he thinks it's the calluses in conjunction to Jon's ease that has his eyes rolling into the back of his head. He grips Jon's shoulders with both hands, nails biting at his skin, and says, "I'm not gonna last if you keep it up."
Jon would laugh if Pete didn't look so serious, so he nods and lets his hand slide back up, thumb caressing the bartskull on Pete's abdomen before moving to pull his jeans down. If Jon didn't love the jeans so much, he'd probably suggest Pete never wear the tiny pants ever again, but considering he looks so hot in them, Jon doesn't mind the extra minutes to getting them off. He saves time, though, by hauling Pete's boxers with them, their lips locked together in another deep, slow kiss that Jon steers away from heated and desperate.
Jon lifts himself onto his knees and unbuttons his jeans, pushing them off first before Pete's hands do the rest and shove at the cotton of his boxers. He smiles and stares down at Pete, kissing the corner of his lips as he cup his cheek for a moment and lets his fingers assess the fine structure of Pete's jaw.
"You know, there's no rush," Jon says and he can almost feel Pete flush red, heat high in his cheeks.
Pete doesn't reply, but he feels his heart swell and he thinks he could very well be in love with Jon if he's not careful. He never gets attached during sex, let alone foreplay, but this is shaping up to be so much more. Hell, the guy took the time to tell him he tastes like Christmas, surely a detail Gabe would've never called out.
Jon thinks there's certain haste with everything Pete does, though, and while he's lying on top of him, sort of calling the shots, he knows how to compromise and he does. He says, "Do you have lube?" and when Pete nods, he smiles and kisses at his bottom lip, tugging on it briefly before he lets go and moves so Pete can go find it.
It takes Pete nearly four minutes to locate it and when he finally does, it's in the pocket of the jeans he was going to wear that night, but didn't. He hands the small tube over to Jon and lays himself back down beneath Jon, stretching his body out and blinking up as Jon moves back on top of him, carefully knocking his thighs apart.
Pete says, "How – Do you - Am I okay?" like it matters, like it's ever mattered.
Jon nods his head and presses his lips to Pete's and mumbles, "Perfect." He gets an answering smile against his own and he twists the cap on the lube, producing some on his fingers.
Jon's heard the stories and knows Pete's no virgin, so he doesn't quite feel bad when he pushes a finger inside Pete relatively quickly, have because it moves easily and he has no protests from Pete. Instead, he gets a tiny groan and watches Pete writhe just below him, still cast in the shadow because Jon's body blocks out the light. He pushes in a second finger without letting too much time past, drives them deep, and hooks them in a way he hopes is successful.
It takes him a few tries – Pete's a tricky little fucker, it turns out – but he finally locates his prostate and by the time he pushes his third finger in against the spot, Pete's whimpering and shaking and Jon's amazed that he's doing this to Pete fucking Wentz because he's fairly sure no one's had Pete the way he has him right then.
"Jon. Jon, c'mon. Fuck," Pete breathes, his brown eyes opening for just a few moments before they roll. He's trying to warn Jon – a little ineffectively – but with another low laugh, Jon gets the hint.
Pete's legs spread wider and bend at the knee as Jon works more lube over his own throbbing cock, feeling it pulse in his hand as he thumbs at the head and bites down hard on his bottom lip. He's leaking already and he knows he has no hope of lasting long, but he's still going to try. He's not that concerned anyways; Pete's in much the same state as he is.
"Ready?" Jon asks, his hand slipping over Pete's knee and pushing up his thigh to one sharp hip, his hand gripping it tightly, mostly to steady himself.
Pete says, "Yeah," and nods his head, his brown eyes wide, but without one hint of fright because he's not afraid. He's not afraid or hurt or indifferent. He feels safe and it's new, but it spreads out across Pete's chest and keeps him affectionate as his fingers slide over the sides of Jon's neck to tangle in his hair at the nape of his neck.
Jon makes quick work of what's left, pushing inside Pete in an easy motion. He might not be as big as Gabe, as controlling as Ashlee, or drunk as William, but he feels like Jon and Chicago and all the little things Pete loves and feels loved in return. His body's bigger and cages Pete in, but it's secure and strangely innocent and Pete smiles, sighs out of relief as his back arches naturally and his head presses back against the bed.
They aren't quick thrusts, they're unhurried and measured to make them both feel good, and Jon's arms lock at either side of Pete's head. He can feel Pete's breath against his wrists as he pants hotly from side to side and he bites down hard on his lower lip as he works his body up and inside Pete, giving muffled groans in appropriate places. Pete's tight and hot and Jon can't stop looking at him, the way his face is kind of serene and content. Jon wonders if he always looks like this or if this is special, and he's hoping it's the latter.
Pete breathes, "Jon," and Jon's arms nearly give out at the sound. It doesn't even really sound like his name when it's said that way. It sounds wholesome and needed and wanted and kind of hot and Jon doesn't think he's any of those things on a regular basis.
"Shit, Pete." Jon's forehead drops to Pete's shoulder and he picks up the faint traces of Bone Daddy Pete wears, along with sweat that they're both building up from exertion. Neither is a turn off and Jon licks the hollow that develops just over Pete's collarbone before sucking a mark into his tan skin to keep himself quiet.
Jon's hips never change from the motion they're in. Every thrust is deep and slow and Pete can feel his orgasm in the pit of his stomach. He can feel it in the very tips of his toes and at the top of his head and when Jon gives another buck, this time at a new angle, he can feel the tip of Jon's cock push in against his prostate. There aren't stars, but there are certainly fireworks, and Pete moans loudly, crying, "There," with his eyes crushed shut and Jon can't do anything but nod.
Pete's thinking about jerking himself off, but Jon beats him to it, his fingers wrapping snug around Pete's dick as he strokes him the same way he had been before Pete had shut him off from it with a forewarning. It matches the movement of his hips – slow, but strong and Pete alternates his hips between Jon's hand and pushing against Jon's cock, making soft, appreciative noises in his throat before he loses control and moans loudly around his full lip caught between his teeth.
Pete explodes and comes over Jon's hand and his stomach before Jon even has the chance to nail his prostate more than three times. He thinks he could be embarrassed by the lack of stamina, but somehow, he's not, and as he wraps his legs snug around Jon's waist, hauling him deep for what remains of his orgasm, Pete thinks for the first time, "This is making love."
Jon comes with low grunt against Pete's shoulder, his hips pushed all the way forward and his face tipping to bury into Pete's neck, panting warmly against the slight stubble along Pete's jaw. He collapses down, slowly crumpling so he won't harm Pete by just falling on him, and they lay like that for first five minutes, then ten, and by the time fifteen rolls around, Jon pushes himself up and pulls out, shifting off to the side.
Pete doesn't speak and neither does Jon. It's not that they're afraid to, but neither of them feel words will do anything justice, not even Pete, who's supposed to be the master of twisted phrases and metaphors. Hemingway's still asleep with Pete's shirt over his head and Pete smiles as he turns to his side and hikes his thigh back up across Jon's waist, both hands pillowed beneath his cheek.
"Still feel like Christmas?" Jon asks, his head turning to look at Pete with brown eyes that are almost as warm as Jon always claims Pete are.
Pete thinks for a moment, really thinks, and then smiles, shaking his head. "No. Fourth of July."
Jon raises his eyebrows with a small chuckle, wrapping an arm around Pete and rubbing his hand from his shoulder down his arm and then back up again. "Why's that?"
Jon happens in New York after a few casual drinks, pictures, and the invitation to see Hemingway back at the Westin.
The make love in Pete's penthouse suite and there are fireworks.