fic: Let The Record Show
Title Let The Record Show
Authors adellyna & wishpaper
Pairing Pete/Patrick
Rating NC-17
Word Count 4700
Summary Van days, Patrick maybe gets a little drunk. Pete's mama didn't raise no fool. Also, video camera shenanigans.
Disclaimer We respect the rights of celebrities to have privacy in all of their personal dealings and in no way allege the following to be true. Also, we like to make up porn about them. \o/
Authors' Notes Thanks to maleyka for the beta!!
Warnings Van days, so Patrick is a teenager of unspecified legality. Also, it's dubcon by the loosest possible definition of the term.
It's Pete's fault. He knows it is, because he's the one who handed Patrick the cup - some stolen Pizza Hut cup, dark red and dripping - and said, "Iced tea," when Patrick asked what it was. Which wasn't a lie, but he maybe could have mentioned the regional origin of this particular type of iced tea before Patrick downed half the glass, wiped his mouth off and said, "Thanks. Fuck, I'm thirsty."
So yeah, Patrick probably didn't mean to be drunk, but he kind of is now. Drunk, and maybe a little unsteady on his feet, enough so that he is leaning on Pete for balance. Pete is basically okay with this.
It doesn't hurt that there's this really interesting Patrick + Alcohol phenomenon. He gets... pinker. Which happens all the time on his cheeks, but which Pete did not actually know was possible on, like, his lips.
"You got me drunk," Patrick accuses. He's laughing, though, drawing lines with his nose through the sweat on Pete's neck, and his breath is fast and hard, it hits the little pool of wet at the base of Pete's throat, tickles his pulse.
"You got yourself drunk," Pete counters easily. "I'm taking you back to the van because I'm a good friend and a responsible adult."
Patrick actually giggles. He does, and Pete's sure, because just when he's telling himself he imagined it, Patrick does it again.
"Are you going to tuck me in? Read me a bedtime story?"
"No." As a general rule of thumb, Pete doesn't lie to Patrick. He doesn't think this is a good time to start. "I'm going to put my dick in your mouth. And then I'm going to fuck you."
Patrick giggles again. Pete doesn't know if it's because he's at the point of inebriation where everything is funny, especially penises, or if he actually thinks that the idea of having Pete's dick in any part of him is that hilarious. Pete's pulling for the former, because it'd be too hard to tell his libido that no, they cannot have that perfect fucking shiny pair of lips that keep dragging on Pete's neck.
"Hey look," Pete says. "The van. Get in."
Patrick doesn't really climb in as much as fall in, sprawling on the floor that's a mess of sleeping bags and pillows and dirty clothes. Pete gets in after him and pulls the door shut, locks it. Patrick blinks owlishly up at him.
"What if Andy and Joe want to come in?" he asks.
Patrick, it seems, has not quite grasped the concept yet.
"If the van's a-rocking," Pete says lightly, wrapping his fingers around Patrick's hips and tugging him up, onto his knees, forward. "They know what to do. Come here."
He can't exactly remember where the camera is, but he thinks it's somewhere in Andy's bag ("The only bag," Andy said, "That is not in dire need of a HAZMAT team"), and he's pretty sure he'll be able to find it while Patrick figures out things like gross motor function and the fine art of walking on your knees.
"What are you looking for?" Patrick asks from facedown in the sleeping bags. His third fall, but after a good eleven inch stretch of knee-hobbling, so. He's learning.
Pete tosses the answer back idly over his shoulder, fingers closing over cold plastic in time for him to turn and grin the last of it at Patrick. "The camera."
Patrick blinks at Pete for a moment, then scrunches up his face, nose crinkling. "Peeete," he says. "I'm not very photogenic, you know."
Pete personally thinks that Patrick is very photogenic. "Whatever, dude, you're a fuckin' rock star." He turns the camera toward Patrick, hits the power button, squints at him through the viewfinder. "Hotness is pre-programmed into your veins."
Patrick flips him off, waving the finger in the general vicinity of the camera lens. "You're biased," he mumbles. "Biased biased biased."
"And you're drunk drunk drunk and hot hot hot." Pete grins.
"Maaaaaaybe," Patrick sings, grinning back. "But what's with the camera?"
It's not really all that hard to undo a zipper with one hand. Especially not when you have just over five feet of incentive beaming at you from the floor of a shitty, dented up van, with streetlights filtering in through dust, and the distant sound of a party making your blood throb.
"I told you," he says, zooming out just a little, enough, sucking his stomach in so he can shove his pants down around his thighs. "My dick. Your mouth. Let's go."
Patrick laughs; it's not a giggle this time, it's a full throated Patrick-laugh. Through the viewfinder, Pete sees his dick twitch, and that? That is weird.
"Seriously?" Patrick asks. "Because I'm not-"
"Enough talking." His hand looks funny on the screen, too small, he can't figure out where to aim it, so he lowers the camera and looks right at Patrick when he fists his hand in Patrick's hair and drags his head down, bumps his cock against Patrick's shiny, pink, obscenely swollen mouth. "More sucking. Less words."
"Fewer words," Patrick corrects. "The correct-"
Pete takes this opportunity to jerk his hips up, push his cock between Patrick's lips.
Fuck, and zoom in a little.
And, okay, it's a little bit surreal, watching through the viewfinder, his fingers tangled in Patrick's hair, the brim of Patrick's hat cocked to the side. Patrick makes this surprised noise, something between an 'mmm' and an 'oh', and, fuck. It's, like, fucking interactive porn. Pete tugs on Patrick's hair so he tilts his chin a little to the side, so the camera can see his mouth better. That fucking hat's in the way, and if Pete had a free hand--
"Pete," Patrick says--or tries to say, it's all garbled with Pete's cock in his mouth. The vibrations of his voice send jolts up Pete's spine, and he pushes in further, cupping his hand firmly on the back of Patrick's neck.
"Shhh," Pete says, wondering vaguely if the sound of his grin will translate on tape. "Shush, the camera loves you, do your thing, movie-star."
Patrick grins back at him; his lips are already stretched tight, so it's more the scrunch of his eyes that gives it away, the familiar roundness of his cheeks. Pete's about to say something else, encouragement, maybe, but Patrick lifts his head a little, nods his chin up and laps at the head of Pete's cock.
Pete says, "Fuck," really loud, too loud, and almost drops the camera. "Again." He bucks his hips up, feels the sharp edge of Patrick's teeth against the slit, but doesn't care. "Fuck. Do that again."
If he were more sober, Patrick would probably be a fucking cocktease and, like, do something else. But he's luckily drunk enough to be malleable, and he does it again.
"Fuuuuck," Pete groans, the ck catching hard in the back of his throat. He repositions the camera, gets a better grip on it, zooms in on Patrick's shiny, shiny lips around his cock. "I don't know what your mouth is better for, man, singing or fucking."
Patrick makes a muffled noise, probably a vote in favor of singing, but at the moment Pete's inclined to disagree with that. He tightens his fingers in the hair at the nape of Patrick's neck, pulling his head in closer. "Yeah, I'm going to fuck your mouth now, okay?"
What is probably intended to be a noise of protest turns out to be just what it takes to open Patrick's throat enough that Pete can buck up. He slides his hand higher, knocking off Patrick's hat, and winds sweaty chunks of red-gold around his fingers while Patrick's mouth slides down his dick, wet, impossibly hot, pulsing with whatever it is Patrick's trying to say.
Pete loosens his grip on Patrick's hair, lets his hips hit the floor of the van, and catches the first part of his name, thick, "Pe-" before he shoves up again, eyes slitted open, bracing the camera on his stomach so he doesn't lose the view.
The video's probably going to end up shaky, but Pete doesn't really give a shit. Patrick's jaw is loose, just taking the insistent thrusting of Pete's hips, and Pete curses under his breath "fuck, Patrick, fuck" every time he feels the head of his cock push against the back of Patrick's throat. Pete pushes up hard, and Patrick chokes a little, making a tight noise around Pete--Pete lets him pull away for half a second to breathe before pushing his head down again. The tip of Pete's cock hits the corner of Patrick's mouth, smears pre-come there, before disappearing between Patrick's lips again.
"Yeah," Pete says, breathless. He manhandles the camera around to face him, grins a grin that feels vaguely manic into the lens. "You're jealous, right? I'd be so fucking jealous."
Patrick pushes back against Pete's hand to get his mouth free. "You're not gonna show this to people, Pete," he says, words thick with swollen lips and alcohol. Pete can barely register them over the shiny wetness of Patrick's mouth, anyway.
"I'll be jealous of myself when I jerk off to it later," Pete says, turning the camera back on Patrick.
"You could jerk off now," Patrick suggests.
He fists Pete's dick - soft palms, rough fingers, holy shit - and strokes once, twice, bending forward to tongue the slit in rhythm. Drummer's tempo, guitarist's hands, singer's mouth, and all of it Pete's. Well, until the tequila wears off, anyway.
"No," Pete says, grinning widely, bucking into Patrick's hand a little. "You were sucking me off, remember?"
"Mmmm. I have to sing tomorrow. You're fucking my throat."
"Kind of the idea," Pete points out. He zooms out on the camera, gets Patrick's eyes in the frame (glazed), and his hair (messy). "Unless you want to lie down and spread your legs, then I can fuck something else."
"Classy," Patrick mumbles, mouthing lazily at the head of Pete's cock in a way that makes Pete really want to fuck his throat raw, show or no show tomorrow. He gets the lift of his own hips in the frame, tries to push his dick back into Patrick's mouth, but Patrick just leans back and grins at him.
"Fuck you," says Pete. Patrick tilts his head, lifts his eyebrows, licks Pete's cock.
Pete's hips jerk. "You know, this is going to be a really lame porno if something doesn't start getting fucked real soon." His voice is a little bit strained.
"Oh no, we can't have a lame porno," says Patrick, deadpan, fucking smirking, and Pete thinks it is perfectly natural to take that as a go-ahead to sit up and push Patrick down to the floor on his back.
It's a relatively flat surface, but Patrick manages to roll anyway, crunching someone's Gameboy under his head, half on Joe's sleeping bag, half on the Astroturf under it. There's not enough room for his foot - his toes are pressed against an orphaned amp case - and his knee is hiked up. He just lies there, grinning up at Pete, kicking faintly at Pete's thigh.
"Here." Pete hands off the camera, presses it into Patrick's slow, spit-slippery fingers. "You can film me getting you naked. For posterity, and shit."
"I don't want to be naked," Patrick says mildly. One of his fingers is obstructing the lens; Pete reaches over and adjusts them, tucks Patrick's thumb against the bottom of the camera.
"But I want you to be naked."
Patrick lifts his hips when Pete gets his jeans unbuttoned, starts tugging them down. He's pliant, slurring half-articulated protests, but still filming, raising his foot so Pete can yank his shoe off, kicking his legs a little to help Pete work his jeans off his thighs, giggling when they have to lift his left leg up straight in the air to get it out of the way of the amp case that's eating up all of Patrick's leg room enough to pull the denim off, toss it to the side.
"You can leave your shirt on," Pete graciously allows.
"Yeah?"
Pete grins and fists his hands in the fabric, shoves it up around Patrick's ribs, and tongues a lazy loop around his bellybutton. "No, I lied. Gimme the camera and take it off."
Patrick blinks slowly at him, pursing his lips thoughtfully, and then pulls the camera back toward himself, squinting into the viewfinder toward Pete. "Why can't you be naked? I want my hat back."
"Dude, you're the star of this film, you get to be the naked one." Pete splays his fingers over Patrick's pale inner thighs, pushes them apart. Patrick's half-hard, and if Pete didn't already have epic plans for the direction of this short film, he would totally suck him off.
"Ooh, hey, I can zoom," Patrick says, brightening. "Look, everyone, it's Pete's dick."
"My dick is not as aesthetically appealing as your mouth," says Pete, making a grab for the camera. "Or, my dick would be more aesthetically appealing if it was in your ass. Hey, fuck you, gimme." Patrick is grinning and holding the camera out of reach, and he looks like he thinks he is being absolutely hilarious. Which, no.
"What's yours is miiine, Pete," Patrick says. And yeah, he's drunk-clumsy and shorter than Pete, but he's also stubborn as fuck and wiggly like a snake, and Pete can't seem to get the fucking camera from him, not without risking knees in places that would stop filming dead in its tracks. "You have to give a little to get a little."
Plus, the twisting, blurred views of the van's ceiling are probably not going to help get him off later, so he stops trying. "What the fuck does that even mean?"
"It means," grandly, with the camera still and back in play, Patrick flushed and smug. "That I will take off my shirt if you take off your shirt."
Pete considers. If by "consider" you mean "rips his shirt over his head and snatches the newly-refocused camera out of Patrick's hands." This will mean skin against skin, anyway, his hands on Patrick's belly, dark against perfect, pale shoulders, arms.
"Done," he says triumphantly. "Get naked."
Patrick hands over the camera, nearly dropping it in his lap (which is a close up, but maybe closer up than Pete's going for), and Pete only just manages to get it up and point it at the arch of Patrick's back when he squirms out of his shirt, the fine, narrow bumps of his ribs, the gorgeous fucking line of his throat when he bows his head back.
Okay, so, it might be cheesy, but Pete thinks it is totally appropriate to do the slow pan up and down now-naked Patrick, squirming on the floor where he doesn't quite have room to stretch out, his shirt still tangled around one arm that's smushed between his head and a box of merch.
Patrick frowns, peering straight into the camera. "I still want my hat back."
"Hat does not equal naked," says Pete, angling the camera down to film himself lazily fisting Patrick's cock.
Patrick makes a noise in his throat, "nnngh," and pushes his hips up into Pete's hand. "M'just saying, for the record," he mumbles, reaching down to cover Pete's fingers with his, trying to make Pete's grip tighter.
"Well, I'm gonna fuck you so hard it'd fall off anyway." Pete grins down at him.
"Are you going to get lube first?" Patrick asks, bucking into the narrow, dry circle of their hands. "Or are you pretending I'm a chick? Because it doesn't matter how lazily you jerk me off, I'm not going to get wet here, you know."
No, hey, lube. Lube is a good idea. Lube is. Um. Lube is... fuck, where is the lube? Pete bites his lip, tries to remember- there's an empty bottle of Wet in his bag, but he's been scraping the inside of the bottle for a week, just to get enough to ease the rub of it. Joe might have some, but Pete would rather drink his own piss than go digging around in Joe's bag. And Andy... Andy's lube is probably organic, with strawberry seeds still in it or something.
"Fuck," he whispers.
He's leaking precome, which is enough to swipe his fingers through for a quick layer, just the right amount of slick to press his middle finger into Patrick, but is definitely not enough to fuck him with with.
Patrick's hips leave the floor of the van when Pete twists his finger up, curls it back toward himself. "Fuck fuck fuck," he pants, arching under Pete's hands, thighs bumping Pete's knees as he tries to spread his legs. "Pete."
"Lube, Patrick." Pete points the camera down at his finger, the slow, steady thrust of it, but he's watching Patrick's face, his open mouth, his darkening cheeks. "Where is it?"
Patrick frowns in concentration, eyes scrunching almost-closed. "You--" he starts, then his mouth opens in a silent oh as he writhes on Pete's finger. "--so not a boyscout. My bag, inside pocket," he finishes breathlessly.
Patrick's bag is far too far away. As in, Pete actually has to pull his finger out--Patrick whines--and stretch over toward the other side of the van to grab it, rifle around in it until he finds the half-empty tube and squeezes some out on his fingers.
"Okay," he says, "okay, now we're in business," and repositions the camera to watch as he pushes two slick fingers into Patrick, to watch the tight stretch of skin and the upward cant of Patrick's hips.
"Fuck," says Patrick. Pete wishes they had, like, a fucking camera crew, so he could film Patrick's face and Patrick's ass at the same time. Because, fuck.
Patrick is reading ready like a book, teeth in his lip, eyes rolling back in his head. The van creaks a little every time he shoves down, trying to fuck Pete's hand, and Pete would seriously like nothing more than to be balls-deep in him, like, right the fuck now, drinking every little noise Patrick makes, but there is definitely not enough give around his fingers yet.
"Please," Patrick moans. He shifts, wraps his left leg around Pete's back and tries to tug him closer. "Pete, please."
Which is. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck, yes. "Not yet."
Pete points the camera up at Patrick's face. He has to hunch down a little to check the viewfinder, make sure that it's getting more than just the shadow under Patrick's jaw, that it's getting glazed eyes and shiny lips, wet hair fanned across Patrick's forehead.
"Ask nicely," Pete orders. "Tell the camera what you want."
"I want you to shut up and fuck me," Patrick says through gritted teeth, and digs his heel in next to Pete's spine.
"You are so fucking hot." Pete grins, zooming out to get all of Patrick's upper body in the frame, sweat-shiny skin and the rise-and-fall of his chest with deep breaths.
Patrick makes an annoyed noise and bucks hard against Pete's fingers. "Let the record show that Pete Wentz is awesome at talking, but fails to deliver," he dictates to the camera, waving an accusing finger in Pete's general direction.
"Dude, fuck you," Pete says, and twists his fingers inside Patrick, pushes a third one in, drawing a groan out of him.
"That-- fuck. That's what I'm saying, shithead."
And really, keeping the lead singer happy is an important part of intra-band dynamics, Pete's known this for years, so it just makes sense to work his fingers out of Patrick and hastily dump more lube into his palm.
"Seriously," he mumbles, pointing the camera down at his thighs, at his hand spreading slick lube over his seriously, achingly, painfully hard dick. "I'm gonna fuck you through the floor. And then the pavement."
"Straight through to China?" Patrick asks, a little breathless, voice hitching. Pete looks up, and Patrick has his hand wrapped around his own cock, lazily stroking.
Pete almost sprains something, he yanks the camera into place so fast. "To China," he breathes, eyes glued to the viewfinder. "I'll buy you fried rice. Orange flavored cat. It'll be awesome."
"What'll be awesome," Patrick says. "Is if you'd get with the fucking program and fuck me already. I just had your dick in my mouth, it's not that b- holy shit." His back comes up off the floor again, which is both rewarding and excruciatingly hot, especially in that it shoves hips down enough to get the last couple of inches in, the ones Pete couldn't manage on his first, solid shove.
"Yeah?" Pete zooms in on Patrick's hand, clenched tight on his cock, then jerks the camera to focus on the other, twisting the slippery fabric of Joe's sleeping bag out of shape. "You like that?"
"Yeah," gasps Patrick, "yeah, fuck, yes."
And now Pete is faced with the worst dilemma in the history of sex, ever. He could keep filming, but he really wants to press his hands into Patrick's hips to hold him down and fuck him hard, and he can't do that with a camera in his hand. But also, not recording this to keep forever--Patrick all flushed and sweaty and needy under Pete--has got to be a deadly sin in some religion, somewhere.
"Pete, fucking move." Patrick's voice is tight, his hips grinding insistently into Pete even though he's in as far as he can go.
"I just-- okay, hold the fuck on," Pete says, and reaches over to wedge the camera between Patrick's bag and Joe's pillow, at an angle that he really hopes is getting all the good stuff, here, and finally, finally gets his hands on Patrick's hips, digs his fingers in and fucks him. Hard. To fucking China.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Patrick is cursing under his breath, his head thrown back, his throat so smooth and shiny that Pete has lean down and press his teeth against it, taste it, drag his tongue down the streaks of sweat.
Pete would agree, would answer back with much the same, but he can't get the words out past the tightness in his chest. His head is spinny, vision gone grainy, and his stomach is so heavy and hot it feels like all of the blood in his body is draining there, trying to shove into his dick and see what all the commotion is.
He locks his teeth around Patrick's pulse, instead, jerks Patrick's hips toward his dick twice, three times, until Patrick gets it and wraps his free leg around Pete's waist, locking his ankles together.
Pete manages to squeeze out a, "Jesus," and then a, "Fuck," because apparently his dick is that big, and they could have done with another minute or six with three fingers stretching Patrick. As it is, he's past just shy of too tight - all hot and slick around every viciously sensitive inch of Pete's dick - and they're dragging together every time Pete rocks his hips back, the head of his cock catching under the ridge, too big to pull out smooth.
Patrick moans. Pete feels it under his lips, against his tongue, rattling through Patrick's chest and into Pete's own, so he digs his thumbs in under Patrick's hipbones and lifts a little, angling up, a bit to the left, jerking forward harderfasterdeeper, and then he gets it, must, because Patrick goes tight like strung wire under him, sweaty skin against Pete's, writhing until Pete almost falls off.
"Oh god," Patrick says, his breathing harsh and irregular, "fuck, Pete, fuck--"
Pete doesn't think he would've pegged Patrick as the type to talk a lot. Maybe it's just the alcohol in him, but either way, Pete's definitely not against it. He pushes in again, and again and again, the slap of his hips against Patrick's skin sharp and punctuating between Patrick's words, his gasps every time Pete hits him just right.
"Yeah, fuck," Pete grits out, glances over in the general direction of the camera even though he can't get his eyes to focus on anything but Patrick. It's still there, is the important thing, and it's getting the way Patrick's arching up off the van floor, his mouth open, fisting his own cock as hard as Pete is fucking him, his knuckles and his cock dragging slippery over Pete's stomach.
"You're gonna come first," Pete says, breathless teasing into Patrick's ear. "You're gonna-- fuck, you're gonna come first, motherfucker," not that Pete is far from coming himself or anything, but, fuck, he wants Patrick to come first, hot and sticky between them while Pete's still fucking him.
"Sure," Patrick gasps back, hips stuttering up off the floor. "Fuck me harder, asshole, and maybe I will."
And Pete. He can't, actually. It's not physically possible for him to fuck Patrick any harder. They're already sliding upward, nylon and fake grass slippery against the van's metal floor, Patrick's head at least four inches higher than it was before, and Pete can feel beads of sweat running down his chest, catching on his nipple ring, dripping onto Patrick.
"Harder," Patrick moans, half a sob, the rake of his knuckles over Pete's bellybutton jerky, erratic.
So, yeah, ok, laws of physics be damned, he can totally do this. Pete takes his hands off of Patrick's hips and wraps them under his thighs, instead, shoves his legs up and apart, spreading Patrick open and slamming into him with everything he has, until he can't breathe from it, until he sees Patrick in mosaic, red-gold streak here, ivory blur there. He coughs out Patrick's name, chokes on the first half of it, spits, "'trick," out into the space between them.
And he feels it, the exact moment Patrick spins off the edge, his body going so tight Pete can barely drag his cock out, spasming, heels digging into Pete's shoulders, whining nonsense at the ceiling. He feels it, and he rides it, and then he drops Patrick's legs back down to the floor and folds himself forward again, kisses the last of his name off of Patrick's tongue and shoves in. Rapid, shallow thrusts that are halting, rhythmless, and he's almost there- Patrick's tongue in his mouth, Patrick's hands in his hair, Patrick's stomach slippery and wet where they rub together.
And here's where Pete's got a problem with foresight. Because, while he locked the back door, he didn't lock the front doors. And while he really doesn't have any problem at all with Patrick moaning and swearing while Pete is fucking him, he's not a big fan of Joe's voice cutting through the mood with a loud, traumatized, "OH MY GOD, MY EYES."
Luckily, Joe doesn't need eyes to play the guitar, so Pete doesn't feel the need to stop fucking Patrick, like, at all. Because Pete is so, so close, and Patrick is so tight, and oh god--
"Oh god, my sleeping bag, oh my god--" and there's the jarring sound of the door slamming shut. The van rocks, Patrick laughs gleefully against Pete's mouth, and Pete comes so hard his gut clenches and his hips don't stop moving until at least a minute later, when his brain starts to fizzle back into existence.
"Fuck," Pete breathes, finally lifts his eyes to Patrick's face, flushed and sweaty, lips curved into a grin. "Fuck," he says again, "don't move." He pulls out carefully and reaches over for the camera, still rolling, and sits back to get that on film, panning up from Patrick's spread thighs, Pete's come leaking between them, to Patrick's smeared and streaked on his belly, and up to his stupid, perfect fucking face.
"You're not gonna show this to anyone, Pete," Patrick says again, his voice a little slow and thick.
This, Pete realizes, is what Patrick sounds like after he comes. And he has it on camera. His name in that voice, so yeah.
"No," Pete agrees. He turns the camera off and shoves it in Patrick's open bag, squirms forward so he can tuck his head against Patrick's sweaty throat. "Yeah, no, it's all mine."
Authors adellyna & wishpaper
Pairing Pete/Patrick
Rating NC-17
Word Count 4700
Summary Van days, Patrick maybe gets a little drunk. Pete's mama didn't raise no fool. Also, video camera shenanigans.
Disclaimer We respect the rights of celebrities to have privacy in all of their personal dealings and in no way allege the following to be true. Also, we like to make up porn about them. \o/
Authors' Notes Thanks to maleyka for the beta!!
Warnings Van days, so Patrick is a teenager of unspecified legality. Also, it's dubcon by the loosest possible definition of the term.
It's Pete's fault. He knows it is, because he's the one who handed Patrick the cup - some stolen Pizza Hut cup, dark red and dripping - and said, "Iced tea," when Patrick asked what it was. Which wasn't a lie, but he maybe could have mentioned the regional origin of this particular type of iced tea before Patrick downed half the glass, wiped his mouth off and said, "Thanks. Fuck, I'm thirsty."
So yeah, Patrick probably didn't mean to be drunk, but he kind of is now. Drunk, and maybe a little unsteady on his feet, enough so that he is leaning on Pete for balance. Pete is basically okay with this.
It doesn't hurt that there's this really interesting Patrick + Alcohol phenomenon. He gets... pinker. Which happens all the time on his cheeks, but which Pete did not actually know was possible on, like, his lips.
"You got me drunk," Patrick accuses. He's laughing, though, drawing lines with his nose through the sweat on Pete's neck, and his breath is fast and hard, it hits the little pool of wet at the base of Pete's throat, tickles his pulse.
"You got yourself drunk," Pete counters easily. "I'm taking you back to the van because I'm a good friend and a responsible adult."
Patrick actually giggles. He does, and Pete's sure, because just when he's telling himself he imagined it, Patrick does it again.
"Are you going to tuck me in? Read me a bedtime story?"
"No." As a general rule of thumb, Pete doesn't lie to Patrick. He doesn't think this is a good time to start. "I'm going to put my dick in your mouth. And then I'm going to fuck you."
Patrick giggles again. Pete doesn't know if it's because he's at the point of inebriation where everything is funny, especially penises, or if he actually thinks that the idea of having Pete's dick in any part of him is that hilarious. Pete's pulling for the former, because it'd be too hard to tell his libido that no, they cannot have that perfect fucking shiny pair of lips that keep dragging on Pete's neck.
"Hey look," Pete says. "The van. Get in."
Patrick doesn't really climb in as much as fall in, sprawling on the floor that's a mess of sleeping bags and pillows and dirty clothes. Pete gets in after him and pulls the door shut, locks it. Patrick blinks owlishly up at him.
"What if Andy and Joe want to come in?" he asks.
Patrick, it seems, has not quite grasped the concept yet.
"If the van's a-rocking," Pete says lightly, wrapping his fingers around Patrick's hips and tugging him up, onto his knees, forward. "They know what to do. Come here."
He can't exactly remember where the camera is, but he thinks it's somewhere in Andy's bag ("The only bag," Andy said, "That is not in dire need of a HAZMAT team"), and he's pretty sure he'll be able to find it while Patrick figures out things like gross motor function and the fine art of walking on your knees.
"What are you looking for?" Patrick asks from facedown in the sleeping bags. His third fall, but after a good eleven inch stretch of knee-hobbling, so. He's learning.
Pete tosses the answer back idly over his shoulder, fingers closing over cold plastic in time for him to turn and grin the last of it at Patrick. "The camera."
Patrick blinks at Pete for a moment, then scrunches up his face, nose crinkling. "Peeete," he says. "I'm not very photogenic, you know."
Pete personally thinks that Patrick is very photogenic. "Whatever, dude, you're a fuckin' rock star." He turns the camera toward Patrick, hits the power button, squints at him through the viewfinder. "Hotness is pre-programmed into your veins."
Patrick flips him off, waving the finger in the general vicinity of the camera lens. "You're biased," he mumbles. "Biased biased biased."
"And you're drunk drunk drunk and hot hot hot." Pete grins.
"Maaaaaaybe," Patrick sings, grinning back. "But what's with the camera?"
It's not really all that hard to undo a zipper with one hand. Especially not when you have just over five feet of incentive beaming at you from the floor of a shitty, dented up van, with streetlights filtering in through dust, and the distant sound of a party making your blood throb.
"I told you," he says, zooming out just a little, enough, sucking his stomach in so he can shove his pants down around his thighs. "My dick. Your mouth. Let's go."
Patrick laughs; it's not a giggle this time, it's a full throated Patrick-laugh. Through the viewfinder, Pete sees his dick twitch, and that? That is weird.
"Seriously?" Patrick asks. "Because I'm not-"
"Enough talking." His hand looks funny on the screen, too small, he can't figure out where to aim it, so he lowers the camera and looks right at Patrick when he fists his hand in Patrick's hair and drags his head down, bumps his cock against Patrick's shiny, pink, obscenely swollen mouth. "More sucking. Less words."
"Fewer words," Patrick corrects. "The correct-"
Pete takes this opportunity to jerk his hips up, push his cock between Patrick's lips.
Fuck, and zoom in a little.
And, okay, it's a little bit surreal, watching through the viewfinder, his fingers tangled in Patrick's hair, the brim of Patrick's hat cocked to the side. Patrick makes this surprised noise, something between an 'mmm' and an 'oh', and, fuck. It's, like, fucking interactive porn. Pete tugs on Patrick's hair so he tilts his chin a little to the side, so the camera can see his mouth better. That fucking hat's in the way, and if Pete had a free hand--
"Pete," Patrick says--or tries to say, it's all garbled with Pete's cock in his mouth. The vibrations of his voice send jolts up Pete's spine, and he pushes in further, cupping his hand firmly on the back of Patrick's neck.
"Shhh," Pete says, wondering vaguely if the sound of his grin will translate on tape. "Shush, the camera loves you, do your thing, movie-star."
Patrick grins back at him; his lips are already stretched tight, so it's more the scrunch of his eyes that gives it away, the familiar roundness of his cheeks. Pete's about to say something else, encouragement, maybe, but Patrick lifts his head a little, nods his chin up and laps at the head of Pete's cock.
Pete says, "Fuck," really loud, too loud, and almost drops the camera. "Again." He bucks his hips up, feels the sharp edge of Patrick's teeth against the slit, but doesn't care. "Fuck. Do that again."
If he were more sober, Patrick would probably be a fucking cocktease and, like, do something else. But he's luckily drunk enough to be malleable, and he does it again.
"Fuuuuck," Pete groans, the ck catching hard in the back of his throat. He repositions the camera, gets a better grip on it, zooms in on Patrick's shiny, shiny lips around his cock. "I don't know what your mouth is better for, man, singing or fucking."
Patrick makes a muffled noise, probably a vote in favor of singing, but at the moment Pete's inclined to disagree with that. He tightens his fingers in the hair at the nape of Patrick's neck, pulling his head in closer. "Yeah, I'm going to fuck your mouth now, okay?"
What is probably intended to be a noise of protest turns out to be just what it takes to open Patrick's throat enough that Pete can buck up. He slides his hand higher, knocking off Patrick's hat, and winds sweaty chunks of red-gold around his fingers while Patrick's mouth slides down his dick, wet, impossibly hot, pulsing with whatever it is Patrick's trying to say.
Pete loosens his grip on Patrick's hair, lets his hips hit the floor of the van, and catches the first part of his name, thick, "Pe-" before he shoves up again, eyes slitted open, bracing the camera on his stomach so he doesn't lose the view.
The video's probably going to end up shaky, but Pete doesn't really give a shit. Patrick's jaw is loose, just taking the insistent thrusting of Pete's hips, and Pete curses under his breath "fuck, Patrick, fuck" every time he feels the head of his cock push against the back of Patrick's throat. Pete pushes up hard, and Patrick chokes a little, making a tight noise around Pete--Pete lets him pull away for half a second to breathe before pushing his head down again. The tip of Pete's cock hits the corner of Patrick's mouth, smears pre-come there, before disappearing between Patrick's lips again.
"Yeah," Pete says, breathless. He manhandles the camera around to face him, grins a grin that feels vaguely manic into the lens. "You're jealous, right? I'd be so fucking jealous."
Patrick pushes back against Pete's hand to get his mouth free. "You're not gonna show this to people, Pete," he says, words thick with swollen lips and alcohol. Pete can barely register them over the shiny wetness of Patrick's mouth, anyway.
"I'll be jealous of myself when I jerk off to it later," Pete says, turning the camera back on Patrick.
"You could jerk off now," Patrick suggests.
He fists Pete's dick - soft palms, rough fingers, holy shit - and strokes once, twice, bending forward to tongue the slit in rhythm. Drummer's tempo, guitarist's hands, singer's mouth, and all of it Pete's. Well, until the tequila wears off, anyway.
"No," Pete says, grinning widely, bucking into Patrick's hand a little. "You were sucking me off, remember?"
"Mmmm. I have to sing tomorrow. You're fucking my throat."
"Kind of the idea," Pete points out. He zooms out on the camera, gets Patrick's eyes in the frame (glazed), and his hair (messy). "Unless you want to lie down and spread your legs, then I can fuck something else."
"Classy," Patrick mumbles, mouthing lazily at the head of Pete's cock in a way that makes Pete really want to fuck his throat raw, show or no show tomorrow. He gets the lift of his own hips in the frame, tries to push his dick back into Patrick's mouth, but Patrick just leans back and grins at him.
"Fuck you," says Pete. Patrick tilts his head, lifts his eyebrows, licks Pete's cock.
Pete's hips jerk. "You know, this is going to be a really lame porno if something doesn't start getting fucked real soon." His voice is a little bit strained.
"Oh no, we can't have a lame porno," says Patrick, deadpan, fucking smirking, and Pete thinks it is perfectly natural to take that as a go-ahead to sit up and push Patrick down to the floor on his back.
It's a relatively flat surface, but Patrick manages to roll anyway, crunching someone's Gameboy under his head, half on Joe's sleeping bag, half on the Astroturf under it. There's not enough room for his foot - his toes are pressed against an orphaned amp case - and his knee is hiked up. He just lies there, grinning up at Pete, kicking faintly at Pete's thigh.
"Here." Pete hands off the camera, presses it into Patrick's slow, spit-slippery fingers. "You can film me getting you naked. For posterity, and shit."
"I don't want to be naked," Patrick says mildly. One of his fingers is obstructing the lens; Pete reaches over and adjusts them, tucks Patrick's thumb against the bottom of the camera.
"But I want you to be naked."
Patrick lifts his hips when Pete gets his jeans unbuttoned, starts tugging them down. He's pliant, slurring half-articulated protests, but still filming, raising his foot so Pete can yank his shoe off, kicking his legs a little to help Pete work his jeans off his thighs, giggling when they have to lift his left leg up straight in the air to get it out of the way of the amp case that's eating up all of Patrick's leg room enough to pull the denim off, toss it to the side.
"You can leave your shirt on," Pete graciously allows.
"Yeah?"
Pete grins and fists his hands in the fabric, shoves it up around Patrick's ribs, and tongues a lazy loop around his bellybutton. "No, I lied. Gimme the camera and take it off."
Patrick blinks slowly at him, pursing his lips thoughtfully, and then pulls the camera back toward himself, squinting into the viewfinder toward Pete. "Why can't you be naked? I want my hat back."
"Dude, you're the star of this film, you get to be the naked one." Pete splays his fingers over Patrick's pale inner thighs, pushes them apart. Patrick's half-hard, and if Pete didn't already have epic plans for the direction of this short film, he would totally suck him off.
"Ooh, hey, I can zoom," Patrick says, brightening. "Look, everyone, it's Pete's dick."
"My dick is not as aesthetically appealing as your mouth," says Pete, making a grab for the camera. "Or, my dick would be more aesthetically appealing if it was in your ass. Hey, fuck you, gimme." Patrick is grinning and holding the camera out of reach, and he looks like he thinks he is being absolutely hilarious. Which, no.
"What's yours is miiine, Pete," Patrick says. And yeah, he's drunk-clumsy and shorter than Pete, but he's also stubborn as fuck and wiggly like a snake, and Pete can't seem to get the fucking camera from him, not without risking knees in places that would stop filming dead in its tracks. "You have to give a little to get a little."
Plus, the twisting, blurred views of the van's ceiling are probably not going to help get him off later, so he stops trying. "What the fuck does that even mean?"
"It means," grandly, with the camera still and back in play, Patrick flushed and smug. "That I will take off my shirt if you take off your shirt."
Pete considers. If by "consider" you mean "rips his shirt over his head and snatches the newly-refocused camera out of Patrick's hands." This will mean skin against skin, anyway, his hands on Patrick's belly, dark against perfect, pale shoulders, arms.
"Done," he says triumphantly. "Get naked."
Patrick hands over the camera, nearly dropping it in his lap (which is a close up, but maybe closer up than Pete's going for), and Pete only just manages to get it up and point it at the arch of Patrick's back when he squirms out of his shirt, the fine, narrow bumps of his ribs, the gorgeous fucking line of his throat when he bows his head back.
Okay, so, it might be cheesy, but Pete thinks it is totally appropriate to do the slow pan up and down now-naked Patrick, squirming on the floor where he doesn't quite have room to stretch out, his shirt still tangled around one arm that's smushed between his head and a box of merch.
Patrick frowns, peering straight into the camera. "I still want my hat back."
"Hat does not equal naked," says Pete, angling the camera down to film himself lazily fisting Patrick's cock.
Patrick makes a noise in his throat, "nnngh," and pushes his hips up into Pete's hand. "M'just saying, for the record," he mumbles, reaching down to cover Pete's fingers with his, trying to make Pete's grip tighter.
"Well, I'm gonna fuck you so hard it'd fall off anyway." Pete grins down at him.
"Are you going to get lube first?" Patrick asks, bucking into the narrow, dry circle of their hands. "Or are you pretending I'm a chick? Because it doesn't matter how lazily you jerk me off, I'm not going to get wet here, you know."
No, hey, lube. Lube is a good idea. Lube is. Um. Lube is... fuck, where is the lube? Pete bites his lip, tries to remember- there's an empty bottle of Wet in his bag, but he's been scraping the inside of the bottle for a week, just to get enough to ease the rub of it. Joe might have some, but Pete would rather drink his own piss than go digging around in Joe's bag. And Andy... Andy's lube is probably organic, with strawberry seeds still in it or something.
"Fuck," he whispers.
He's leaking precome, which is enough to swipe his fingers through for a quick layer, just the right amount of slick to press his middle finger into Patrick, but is definitely not enough to fuck him with with.
Patrick's hips leave the floor of the van when Pete twists his finger up, curls it back toward himself. "Fuck fuck fuck," he pants, arching under Pete's hands, thighs bumping Pete's knees as he tries to spread his legs. "Pete."
"Lube, Patrick." Pete points the camera down at his finger, the slow, steady thrust of it, but he's watching Patrick's face, his open mouth, his darkening cheeks. "Where is it?"
Patrick frowns in concentration, eyes scrunching almost-closed. "You--" he starts, then his mouth opens in a silent oh as he writhes on Pete's finger. "--so not a boyscout. My bag, inside pocket," he finishes breathlessly.
Patrick's bag is far too far away. As in, Pete actually has to pull his finger out--Patrick whines--and stretch over toward the other side of the van to grab it, rifle around in it until he finds the half-empty tube and squeezes some out on his fingers.
"Okay," he says, "okay, now we're in business," and repositions the camera to watch as he pushes two slick fingers into Patrick, to watch the tight stretch of skin and the upward cant of Patrick's hips.
"Fuck," says Patrick. Pete wishes they had, like, a fucking camera crew, so he could film Patrick's face and Patrick's ass at the same time. Because, fuck.
Patrick is reading ready like a book, teeth in his lip, eyes rolling back in his head. The van creaks a little every time he shoves down, trying to fuck Pete's hand, and Pete would seriously like nothing more than to be balls-deep in him, like, right the fuck now, drinking every little noise Patrick makes, but there is definitely not enough give around his fingers yet.
"Please," Patrick moans. He shifts, wraps his left leg around Pete's back and tries to tug him closer. "Pete, please."
Which is. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck, yes. "Not yet."
Pete points the camera up at Patrick's face. He has to hunch down a little to check the viewfinder, make sure that it's getting more than just the shadow under Patrick's jaw, that it's getting glazed eyes and shiny lips, wet hair fanned across Patrick's forehead.
"Ask nicely," Pete orders. "Tell the camera what you want."
"I want you to shut up and fuck me," Patrick says through gritted teeth, and digs his heel in next to Pete's spine.
"You are so fucking hot." Pete grins, zooming out to get all of Patrick's upper body in the frame, sweat-shiny skin and the rise-and-fall of his chest with deep breaths.
Patrick makes an annoyed noise and bucks hard against Pete's fingers. "Let the record show that Pete Wentz is awesome at talking, but fails to deliver," he dictates to the camera, waving an accusing finger in Pete's general direction.
"Dude, fuck you," Pete says, and twists his fingers inside Patrick, pushes a third one in, drawing a groan out of him.
"That-- fuck. That's what I'm saying, shithead."
And really, keeping the lead singer happy is an important part of intra-band dynamics, Pete's known this for years, so it just makes sense to work his fingers out of Patrick and hastily dump more lube into his palm.
"Seriously," he mumbles, pointing the camera down at his thighs, at his hand spreading slick lube over his seriously, achingly, painfully hard dick. "I'm gonna fuck you through the floor. And then the pavement."
"Straight through to China?" Patrick asks, a little breathless, voice hitching. Pete looks up, and Patrick has his hand wrapped around his own cock, lazily stroking.
Pete almost sprains something, he yanks the camera into place so fast. "To China," he breathes, eyes glued to the viewfinder. "I'll buy you fried rice. Orange flavored cat. It'll be awesome."
"What'll be awesome," Patrick says. "Is if you'd get with the fucking program and fuck me already. I just had your dick in my mouth, it's not that b- holy shit." His back comes up off the floor again, which is both rewarding and excruciatingly hot, especially in that it shoves hips down enough to get the last couple of inches in, the ones Pete couldn't manage on his first, solid shove.
"Yeah?" Pete zooms in on Patrick's hand, clenched tight on his cock, then jerks the camera to focus on the other, twisting the slippery fabric of Joe's sleeping bag out of shape. "You like that?"
"Yeah," gasps Patrick, "yeah, fuck, yes."
And now Pete is faced with the worst dilemma in the history of sex, ever. He could keep filming, but he really wants to press his hands into Patrick's hips to hold him down and fuck him hard, and he can't do that with a camera in his hand. But also, not recording this to keep forever--Patrick all flushed and sweaty and needy under Pete--has got to be a deadly sin in some religion, somewhere.
"Pete, fucking move." Patrick's voice is tight, his hips grinding insistently into Pete even though he's in as far as he can go.
"I just-- okay, hold the fuck on," Pete says, and reaches over to wedge the camera between Patrick's bag and Joe's pillow, at an angle that he really hopes is getting all the good stuff, here, and finally, finally gets his hands on Patrick's hips, digs his fingers in and fucks him. Hard. To fucking China.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Patrick is cursing under his breath, his head thrown back, his throat so smooth and shiny that Pete has lean down and press his teeth against it, taste it, drag his tongue down the streaks of sweat.
Pete would agree, would answer back with much the same, but he can't get the words out past the tightness in his chest. His head is spinny, vision gone grainy, and his stomach is so heavy and hot it feels like all of the blood in his body is draining there, trying to shove into his dick and see what all the commotion is.
He locks his teeth around Patrick's pulse, instead, jerks Patrick's hips toward his dick twice, three times, until Patrick gets it and wraps his free leg around Pete's waist, locking his ankles together.
Pete manages to squeeze out a, "Jesus," and then a, "Fuck," because apparently his dick is that big, and they could have done with another minute or six with three fingers stretching Patrick. As it is, he's past just shy of too tight - all hot and slick around every viciously sensitive inch of Pete's dick - and they're dragging together every time Pete rocks his hips back, the head of his cock catching under the ridge, too big to pull out smooth.
Patrick moans. Pete feels it under his lips, against his tongue, rattling through Patrick's chest and into Pete's own, so he digs his thumbs in under Patrick's hipbones and lifts a little, angling up, a bit to the left, jerking forward harderfasterdeeper, and then he gets it, must, because Patrick goes tight like strung wire under him, sweaty skin against Pete's, writhing until Pete almost falls off.
"Oh god," Patrick says, his breathing harsh and irregular, "fuck, Pete, fuck--"
Pete doesn't think he would've pegged Patrick as the type to talk a lot. Maybe it's just the alcohol in him, but either way, Pete's definitely not against it. He pushes in again, and again and again, the slap of his hips against Patrick's skin sharp and punctuating between Patrick's words, his gasps every time Pete hits him just right.
"Yeah, fuck," Pete grits out, glances over in the general direction of the camera even though he can't get his eyes to focus on anything but Patrick. It's still there, is the important thing, and it's getting the way Patrick's arching up off the van floor, his mouth open, fisting his own cock as hard as Pete is fucking him, his knuckles and his cock dragging slippery over Pete's stomach.
"You're gonna come first," Pete says, breathless teasing into Patrick's ear. "You're gonna-- fuck, you're gonna come first, motherfucker," not that Pete is far from coming himself or anything, but, fuck, he wants Patrick to come first, hot and sticky between them while Pete's still fucking him.
"Sure," Patrick gasps back, hips stuttering up off the floor. "Fuck me harder, asshole, and maybe I will."
And Pete. He can't, actually. It's not physically possible for him to fuck Patrick any harder. They're already sliding upward, nylon and fake grass slippery against the van's metal floor, Patrick's head at least four inches higher than it was before, and Pete can feel beads of sweat running down his chest, catching on his nipple ring, dripping onto Patrick.
"Harder," Patrick moans, half a sob, the rake of his knuckles over Pete's bellybutton jerky, erratic.
So, yeah, ok, laws of physics be damned, he can totally do this. Pete takes his hands off of Patrick's hips and wraps them under his thighs, instead, shoves his legs up and apart, spreading Patrick open and slamming into him with everything he has, until he can't breathe from it, until he sees Patrick in mosaic, red-gold streak here, ivory blur there. He coughs out Patrick's name, chokes on the first half of it, spits, "'trick," out into the space between them.
And he feels it, the exact moment Patrick spins off the edge, his body going so tight Pete can barely drag his cock out, spasming, heels digging into Pete's shoulders, whining nonsense at the ceiling. He feels it, and he rides it, and then he drops Patrick's legs back down to the floor and folds himself forward again, kisses the last of his name off of Patrick's tongue and shoves in. Rapid, shallow thrusts that are halting, rhythmless, and he's almost there- Patrick's tongue in his mouth, Patrick's hands in his hair, Patrick's stomach slippery and wet where they rub together.
And here's where Pete's got a problem with foresight. Because, while he locked the back door, he didn't lock the front doors. And while he really doesn't have any problem at all with Patrick moaning and swearing while Pete is fucking him, he's not a big fan of Joe's voice cutting through the mood with a loud, traumatized, "OH MY GOD, MY EYES."
Luckily, Joe doesn't need eyes to play the guitar, so Pete doesn't feel the need to stop fucking Patrick, like, at all. Because Pete is so, so close, and Patrick is so tight, and oh god--
"Oh god, my sleeping bag, oh my god--" and there's the jarring sound of the door slamming shut. The van rocks, Patrick laughs gleefully against Pete's mouth, and Pete comes so hard his gut clenches and his hips don't stop moving until at least a minute later, when his brain starts to fizzle back into existence.
"Fuck," Pete breathes, finally lifts his eyes to Patrick's face, flushed and sweaty, lips curved into a grin. "Fuck," he says again, "don't move." He pulls out carefully and reaches over for the camera, still rolling, and sits back to get that on film, panning up from Patrick's spread thighs, Pete's come leaking between them, to Patrick's smeared and streaked on his belly, and up to his stupid, perfect fucking face.
"You're not gonna show this to anyone, Pete," Patrick says again, his voice a little slow and thick.
This, Pete realizes, is what Patrick sounds like after he comes. And he has it on camera. His name in that voice, so yeah.
"No," Pete agrees. He turns the camera off and shoves it in Patrick's open bag, squirms forward so he can tuck his head against Patrick's sweaty throat. "Yeah, no, it's all mine."