fakebrain: (geoffrey + chuck)
[personal profile] fakebrain
Do Not Record Over
Author: [livejournal.com profile] sharon_hate
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: The following events are entirely fictional.
Notes: Beta’d by [livejournal.com profile] matchsticks_p.

Summary:
Gabe secretly films his sexual exploits and Pete happens across one. It’s kind of a big deal. (Gabe/Patrick + Pete wank)





Gabe’s apartment is a cornucopia of mystery and wonder, full of strange artifacts and keepsakes that all sit idly on shelves and tables and gather dust. When Pete calls them tchotchkies, though, Gabe’s feathers ruffle and he snorts. “They’re collectibles, ‘bro. Fucking valuable as shit.” No one really believes his claims, but it’s still unanimous that he has the best crap out of all of them, which includes Travis and his pimped out M.J. lamp.

What Pete loves most, by far, in the apartment is the fake apothecary table in the living room. Fake, for the reason that each level of mini-drawers have been merged together to act as one giant drawer – the very antithesis of the apothecary table.

The first row, if it were to be pulled out, would reveal dozens of cheap, old Halloween masks. The unique aroma of rubber and sweat would fill the room. Each mask, distorted from being rolled up and scrunched down, will look up wide-eyed and open-mouthed like a particularly fucked up blow-up doll. Their matted and coarse hair is offensive to come in contact with and even Gabe refuses to put any of them on for any period of time.

Beneath the masks, in the bottom row, there are wigs. Trashy, nylon wigs that are found in the back of Goodwill’s, shiny hair tangled and knotted. When Gabe throws parties, Pete often fishes a few out of the drawer and throws them at people, just to hear their screech of dismay. It’s completely understandable. Just looking at them makes Pete feels like washing his hands of their mostly theoretical filth.

It’s all this that Pete ponders alone in the apartment. He had only been there for a few minutes before Gabe left in a flurry, shoving his wallet in his back pocket and a hat crookedly atop his head. “I have to take care of some business. I’ll be back in like, an hour.”

“An hour?” Pete gapes, falling to the seat of the couch with a plop. “What the fuck, I thought we were going to go out cruising.”

Ashlee had broken up with him a few months earlier with a simple, It’s not like we were going to get married. Their relationship since has been tenuous, at best. The few times they have tried to speak, Pete breaks down mid-speech with hysterical sobs, declarations of his undying love and a plea for her to come back to him. The dial tone is the only thing that can stop his expostulates.

“We are, dude, but,” shrugging on his fashion parka, Gabe continues, “like I said. Business.”

“Business,” Pete scoffs. “Alright, just. Bring me back a churro,” he frowns and waves his hand at him dismissively. Smirking, Gabe salutes him, clicks his heels and marches out the door.

With Gabe gone, it’s just Pete and the tchotchkies. On top of the entertainment center, there are at least seven baseball-themed bobble-heads lined up. As far as he knows, Gabe has no interest in baseball. It’s probably just the allure of their bobble. He walks over and taps each of their heads, and they nod enthusiastically at him.

“This is fucked up,” he sighs.

Over the entertainment center and behind the bobble-heads, there are two original Bad News Bears and National Lampoon’s Vacation posters. Sometimes, occasionally, Gabe does manage to come across some real cool shit.

Pete stands there, staring up at Chevy Chase’s triumphant, muscular figure and the two blondes clutching at his thighs. He replaces Chevy’s face with his own and even substitutes the girls with his own two favorite blondes. It takes him a little longer to assign the remaining parts, but within ten minutes, he’s already recast the entire film in his head. It seems to jive, but he hasn’t seen it in a while, so.

Actually, maybe Gabe has the movie, Pete thinks. He leans down and pops open the cabinets on the entertainment center, rummaging through the DVDs and video tapes that he never bothered to update. There are the usual movies (IE, Zoolander), but no Vacation. Stepping back and looking the rows over, he comes to the conclusion that this couldn’t possibly be it, and there had to be more piles somewhere.

Knowing Gabe has a TV and DVD player in his bedroom, he treks in, shoving the door open wide. It bangs against the plaster of the wall, but Pete doesn’t bother to check if it left a mark or not. If Gabe asks about it later, he’ll just tell him he needs to call Dan Ackroyd or something, ‘cause seriously. Ghosts and shit. ‘Everywhere, yo. You need to get that taken care of.’

The bedroom is almost totally normal. It doesn’t have any freaky posters or bizarre lamps, just a King-sized bed with two nightstands and a television. Cream colored walls and a dark blue comforter on top of the bed, black pillows, and two very sensible reading lamps on either side. According to Gabe, this is where his guests need to be the most comfortable. Despite his love for the shrunken head on the kitchen table, he understands such awesomeness can be intimidating.

Falling to his knees, Pete pulls open the drawers and cabinets underneath the TV stand. No Vacation. Instead he finds scores of plain video cassettes, their black cases neatly lined in a row. There are sticky labels along the sides with Gabe’s chicken scratch printing. Curious, Pete pulls one out and runs a finger over the sticker.

“Me + ‘T,” it reads.

Interesting.

He slides it out of the paper case, slipping into his fingers with muted, plastic clacks. The red tab is pushed in. It must be important.

With that thought in mind, he sits up and reaches for the top cabinet. Below the DVD player, shiny and pricey, is an old-looking VCR. Later, Pete’ll have to lecture Gabe on the digital revolution. Seriously, they sell tape converters everywhere.

After turning the television on, Pete pushes the tape in and proceeds to stare blankly at the machine as it clatters mechanically. VCR’s have been obsolete for like, eight years. Isn’t it supposed to start on its own or something? Grunting, he paws the top of the TV and pulls down a remote. Channel 3 doesn’t work, so he goes for Channel 4 and, bingo. A bright, sickening shade of royal blue engulfs the screen.

“Eee-hee,” Pete squeals happily from his spot on the floor, and pumps his fists in the air. Victorious and muscular, indeed. He jabs at the play button and the screen goes wonky for a few seconds, lines crawling up and down the television. It’s obvious, though, where the video is taking place.

On the screen is an above-shot of Gabe’s bed. Pete instantly cranes his neck back. He doesn’t spot anything at first, just the ceiling light and then, fuck. There’s a vent.

“God, Gabe…” He frowns, and then diverts his attention back to the video. The lighting is low, but not completely off. Just the two reading lamps are on, casting a very suggestive glow. Two figures stumble onto the screen, kissing and groping; one is tall with dark hair and obviously Gabe, and the other is, well. It’s Patrick, Pete mouths his name reflexively. There’s no point in pretending he didn’t recognize him immediately.

His stomach drops.

Gabe towers over Patrick in the video, looms over him practically, hands crawling up his sides and under his shirt. Waggling his eyebrows, Gabe nips at his neck and playfully kisses the tip of his nose. The film’s not the best quality, but Pete’s still able to recognize the lazy way Patrick smiles up at him.

“Hey,” Gabe says, pulling back. Patrick grunts at him, irritated and pouting. “Lift your arms.” He complies readily and Gabe leans down, scrunching the fabric of the shirt between his fingers and yanking up. His hat flies off in the process. Patrick flounders momentarily and then nervously touches the strands around his face, not noticing his crooked glasses.

Pete pulls his knees against his chest, eyes wide. Not for a second does he think to turn it off.

He watches as Gabe backs Patrick onto the bed, pushing him down onto the mattress. It’s a clear, bird’s eye shot of Patrick lying back, practically staring into the camera. Pete eyes his exposed chest, his milky skin and fuck, his jeans tighten at the thought of how far it’s going to go. Gabe’s fucking crazy sometimes.

At the bottom of the screen, Gabe strips himself of his shirt and pops open the top button of his jeans. He doesn’t go to pull them off, though, just kneels at the foot of the bed and crawls up to straddle Patrick. The camera picks up the expanse of Gabe’s back, curving down as he leans in to whisper something.

It’s faint, but still Pete hears it. “I’m going to fuck you so hard.”

“Shit, shit,” Pete swears, hands flying to his hair, fingers pressing hard into his scalp. Nervously, he clenches and unclenches his thighs and digs his chin into his knees. The zipper on his pants is starting to dig into his cock, and it hurts, and he’s ten seconds away from ripping them off.

But then it’s Patrick’s face on the screen, peeking over Gabe’s shoulder. Pete wants to feel guilty, but with the way his eyebrows are knitted together and how the mic is picking up his ragged breaths, there’s not enough blood in his brain for anything other than, “Oh, God, fuck.”

It’s the only emotion Pete’s able to distinguish.

Because Gabe’s hunched over him, it’s hard to see exactly what he’s doing, but Pete gets the idea. There are Patrick’s sighs and gasps, and then the scuffle of him kicking his pants down towards the foot of the bed. They slide down onto the carpet with a dull thud. Gabe sits back on his haunches, pulling out of the way, so the camera can get a good look.

Propping himself up on the bed, Patrick reaches out to grab at Gabe’s forearm and pull him down next to him. Pete takes the time to appreciate how fucking attractive he is. If the film were better quality, he might be able to make out the freckles on the back of his shoulders as they flip around, or the flush that spreads down his chest or-- a chill runs down Pete’s spine. Frowning, he shifts his attention to how Patrick’s hard cock curves against his stomach. He lets his hand drift to the front of his pants.

Side by side on the bed, kissing lazily, Patrick’s hand drifts down from its position at his chest. Gabe sighs as his hand graze his stomach and caresses his hip. Guitar player hands, Pete notes glumly.

Patrick moves his mouth down to Gabe’s neck and nips at his skin, hand still stroking his side. There’s a subtle but definite shift in direction, and Pete has to hand it to Patrick. That was fucking smooth, because instead of at his side, he’s now hovered slightly over Gabe, still kissing his chest and moving southward.

“You’re gorgeous,” Patrick murmurs, it sounding distorted through the speakers. Pete scratches the denim at the front of his jeans just as the camera picks up of Gabe’s manic grin.

“Thanks,” he replies playfully.

Patrick leans down and nuzzles at Gabe’s hip, offering the above-camera an extended shot of Patrick’s smooth back. The last piece of the puzzle falls into place and Pete gets it; he feels ill.

“No, Patrick, don’t,” Pete whines, shaking his head at the screen. “He’s an asshole.” He doesn’t stop palming his monumental, fuck, hard-on through his jeans, though.

Suddenly, though, the video cuts to a new angle. Now both their profiles, closer up, can be seen in the soft light of the room. Patrick is kneeling carefully between Gabe’s legs, shadows playing across his face, and running his hands along the other’s thighs. Quirking his mouth, he bites his lower lip and looks up Gabe through his thin eyebrows.

Gabe returns the grin and then, tossing his head back and cackling, he hoots, “Fuck, let’s get to this.”

Without another word, Patrick brings his palm to his mouth and licks a long stripe, then immediately wraps it around Gabe’s shaft.

“Shit,” Gabe swears lightly.

Pete lets his knees fall from under him, legs stretching out and they almost touch the bottom of the entertainment center. There’s a moment where he drums the floor anxiously, unsure of how to proceed.

Video Patrick laughs and scoots up the bed, closer to Gabe and his cock that sticks out straight in front of him. Fucking camera angles. Hand still gripped tightly around Gabe, he leans down and wraps his lips around the leaking head.

Pete stares rapt. In an instant, he decides what he’s going to do, and lets himself fall back onto the carpet. It burns the back of his arms and his lower back where his shirt rode up, but he ignores it. He claws at his zipper and button and roughly shoves them past his hips, shimmying them furiously down his thighs. It surprises him, how he pops out from the denim, but he rolls with it and grabs at his length.

He scrambles to sit back up, but it’s difficult with his pants still mostly on – plus, he refuses to remove his hand from his dick – so he pushes them further down, till they bunch around his calves. It’s easier after, even if the carpet feels weird against his bare ass.

The mic, wherever Gabe hid it, is picking up the soft murmuring noises Patrick’s making. The camera even catches the contented looks he keeps throwing up at Gabe, his mouth still working up and down his length. Pete bucks into his hand and squeezes tighter, rubbing his thumb around the tip. His other hand idly strokes the tattoo on his stomach, crooking his fingers so the nails occasionally scratch.

Patrick pulls back a little, off but not away. His lips, red and wet, still rest along the slit and it makes Gabe sigh restlessly. He lifts his hips up for contact, but Patrick grins and always rises just a little more.

’Trick,” Gabe groans pathetically. Pete glares at the screen and scratches roughly at his own hip.

Huffing softly, Patrick licks at his mouth and then ducks down again, sweetly pressing a kiss against the head. Gabe seems to be about to whine again, and Patrick seems to realize it, too, so he quickly flicks his tongue out and laps at beading pre-come. He pulls back again, only for a second, before stretching his lips wide and taking him back into his mouth.

“Oh, God, Patrick,” Pete whines, and lets his cock go. He buries his hands under his thighs and sits there silently, glaring at the cream carpet. Carefully ignoring the throbbing, he returns his attention to the video. Gabe has his hands buried in Patrick’s hair, guiding him up and down, saying incoherent things. Patrick doesn’t seem to mind, just watches him and moans pleasantly around his cock.

“Fuck, fuck,” Gabe mutters, eyes clenched and fingers tightening. As a response, Patrick starts to hum. It disappoints Pete a little that it doesn’t seem to be any song in particular. “’Trick, swallow it,” he starts to say again. That seems to be a trigger, as Patrick instantly pulls out of his grasp and leans back. Gabe groans in disappointment and makes grabby hands at him.

“Hey, no,” Patrick says roughly. “You’re supposed to fuck me, remember?”

Pete lets out a terrified wail and bounces lightly on the floor, afraid to touch himself and afraid to come.

On the bed, Gabe lets his head fall back against the pillow for a second and closes his eyes to avoid seeing the serene way Patrick smiles up at him. “Right,” he agrees, eyes fluttering open. The redhead beams and daintily crawls his way up Gabe’s body, straddling him lightly. They kiss deeply and Gabe seems to enjoy the way he tastes in the other singer’s mouth.

Little white lines mar the tape momentarily, futzing the footage and Pete twists his mouth up distractedly. He holds his breath as the screen wobbles and stretches bizarrely, muting their tiny moans and sighs, and Pete feels the dull, heavy pounding in his chest. When the cassette finally evens out, he sighs in relief.

“Yeah, thank fuck,” his heart and libido murmur in agreement.

The two on the television are in differing positions now; Patrick on his back, knees bent and thighs falling open. A small, knowing smile plays on his lips, while Gabe looms over him from between his legs. There’s a brief flash of Gabe grinning and lowering his eyes, then quickly casting a sidelong glance at the camera. Pete was almost too preoccupied kicking the tangled mess of jeans off from around his ankles to notice. He did, though, and it filled him with rage.

“I fucking hate you so bad, Gabe,” he says darkly and grabs at his dick.

Leaning over the singer, Gabe reaches up around him and scrambles blindly for something under the pillow. He pulls out a small container of lube and a darkly colored condom packet.

Patrick huffs softly and says something, but Pete can’t make it out. He hears Gabe’s response, though, of, “No, just hoped.” Thighs spread out, hand on his cock, Pete frowns and murmurs to himself the words ‘fucking’ and ‘liar’. He has to admit, though, that is pretty smooth. It’s probably (most definitely) something he, himself has used before.

In the video, Gabe temporarily sets the items down next to him and places his hands rather significantly on Patrick’s open thighs. The way he caresses them and murmurs things softly to him causes a sharp, angry pain in Pete’s stomach. His body is rejecting this reality, the one in which Patrick blows Gabe and he, not Pete, gets to hear his sexy noises. It is a bad reality.

Gabe hunches down and licks at the underside of Patrick’s cock, and the mic picks up his sharp inhale. The hiss is clearer and more audible than anything Pete’s ever heard. It makes him squeeze his eyes shut and run his thumb over the tip of his dick. He almost misses Gabe reaching up and dipping two of his fingers into Patrick’s mouth. They both moan and it’s all very horrifying to Pete.

Because of the low video tape resolution, Gabe’s spit shiny fingers only register as having a vague sheen through the television. His other hand, the one that had been resting along Patrick’s inner thigh, creeps up his torso and rubs attentively at his stomach. Patrick’s eyes flutter closed at the gesture and his soft sigh is barely heard on the tape.

Pete’s long strokes pick up again the moment Gabe moves his hand to between Patrick’s legs. There are sharp, stinging pains behind his eyes, but he just twists his wrist and tries his best to ignore it. He’s pretty sure it’s just his conscience trying to short-circuit his brain and there’s nothing he can do about that, other than to stop watching. Breath hitching, Pete works his hand down his length, fingers slipping to rub at his balls.

What he really wants is to just squeeze his eyes shut and stroke it out. But on screen, Gabe is pressing two fingers into Patrick. And that’s, that’s-- Pete tightens his fingers around his cock. The smoky coil in his stomach tightens and he can feel the beginning of a pull between his legs.

Gabe thrusts his fingers in and out of Patrick’s ass and smiles down at him like he knows something. It’s too terrible for Pete to openly acknowledge. There’s a distant, approaching clatter nearby, but Pete’s too busy pushing into his own hand to really pay any attention to it.

The camera zooms in slightly and Patrick’s face comes into better focus. Mouth red and wet, Pete stares licentiously and twitches his hips into his hand. He falters a bit and his leaking head drags along the inside of his palm. It feels sickeningly good.

Breathing shallowly, Pete rolls his hips into his hand one last time and feels the chord snap. He misses Gabe bounding towards the room, swinging the door open widely. It thuds against the wall like it did with Pete earlier.

“Hey!”

Shit,” Pete swears loudly, and comes in long spurts over his bare torso and, in his surprise, on Gabe’s beige carpet. Fuck him if Gabe thinks he’s going to clean that up. As his jizz settles into the lush carpeting, Pete blinks and looks up at him. He seems so much taller, suddenly, but that’s probably because Pete’s still on the floor, naked.

“Dude, is that my tape?” Gabe asks him plainly. The tape’s still running—video-Gabe thrusting and grunting on the screen. Patrick’s moaning and arching his back. Pete pointedly doesn’t watch, but Gabe doesn’t seem at all scandalized, much to his dismay.

Managing as much discontent as he can, he huffs, “Yes, you fucking pervert.” His flaccid penis lies idly between his legs. Gabe just frowns and, like the gentleman he is, fishes into his pocket and pulls out a ratty tissue. He tosses it down onto the floor next to Pete.

“I just really can’t believe you sometimes,” Pete continues, as he picks the paper up and begins to wipe the white streaks from his stomach. The tissue is thin, though, and it quickly starts to shred from the use. “This is a whole new low for you.”

“You missed some,” Gabe points at his left pectoral. “And also, what the fuck?”

The only thing Pete can think to do is scoff righteously at him, their moans from the tape still echoing throughout the room. He scrambles to his knees and pushes himself up, before bending down to grab at his boxer-briefs. He picks a leg up and steps into them, the waistband snapping at his hips. The jeans prove to be more difficult, and he ends up hopping around spastically. Gabe, politely, doesn’t mention it.

“Did you use some kind of sex drug on him?” Pete starts again, slightly out of breath from re-dressing.

“What!” Gabe cries with faux-indignity and waves his hand dismissively. He crosses his arms and slyly adds, “I don’t even know where I’d go to get that.”

Pete sighs resignedly while Gabe crosses the room to pause the tape and pull it our of the VCR. It’s matte black and dated and it looks almost completely innocuous. Pete’s universe is crumbling around him.

“Seriously, though, dude,” Gabe begins, the video clinking and clunking in his hands as he gestures. The bassist eyes it warily, like it’s a ticking bomb. “Don’t tell Patrick, he’ll get really pissed.”

Uh,” Pete begins affectedly, cocking his head, “he should get pissed. You violated him and his privacy and his trust--”

But Gabe is prompt to interrupt him, “Pfft, says the dude jerking off to it,” and Pete really has no response for that. Clenching the tape in his hands, Gabe jiggles it enticingly in Pete’s direction. “You can borrow it if you want,” he suggests lightly, biting his lip to hamper down a grin.

Pete squawks, “I don’t want to watch you fuck Patrick!” and crosses his arms in what is a sure sign of protest.

Across from him, Gabe raises an eyebrow and coyly shrugs. Then he offers simply, “Just like, copy and paste your face over mine, or something.”

“That’s stupid!” Pete glowers. “You’re stupid!”

But they both know he’s seriously considering it.



AN: I started this in January and managed to put it off for eight months. I would go gold in the sport of procrastination. Also, you shouldn't feel bad for Pete. Him and Patrick are obvs MFEO, and Gabe is just being Gabe, so.

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