Bandom Fic: just be good to me
Porn for Sunday!
Title: just be good to me
Author: Mistress Kat / kat_lair
Fandom: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Pairing/Category: Patrick/Pete, PWPish (there are feelings, sorry about that)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Porn with a definite d/s vibe.
Word count: 2,481
Disclaimer: Not true, only playing.
Summary: Only with Patrick, Pete says ‘please’ like it matters, like it’s a question with an uncertain outcome. And only with Pete does Patrick know how to answer it.
Author notes: Patrick is hot as fuck in the Beat It video and Pete, understandably, is all over him. Why there isn’t tons of porn about this is beyond me, but sometimes you apparently need to provide for yourself. Title from the song by the same name, because I can’t get the new remix out of my head and it seemed to fit. Thank you to insaneboingo and dancinbutterfly for looking this over, and, as always, to pushkin666 for general cheerleading.
“Cut!” Shane calls from behind the cameras as the last notes fade away.
Patrick unclenches his hand from around the guitar neck and shakes the muscles loose. It’s late but he’s not exactly tired; the beat of the song still thrumming in his veins, inside his chest.
“Good job, guys. Go home and get some rest,” Shane says. “The real work starts now as we’ll edit the footage of your ugly mugs into something presentable.” He grins.
“Fuck you too, Drake. You come over here and drum the same song three hours straight and then we’ll talk,” Andy says, wiping sweat off his face with a towel.
Patrick’s shirt is sticking wetly to his back and when he licks his lips, he’s left with a sharp tang of salt on his tongue. There’s a noise from somewhere left of him and Patrick doesn’t need to look over to know that it’s Pete. He reaches a hand and wraps his fingers around the butter soft leather of Pete’s jacket, not doing anything else yet, just keeping them both anchored.
The camera crew start packing up and Joe and Andy drift toward them to shoot the shit. From what Patrick hears, there are plans to go out and toast the successful day of filming, but at the moment he couldn’t care less.
The only thing he’s concerned about right now is getting Pete alone somewhere. From the way he keeps pushing against Patrick’s grip, trying to get closer, Pete has the same idea.
They do this sometimes, when the adrenaline of the music, of the performance, spills over and crackles under their skin like a thousand volts; an almost visible arc of electricity stretching between them, looking for conduit.
It doesn’t happen every time or even that often. Besides, there are other ways - other people - to take this out on, but sometimes nothing, no one else but each other, will do. Sometimes, they don’t bother looking all that hard, for safer alternatives. Sometimes, Patrick forgets why they even should.
There’s no question how things are going to end up tonight. He tightens his grip on Pete’s jacket and hauls him close. “We’re leaving now,” he grits out, voice gravelly from the continued use. “Say your goodbyes.”
Pete inhales and Patrick feels it like his own, their chests pressed together briefly before Patrick takes a measured step back, letting Pete go. For now.
He leaves Pete to make their excuses, not in the mood for niceties, and concentrates on packing away his guitar. He’ll pick it up later. He and Pete aren’t going far.
Pete is back by his side quicker than he expected, practically buzzing with energy. He’d been all over Patrick for most of the shoot, making no secret of how much he appreciated the leather pants and white shirt combo Patrick is wearing. He’d been doubtful of his ability to pull off such an uncharacteristic get-up, but Pete had insisted, spouting about ‘artistic vision’ and ‘homage to a legend’. Patrick is still not convinced that the great MJ would be impressed to see a short chubby white dude attempting to imitate his iconic style, but whatever. Besides, as the day progressed, he’d gotten more and more into the required mind-set, until he’d hit that perfect zone where he felt like a god; power and confidence rolling over him with every note, every aggressive hip thrust and snarl he no longer had to fake. And Pete... Pete had crowded closer and closer; rubbing his head on Patrick’s shoulder, licking the neck of his bass, eyes dark and unwavering the whole time, urging Patrick on as he sang louder, deeper; his voice cutting the air like a bullwhip, strong and precise.
Patrick gets up from where he’s been crouching with the guitar case. His hands curl at his own volition, empty until Pete pushes himself into them, already whining low at the back of his throat. He needs this as much as Patrick, maybe more.
Patrick has never been able to deny Pete what he needs. What he wants, yes, but not what he truly needs.
They walk toward the dressing rooms - or Patrick walks, Pete stumbles after him, tripping over his own feet as Patrick drags him along by the lapels of his jacket. The place is blessedly empty and Patrick shoves Pete inside with more force than necessary, except for how it feels completely necessary in that moment to push hard, harder, just to see how much Pete will take.
Patrick flips the lock and turns to look at Pete properly for the first time in the last hour. He’s been carefully avoiding it, suspecting that if he so much as glanced over, he’d end up doing something really stupid like pulling Pete in for a bruising kiss right there in front of the cameras, fingers digging deep into the soft flesh of his neck.
Something of his thoughts must show on his face because Pete chooses that moment to step forward. “Patrick,” he says, voice catching on the last syllable.
There’s no one else here but the two of them and Patrick lifts his eyes from where they’ve been resting on his own hands, still maintaining their white-knuckled grip.
Pete is breathing hard, his mouth wet and open. He looks damn good in his leatherjacket, hair styled up and sticking in every direction in soft peaks, make-up smudged. He licks his lips and Patrick hisses, torn between desire to kiss them and to backhand Pete until he bleeds, just to see what they taste like smeared with blood.
Not that he’s forgotten.
“Patrick, please,” Pete says, already tilting his head, fingers skittering over Patrick’s sides, trying to find their way under his shirt.
Patrick sinks both hands in Pete’s hair and drags him in, yanking in a way that must be more than a little painful, but Pete just moans, his tongue as greedy as Patrick’s as they kiss, frantic and messy.
Pete’s hands grabble at Patrick’s belt, clumsily pulling it open. His fingers slip inside, skimming over the bare skin of Patrick’s hip bones, and Patrick bites, unable to stop his reaction. The bright flash of copper makes him reel and before he knows it Pete has already dropped to his knees and is rubbing his face against the front of Patrick’s pants.
“Fuck, fuck, I need, let me.” He’s panting, little desperate puffs of air that Patrick can feel through the open vee of the zipper.
“Yeah, you wanna suck me Pete? You wanna get your mouth around my cock and show me what a good boy you are?” Patrick doesn’t even know half of what he’s saying, just that it’s turning them both on. He’s never this... filthy with anyone else, this free to just say what he wants and then take it.
Just as he knows Pete doesn’t do this with others. Oh he has sex with them, plenty of, but not like this. A few carefully vague questions directed at the right people, and Patrick knows: Pete doesn’t let anyone else push him against walls, doesn’t go to his knees and beg to be fucked, used, like he’s going to die if Patrick doesn’t touch him.
Only with Patrick, Pete says ‘please’ like it matters, like it’s a question with an uncertain outcome. And only with Pete does Patrick know how to answer it.
It means something, this thing between them, but Patrick is not ready to put a name to it quite yet.
Right now he has Pete on his knees, his familiar face upturned and waiting. “Yes,” Pete says. “Yes, I want. Please.”
And there’s only one reply to that. Patrick’s cock is hard and flushed when he pulls it out, rubs the head against Pete’s lips before pushing it between them.
Pete opens up, easy and smooth, his head angled just so that Patrick can thrust in all the way to the root without any resistance. Pete chokes on it a bit, he always does at first, but Patrick knows it doesn’t mean he should stop.
Instead he fucks Pete’s mouth, deep and ruthless; savours the long slide out, the dirty fast push back inside until he’s nudging the back of Pete’s throat. They both groan at the feel of it, Pete drooling around Patrick’s cock, his lips stretched wide. Patrick holds him steady, both hands buried in Pete’s hair, gripping tightly.
It’s barely been two minutes but Patrick’s been ready for hours now, the song pulsing in his veins, Pete’s eyes on him all day. He can feel the control slipping away from him with every sharp shove of his cock, every clever swipe of Pete’s tongue against his skin.
He grits out a harsh “Don’t swallow,” before orgasm rips through him like an E major, all noise and unending rhythm that seems to vibrate in his very bones.
When he finally opens his eyes again Pete is still kneeling at his feet, mouth shiny with spit and come. His eyes are blown black and he seems to be rocking from side to side ever so slightly, hands curled around Patrick’s thighs for support.
“Spit,” Patrick tells him, holding his hand out, palm cupped.
Pete does as he’s told and Patrick uses his other hand to haul him to his unsteady feet and push him against the door. “Take your pants off. Shoes too.”
Patrick watches Pete undress. He’s shaking and shivering enough to make it almost laughably clumsy, but Patrick would take this over a smooth unaffected stripping anytime. This is Pete at his most naked, exposed and raw in a way that has nothing to do with the lack of clothes.
He goes for his jacket the last, but Patrick crowds closer before he has the chance to do more than lower the zipper slightly. “No, leave it on,” Patrick says. He ducks his face into the damp space under Pete’s collar and inhales the heady mixture of leather and sex.
Pete shudders helplessly when Patrick laps at his skin, then groans and goes lax when he bites down, sucking hard enough to be sure to leave a mark.
“Patrickpatrickpatrickpleasepatrick.” The words fall out in one long moan, syllables blurred and urgent. Pete makes Patrick’s name sound like a lyric, like a chorus from a next hit single.
“C’mon, baby, lift up for me,” Patrick croons, encouraging Pete to hook one of his legs over Patrick’s hip until he’s spread open, taut and gorgeous, naked from waist down.
“That’s it. Good boy.” Patrick rewards him with a kiss, licking the taste of his own come from Pete’s mouth while coating his fingers with what’s sitting on the palm of his hand.
Pete’s cock is a hot solid weight trapped between their bodies and Patrick reaches down and around, pushing two fingers in at once. Pete moans and arches, tipping his head back against the door, the beads of sweat gathered at the hollow of his throat visible even in the low light of the room.
“Fuck, fuck, I need, harder.” Pete rocks down and back up, fucking himself on Patrick’s fingers in a stuttering desperate rhythm. Patrick pulls out briefly, then comes back with three fingers, smirking when Pete’s breath hitches at the stretch.
Pete tries to wrap a hand around himself but Patrick bats it away with a growl. “No. You’re going to come like this, just from my fingers in your ass. I know you can, wouldn’t be the first time.” He fucks in harder, faster, curling his fingers in the way that makes Pete’s cock leak pre-come. He’s rutting against Patrick’s stomach now, clinging to his shoulders for support.
“Or the last,” Patrick adds. He doesn’t mean to make it sound like a promise, but it comes out like one anyway.
They both freeze and Pete’s eyes snap open, wide and surprised. The moment lasts no more than a heartbeat and then Patrick twists his fingers, pressing in and down. Pete comes all over them both, his body curving toward Patrick, a noise like sob wrenched from his mouth.
Patrick swallows it down, kissing Pete over and over until he feels him relax, fists loosening their tight grip on Patrick’s shirt. They breathe in sync for a while, sweat and come cooling between them. Pete’s thigh trembles from the strain and slowly Patrick helps him ease it down until he’s standing on his own two feet again. Patrick is reluctant to pull back, instead wrapping his arms more fully around Pete and leaning on him more heavily than he really needs to.
His exhaustion is only half faked though; the day is finally catching up with them both. Patrick closes his eyes and lets himself have a moment longer.
They didn’t plan this, they never did; didn’t talk about it in future tense - or at all. What he’d said earlier was as close as they’d ever gotten to acknowledging that it was something that would happen again.
It’s more than the sex, what they do, more than spending excess adrenaline. They may not admit it or talk about it, but they both know it’s true. Pete pushes and pushes, just to get Patrick to push back, and Patrick is growing weary of playing the game when the result is always the same.
Pete’s hair tickles the side of Patrick’s face and he blows it away, eliciting a huff of laughter from Pete. He rubs his head more fully against Patrick’s, deliberately getting his hair everywhere.
Patrick splutters, pushing him off with two hands but unable to suppress a grin.
“You’re thinking, Trick,” Pete accuses, pouting. “I can hear you thinking. It’s messing with my afterglow.”
Patrick raises his eyebrows but doesn’t apologise. Instead he wipes his hands on Pete’s leatherjacket, laughing out loud at Pete disgusted expression. “Fine,” he says. “No more thinking.”
He zips up his pants and tries in vain to straighten his rumbled shirt. Pete is pulling on his own clothes, at one point almost losing his balance before Patrick grabs him by the elbow.
“Okay?” he asks, holding on until Pete nods, his gaze flicking over Patrick’s face almost shyly.
Once they’re dressed Patrick opens the door, then stops. Pete is standing behind him. Not clinging like earlier, but still closer than normal.
“You hungry?” Patrick asks, turning to look at him from the corner of his eye.
Pete hesitates, like he thinks there’s a right answer to the question and he’s anxious to give it. “Yes?” he concedes finally. “I could eat.”
Patrick smiles. “Me too,” he says, reaching behind him and finding Pete’s wrist exactly where he expects it to be. Patrick wraps his fingers around it and pulls Pete out of the room, not letting go. “Let’s go eat.”
Maybe the evening doesn’t have to end quite yet, Patrick thinks. Maybe there is some room for plans, after all.