Eyeliner = Consent by Arsenic
Summary: Companion fic to "Hips Don't Lie". Ryan thanks Pete for his help.
Categories: Bandslash Characters: Joe Trohman, Pete Wentz
Genres: PWP
Warnings: None
Series: Helping Hand
Chapters: 2 Completed: Yes Word count: 3940 Read: 16230 Published: 02/06/07 Updated: 04/06/07

1. Chapter 1 by Arsenic

2. Chapter 2 by Arsenic

Chapter 1 by Arsenic
Author's Notes:
Title is courtesy of Luciamad, who also did a quick beta for me.
Patrick picked up the phone and said, "How's it going?"

Ryan said, "All right. You?"

"Pretty good."

There was a long silence. Patrick said, "Okay, usually when one person calls another person, the person having made the call has something to tell the person he's called."

"Pete did me a favor," Ryan said.

"Was this before or after he made your band a national sensation?"

"Um. After."

Patrick rolled his eyes. Ryan could be all too easy at times. "Just checking. Continue."

"He sort of, um-- It's unimportant. The important part is that I wanted to, you know, pay him back."

"Are you looking for suggestions?"

"No, no, see. I sent Joe eyeliner and wrist cuffs, but Joe seemed kind of confused."

"Ryan, can you hold on for a second?"


Patrick put the phone to his thigh and exploded into convulsions of laughter. When he had it under control he picked the phone up again. "Did you explain it to him?"

"I tried."

"You tried?"

"Sometimes I'm bad at explaining things," Ryan explained.

Patrick was surrounded by the socially incompetent. They were all sweet, and most of the time he didn't even notice, but wow when it became obvious, did it ever become obvious.

"Um. You know how to apply eyeliner, right?"

Patrick rubbed a hand over his face. "I'm not Pete."

"No, if you were Pete, you and Joe would already be fucking."

Patrick cocked his head. "Astute."

"Look, just. Can you help him with it? Or is this a lost cause?"

"If I blind Fall Out Boy's guitarist, you're finding me a new one."

"Oh, come on, TAI has two. Just take one."

Patrick hung up.


Pete hated Ryan Ross.

He had been nothing, nothing but a good friend to Ryan, pulling him out of Nevada, getting him laid by the boy of his very own dreams, and Ryan--the asshole--just went about carrying out threats against him.

The worst part was, somebody in his own band had to have betrayed Pete, because there was no way Joe had done his own eyeliner. Joe could play the guitar while dead, but everything else? He had trouble getting quarters in vending machines when he was high, let alone operating with pointy sticks near his eyes.

Clearly Ryan had seduced either Patrick or Andy away from Pete with his jailbait lips and hands and eyes and whatever while Pete had been. . .probably designing a hoodie. Or something.

It was depressing.

And if Joe crinkled his black rimmed eyes, cocked his cuffed wrists, and spun one more fucking time, Pete was going to cry. In the middle of Carpal Tunnel.

At least the audience would be happy. There was never quite enough emo going around for them.

Pete was glad to please. No, really.

Joe leapt off the mid-stage platform right into Pete's space, grinned at him, and spun like a fucking dervish.

Pete put his head down and sniffled.

Ryan Ross was going to die.


Joe said, "I dunno, man. I don't think we should do this again."

Patrick sighed. He would really like nothing more in his life than not to do this again. "Sit down."

"Pete seemed kinda pissed that I was stealing his gig."

Patrick reminded himself that hitting his band members was not an acceptable action, no matter what the crime. Joe couldn't help being an oblivious pothead. Or, well, he could--at least the pothead part--but then he wouldn't be Joe, and Pete wouldn't want him and--

Patrick went back to the original thought. No hitting. "He's not pissed, Joe. And you looked good."

"I like the cuffs."

Patrick had sort of figured. Joe seemed to be sleeping in them. "One more night, Joe. Then we'll stop."

Joe looked at Patrick for a long time, long enough that Patrick was pretty sure Joe wasn't even seeing him, just zoning out a little. Then Joe asked, "If he wasn't pissed, what was he?"

"Something else," Patrick said, because Ryan Ross didn't have the worst ideas in the universe, but Patrick was only willing to sell his best friend out so far.

"Because sometimes," Joe said slowly, "pissed and despondent sorta look the same on Pete."

Hugging was a totally acceptable thing to do to one's band members.

Joe patted Patrick's back. "You okay, buddy?"


Pete was going on strike until he figured out who had defected against him. Or at least until Joe stopped sliding his hand up the fucking neck of his guitar with that damn cuff wrapped around his wrist. Pete didn't care that that was how somebody played the guitar.

He didn't care at all.

When they were making their way to the second stage, Joe asked, "You okay, man? I'm a little worried."

"Fine," Pete said without ever once moving his jaw.

Joe touched a hand to his shoulder. Pete outran the touch, because the only other option was to turn into it, luxuriate in it, take it places. Pete might do stupid things like take naked pictures of himself, but breaking up his own band over a bad case of misdirected love was a level of accidental stupidity not even he had in him.

Joe let him have his space when they reached the stage.

On the way back, Joe said, "I'm not trying to steal your thing. With the eyes. Ryan and Patrick both seemed to think it was a good idea."

Patrick. Pete was going to be sick. He just shook his head. "I'm not mad, Joe."

Not at you, anyway.

They had reached the first stage and Pete kicked his brain into gear, because there was the rest of a show to perform.

He rushed off afterward, because if he was super quick he could be in his bunk before any of them were on the bus and then he would be safe. There was an unspoken rule about bunks. They were like rooms on a bus. Sacrosanct.

Joe was a sacrilegious little fucker who did things like break unspoken rules and roll into a guy's bunk to say, "Want some weed?"

Pete just looked at him.

"Okay," Joe said, "but I really think it would help."

"This is my bunk," Pete said, just in case Joe was so high he'd accidentally fallen into the wrong one. He didn't seem like it, but Pete figured it was worth a try.

"Yeah. You seemed sad. Normally I'd let Patrick handle that kinda thing, but Patrick's been putting eyeliner on me for the last two shows and Ryan Ross sent me presents and I thought maybe they were trying to tell me something."

Helplessly, Pete said, "This is my bunk, Joe."

Joe ignored him. "Why didn't you ever say?"

"That it's my bunk? I thought it was pretty obvious."

"That you wanted me?"

Pete hunched over on himself. "Get over yourself, Joe."

Joe pressed a hand to Pete's chest, flattening his posture a bit. "Why didn't you ever say?"

"Because it isn't true."

Joe leaned in and kissed him, a sneak attack. He tasted bitter like weed, and sweet like Mountain Dew or something else chemical and energetic. Pete tried to make himself turn his face, make himself reject the gesture. He could do no better than arching into it.

Joe pulled back. "Why, Pete?"

Pete glared. "Why are you being an asshole, Joe?"


"Is it really not completely fucking obvious?"

"Because I usually sleep with girls?"


Joe shrugged. "Who's stupid enough not to sleep with Pete Wentz if that's what he wants?"

Pete blinked. "Um."

Joe grinned. The eyeliner was smudged from the evening's exertions but Pete couldn't look away.

Joe helped him by leaning in and kissing him again. Pete didn't even try to resist this time, just let Joe have him, let himself take.

Joe shifted until he was further atop Pete and said, "So, I, uh--"

"Haven't really done this before?"

"Not with another cock involved."

"I'll make it good for you," Pete promised.

"I'm not worried," Joe told him.

Pete took Joe's mouth back and rolled a little until they were on their sides, facing each other. Pete sneaked his hand under the hem of Joe's shirt to splay out over his ribs, run down to his hips. While he was there, he undid the button on Joe's jeans. He pulled off of Joe's mouth long enough to say, "Joe, um--"

Joe lifted up a bit and pushed his jeans and boxers down to his thighs. "Better?"

Pete just inched down, curled a little bit so that he could fit his mouth over Joe's cock, hold the head with his tongue, initiate things with a hard suck.

Joe said, "Fuck, Pete."

Pete wrapped a hand over Joe's balls and squeezed just enough.

Joe brought his hands to Pete's head, and normally Pete wasn't into that, but Joe wasn't even forcing, just holding, just touching, and Pete really liked being touched by Joe.

Pete sucked a little more, humming to himself. It would be good for Joe, he knew, but mostly he was just happy, and wow, it had been a while since he'd wanted to hum for the sake of humming.

Joe whimpered a bit. Pete slid all the way down his cock, keeping his tongue flat on the underside. Joe made a noise in the back of his throat.

Pete said, "Easy," appreciatively around Joe's cock.

Joe said, "Pete. Petepete."

Pete let his eyes sink to a closed position so that he could concentrate on the smooth heat of Joe in his mouth, Joe's shape, his taste, all the things Pete had wanted and wanted and known better than to ask for.

Pete totally loved Patrick and Ryan. He was a bad person for thinking mean thoughts about them ever. He would repent later.

Joe was touching him just now.

Pete drew it out for as long as he could, pulling off when he felt Joe getting too close, returning when he felt it was safe, squeezing and sucking and licking in carefully allotted amounts.

When Joe said, "Pete, Pete, please," Pete thought, fine and took Joe all the way down his throat.

Joe made really high pitched noises when he came. It shouldn't have been sexy.

Pete was kind of easy for him.

Pete unfurled when he was done, licked his lips and smiled tentatively at Joe. Joe rolled in a little and kissed him. He said, "You're really good at that," sounding duly impressed.

Pete didn't tell him he'd had a lot of practice. Joe could probably figure it out.

Joe said, "So, I could, um, try that."

Pete said, "Maybe some other time," took one of Joe's hands in his own, opened his pants with his free hand, and wrapped Joe's around his dick.

Joe said, "Oh, okay."

Pete said, "Harder?"

Joe tightened his fingers. Pete threw his head back. The fingers of Joe's other hand came to Pete's throat. Joe said, softly, "Oh, pretty," and pulled a little at Pete's cock.

Pete tried to say, "yes," but it was too many syllables, so he just gurgled instead. Joe seemed to understand. He kept jerking Pete, in any case, and that was more than enough comprehension.

Pete brought one hand up to the wrist Joe had near Pete's throat and closed his palm over the stiff leather of the cuff.

"Ryan sent me those, too."

Yeah. Ryan knew how to say "thank you." Pete let his head drop back down so that he could look at Joe, the corners of his eyes darkened, his hair falling into his face.

Pete couldn't help it--he came.

Joe yawned. "When I wake up, we're gonna have to do that some more."

Pete nodded, his eyes wide.

Joe closed his eyes. "Maybe you can help me with the eyeliner tomorrow. Patrick's fine and all, but I don't think it's really his thing."

Pete said, "If you want."

Joe smiled, clearly almost asleep. "I know how to ask for what I want."

Pete was so, so going to learn.
Chapter 2 by Arsenic
Pete was careful about proceeding with Joe. He often wasn't careful and it got him into trouble. Joe, for all his bluster, had clearly been straight until Ryan Ross had intervened with the gods of eyeliner and all things Stump, so Pete was very, very grateful that Joe had been distracted enough by him to deviate for a short while.

Pete had no illusions that Joe wouldn't go back to the heterosexual lifestyle of glamour and ease, but if he was careful about it, it could very well be a while before he did, and that was the goal, so far as Pete was concerned.

For their second time, Pete kissed Joe long and hard, laved at his nipples, got him to the point where just about anything would have felt good, and then undid the clasps of their jeans, pressed their cocks together.

Joe gasped, "Pete, yeah," and Pete kept their bodies close, kept his mouth on Joe's, kept Joe from looking down. There wasn't a lot of skin on display, but it seemed unnecessarily reckless, to have Joe looking at another cock when he didn't strictly need to.

Joe came so hard his knees buckled. Pete held him up.


There was a point where Joe finally convinced Pete--despite all of his best arguments--to let him try cocksucking.

Joe was horrible at it, but enthusiastic and terribly proud of himself when Pete came.

Pete cleaned him up and gave him the most mind-shattering blowjob he could manage.

Joe rolled over to give him a sated grin and say, "You could use fingers, you know. I've had some girls do that. It's fun."

He sounded proud of that, too.

Pete kissed him. "Okay."


As it turned out, Joe really liked fucking Pete, which was convenient, since the last time Pete had been as turned on by anything as the feeling of Joe's cock up his ass was probably when he was ten and first figuring out how good his own hand could feel on his cock.

What was inconvenient was that Joe seemed to feel that Pete should return the favor. He said, "No, seriously, it feels really good, you should try it."

Pete tried explaining that yes, he had tried it, and yes, it was quite nice, but he just preferred things this way.

Either pot gave someone indomitable strength of will, or Joe was just the most persistent motherfucker Pete had ever met.

Pete finally gave in when Joe said, "You know, I bet I could get Mikey to fuck me."

Joe knew how to play dirty.

Pete half-heartedly said, "Iero owns Mikey's cock," but he really wasn't about to take the chance that a) Joe would actually ask, and b) Frank would feel like helping a guy out.

He sighed and said, "Fine, but if you don't like it just remember that's fine because you like the other stuff."

Joe blinked at him rapidly, but that could have just been a side-effect of the high.


Pete waited until they had an overnight, so that he could have an actual bed to work with. He was stealthy in his approach: three fingers during a blowjob, enough to get Joe good and stretched and eager. Joe liked fingers.

As it turned out, he liked Pete's tongue up his ass even more, which was what Pete followed the fingers with.

Pete said, "I could make you come just from this," his voice low and as tempting as he could make it.

"Not what you promised," Joe said, clearly unmoved by Pete's fairly generous offer.

Pete sighed and rolled a condom on himself. He tucked a couple of pillows beneath Joe's hips and worked the head of his cock into Joe. Joe took a steep breath.

Pete said, "Am I--"

"If you stop I'm telling Patrick you're the one who stole his Doc Martins."

"I don't even fit in Patrick's shoes."

"He'll believe me anyway."

He would, Pete knew. It was like something Pete would do. How was it that Joe could be so fucking out of it three quarters of the time and then suddenly come into lucidity right when it was most inconvenient for Pete? His life would be so much easier if he didn't love Joe anyway. Asshole. Pete pushed gently forward.

Joe's breathing was a little shallow, and Pete rubbed at the small of his back, said, "Deep breaths."

Joe listened, and things got easier. Pete slid slowly down, down, until he was completely in. He waited, petting softly along Joe's back, his hips, before adjusting his angle slightly, and dragging himself back just a couple of inches.

"Oh. Fuck," Joe said, making every syllable and a few additional ones completely clear.

"Good?" Pete ventured.

"You've been holding out on me, you complete shit."

Pete leaned in, gliding along the prostate again.

Joe made a noise that sounded vaguely like, "Guh."

That was more like it. Pete took things slowly, carefully, paying attention to the things Joe liked most, to the ones that allowed him a return to coherence. When Pete knew he absolutely couldn't hold out any longer no matter how many times he closed his eyes and thought disgusting, erection-killing thoughts, he wrapped his hand around Joe's cock and set up a counterpoint rhythm to the one he already had going. He tried, tried to control himself until Joe had come, but it just wasn't going to happen, not being in Joe for the first time, not with Joe splayed out in front of him and making happy noises. Pete was, you know, human, perhaps even more human than most.

Pete made a sound, a whimper or a plea or something and came, hard. Joe liked Pete's noises. Pete already knew this, but if he hadn't, the fact that his sound caused Joe to come as well would have tipped him off.

When he could, Pete rolled out of bed and grabbed washcloths. He was taking his time cleaning Joe, touching Joe, when Joe cocked one eye and said, "How long were you gonna keep that all to yourself?"

Pete shrugged. Joe was a weird straight boy.


Joe was also, as it turned out, a greedy straight boy. At first Pete thought it was just the novelty of being fucked, but as time went on it was clear that Joe just liked having a cock up his ass and it wasn't as if Pete didn't like providing that cock, it was just that, as much as he enjoyed it, he was sort of a fan of getting fucked himself. But Pete was not going to quibble, not when Joe kept finding him after shows, or in the mornings when he woke up, or just randomly in the middle of the day and talking with him and kissing him, and sometimes poking his fingers into the hem of Pete's jeans and dragging them gently over the inked skin of Pete's belly.

Joe was a really nice temporary boyfriend and Pete could be equally as nice, could totally make Joe languish for a bit before he remembered that he liked things Pete just couldn't provide.

About the third week in, Patrick asked Pete for help putting on a tie for a date--Patrick was a gentleman like that, even if he tried not have people notice--and asked, "You okay?"

Pete smiled. "I already thanked you for helping him with the eyeliner, stop fishing."

"No, I mean. I mean...you look tired."

"We're on tour." Of course he was tired. Everyone was tired.

"Pete-tired. You seem Pete-tired."

Pete looped the tie and pulled it through and straightened it neatly around Patrick's neck. He smirked, "Maybe it's just all the sex."

"Maybe," Patrick said, sounding not at all like he planned on letting it go. He looked at himself in the mirror and said, "Thanks."


It wasn't that Patrick had really expected Joe and Pete to be able to function as a unit without any interference, but it would have been nice.

He tried the simple approach first. He asked Joe, "Is Pete having nightmares?"

Joe offered him half his joint. Patrick debated, but shook his head. Joe shrugged and took another drag. "No, he sleeps hard. It's good."

"Huh," Patrick said.

Joe rolled slightly toward him. "Huh?"

"Just, he's seemed a little ragged lately, you know?"

Joe looked past Patrick at something, or maybe nothing. It could be hard to tell with Joe.

"I was just wondering if something was on his mind?"

Slowly, like he was trying to pay attention, Joe asked, "Did you ask him?"

Patrick said, "You know Pete."

Joe frowned. "Sometimes."

Patrick patted Joe's shoulder. His work here was done.


Pete woke up to find Joe watching him. Joe looked sharper than usual, but it was morning, and sometimes Joe forgot to put a joint by the bed and then was too lazy to get up and get it until he absolutely had to. Pete said, "Hi."

Joe said, "Patrick said you were tired."

Pete sighed. "We're on tour." Why had nobody else but him noticed this? It was totally their job.

"I think he meant sad."

"I'm not sad." Pete wasn't. He'd been sad a lot in his life. It didn't feel like this.

"Okay," Joe said, sounding like he was listening to Pete, which was nice. Joe listened. "But you do seem a little...quiet."

"That's just 'cause I'm not whining," Pete said with a self-deprecating twist of his lips.

Joe brushed some of the hair from Pete's face. "Mm, not arguing with me either, anymore. You let me have my way a lot."

Pete shrugged.

"Patrick shouldn't have to notice that part. You get quiet when you're scared. That's sort of the type of thing a boyfriend should see, huh?"

"You see fine," Pete said, somewhat belligerently.

Joe just ignored him. Joe also did that, when what Pete was saying wasn't really worth listening to. "What's got you scared?"

"I'm not scared."

"You suck at lying. Your voice changes pitch."

"Maybe you just have bizarrely reactive ear drums."

"I've been in a rock band for a while now, I don't have ear drums."

Joe had a point.

"What's scaring you?"



"Fuck off."

"What, Pete?"

"None of your business."

"Maybe you should date someone whose business it is when you get all freaked out."

Pete felt the color leave his entire body.

Joe blinked. "Whoa, hey."

"If you wanna break up with me, that's fine, but you're not gonna put it on me."

Joe frowned and said, slowly, "I think I found what's scaring you."

Pete inched away from him, but Joe was having none of that. He hauled Pete back and squeezed him up in his arms. "You gotta stop thinking I'm not so in love with you that the first pair of tits I see is gonna distract me. It's sort of unattractive. Also, it makes me feel like a dick."

Pete burrowed into Joe. "Um. Oh."


"I think you forgot to say."

"I didn't forget to say, dipshit. I thought it was obvious."

Maybe it had been. Pete sometimes missed the big stuff.

"That's why you haven't been arguing with me?"

"You don't really like conflict."

"For someone really smart, you're sort of a moron," Joe told him.

Pete nodded.

"So, what sorts of things have we not been arguing about?"


Joe said, "Maybe start with the most important."

"Could you sometimes fuck me? Because I really like that part too."

Joe flipped Pete over and bit into the flesh of his shoulder. "How does now sound?"

Pete mewled. "My schedule's wide open."
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