bandomstuffsit

Title: Clandestine Boys (Have Nothing to Hide)
Author:

fictionalaspect
Pairing(s): Pete/Patrick
Rating: R
Warnings: Repeated (lighthearted) references to past consensual sex where one of the parties was underage, fisting, bdsm, crossdressing, masturbation, and having sex on camera.
Word count: 18,900
Summary: Soul Punk Studios is Patrick's baby, the only thing he's ever built in life with his own two (metaphorical) hands. But music production isn't the most stable profession at the best of times, and if Patrick can't come up with his back rent soon, he's going to lose everything, job and studio included. Enter Joe Trohman, Patrick's right-hand man in the studio, and Joe's old friend Pete--who just happens to run the biggest queer porn studio this side of L.A...
Notes:This is a silly, old-school, highly inaccurate pan-bandom romp about Pete owning a queer porn studio which is loosely (very loosely) based on some plot elements in Zack and Miri Make a Porno. A little bird told me you've been longing for a bandom AU of this movie, so I hope you enjoy! Happy Holidays! ♥ (and thank you also to D for the quick beta! ♥)

"So," Mr. Wentz says, digging through the haphazard layer of papers that covers his desk. Patrick isn't even sure where is application is anymore, and he'd only handed it to Mr. Wentz a few minutes ago. He stays silent and watches as Mr. Wentz digs through the pile, tossing papers on top of an old computer monitor and muttering.

(It's weird thinking of the dude in front of him as a Mister. He can't be that much older than Patrick and he's covered in tattoos and his shirt says something about gay rights that simultaneously makes a fisting joke.

At least, Patrick thinks it makes a fisting joke. He's not really up on the lingo. The fisting lingo.)

"Fuck, okay," Mr. Wentz says. "Here. This is it. Because I'm assuming you're not Anjelica Rupert." He picks up another application, squinting and looking around for a moment before filing it on top of a Transformers lunchbox.

"I thought you only did male shoots," Patrick says, and he's entirely proud of the way that his voice comes out nice and even and solid. Perhaps even a little sharp, but he's starting to get the feeling that Mr. Wentz either doesn't notice or doesn't care.

"We do," Mr. Wentz says. "Clandestine Boys is one hundred percent dick, all the time. Major selling point. But Switchblades and Lace is our sister company, and Ashlee's studio is just down the street."

"Right," Patrick says. "I'm not Anjelica Rupert."

"Just checking," Mr. Wentz says, with a shrug. "You could be. This is a queer-friendly establishment." He points to the little rainbow triangle sign on the door.

"Right," Patrick says, after blinking at Mr. Wentz for a moment. "Uh. Well. Cool." Apparently Joe hadn't been kidding about this place being a little different from—well, every other porn studio on the planet. Which is actually kind of awesome, because it means Patrick might have a shot at making this whole stupid idea work.

"Anyway," Mr. Wentz says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "So you're not Anjelica. You're Patrick Stump, and my good friend Joe sent you here, and you're willing to do combo shoots but you would prefer to start out solo, and—" He pauses, scanning down the sheet filled with Patrick's vitals and measurements and blood type. "Nine inc—Wow, okay, that'll work," Mr. Wentz says. "Yeah. You ever jerked off on camera before?"

"Keep reading," Patrick says, and wills his cheeks not to blush. This whole idea is so
stupid, but Joe had seemed to think it was perfect, and if Patrick doesn't come up with a lot of cash, soon, he's going to lose the studio. His dignity is a small price to pay for the one thing that Patrick's ever built out of nothing with his own two hands.

"Huh," Mr. Wentz says, when he gets to the "Religious/Personal/Medical Restrictions" line. "You don't want to get naked?"

"That's a thing, right?" Patrick says. "Like. Being all half-clothed and shit. Or mostly clothed. That's a sexy thing, right? People go for that. They do. People totally go for that."

"Sometimes," Mr. Wentz says, kicking back in his chair and giving Patrick a long, thoughtful once-over. "It's not what we usually sell, but we do hire the character, not the script."

"The what?" Patrick says.

"We hire characters," Mr. Wentz says, leaning forward again. "You come on board, you get a persona, a new name, a backstory. We write the script around the characters, so it's always something that works for everyone involved."

"Thats..." Patrick stares at him. "Extremely enlightened for the porn industry," is what he comes up with.

"Well, it also encourages repeat viewing," Mr. Wentz points out. "Some of our guys have a pretty hard-core internet following. It's all about selling the image. We sell cute, adorable, sexy gay porn idols who will do filthy, filthy things on camera. I'm just trying to think about how we can work a never-nude into that."

"I'm not a never-nude," Patrick says. "You know that's fake, right? Like Arrested Development made that up."

"Says you," Mr. Wentz says. "How do you feel about debauching?"

"What?" Patrick says.

"We need to play up your virginal looks," Mr. Wentz says, squinting at him. His voice has dropped a little, something low and husky, and Patrick shifts uncomfortably under his gaze. "Yeah. Shy virgin, light hair, great mouth, secret jerk-off sessions in the bathroom? Yeah. And maybe you're biting your fist to keep the sounds in because you don't want your parents to hear, and you've got your dick pulled out of your shorts, and you're sliding your fingers just over the tip, and bucking your hips up—"

"Uh," Patrick says, because wow, that was detailed. He's a little hard. "Fuck."

"It's hot, right?" Mr. Wentz says, and grins wide and delighted at him. "I'm going to write that one down. Definitely something we can work with for your first shoot. But if we take you on, I think we're going to have to agree that you need to do some non-solo shoots. It's the only way your storyline can really come to fruition."

"Do I get to pick who it is?" Patrick says, frowning.

"It won't be for at least a month or two," Mr. Wentz says, waving his hand. "But yeah, meet the other guys, decide which ones you'd be okay with shooting some scenes with and get back to me. That's fine."

"So—that's it?" Patrick says, not sure he's parsing this whole conversation correctly. "I'm in, and I can keep most of my clothes on?"

"Yep," Mr. Wentz says, turning back to his desk littered with papers. He fumbles around under a stack of take-out menus, and comes up with a bright-pink file folder. He shoves Patrick's application into it and says, "I like you, and you're hot, and you apparently have a huge dick, and Joe likes you, and it's something we haven't tried before. Why not? Variety is the spice of life."

"Great," Patrick says, and tries not to let his flood of relief show through to his expression. Thank fuck for Joe and his weirdo hardcore queer porn-shooting friends. "Thanks, Mr. Wentz. Thank you."

Mr. Wentz rolls his eyes. "Just call me Pete," he says, rising up out of his chair to shake Patrick's hand with a firm, almost painfully tight grip. "I don't even bother with the Mr. Wentz shit anymore. It's really hard to enforce that kind of authority structure when your crew is just sitting around watching you get fisted all day."

"You—" Patrick pauses. "You shoot your own videos?"

"Go home and take a closer look at the site," Pete says, giving him a smirk. He leans over Patrick's shoulder and plucks a business card out of a fishbowl that's resting precariously on top of a file cabinet and then tucks it in the front pocket of Patrick's jacket. "Your membership code is on the card. I'll call you in a few days when the paperwork is ready and you can come back in and sign everything. I'll get Gabe to give you a tour. He's my right-hand guy."

"Great," Patrick says. He follows Pete out of the studio and shakes his hand again, and then he steps out of the studio into the late-morning Chicago light and dials Joe on his cell.

"I got it," Patrick says, as soon as he picks up. He can hear the repeating loop of a drum track in the background, which means Darren hasn't quite nailed down the drums on that Weeping Willow song yet. "I'm in."

"Sweet," Joe says easily. He sounds stoned. If he's been smoking joints in the studio with Bob again, Patrick is going to kill him. He doesn't need his soundboards to smell like weed. "What'd you do, promise him studio time?"

"Oh," Patrick says, and blinks. Joe did say that he knew Pete from way back in the Chicago screamo scene; maybe that would have made more sense then pitching Pete his never-nude proposal. "No, uh, I just told I him I didn't want to get really naked and he thought about it and came up with a scenario," Patrick says. He tries and fails to ignore a memory of Pete's voice detailing how Patrick—Patrick's character—was going to jerk off. Maybe this is something he's just going to have to get used to now that he's making professional queermo porn.

"Was it hot?" Joe says. "Did he hit on you? Pete hits on everyone. He hit on me a few times. It's like his own special version of a handshake. It just means he thinks you're neat."

"I don't know," Patrick says fumbling in his wallet for his bus pass. "It's kind of hard to tell. We were talking about how I'm going to jerk off on camera, like, it's sort of his job to say sexy shit."

"Word," Joe agrees. "You coming back? We're about to lay down the percussion tracks and then I think Greta has some stuff she wanted to talk to you about."

"Yeah, I'm already on my way," Patrick says, hurrying across the street to the nearest bus stop because he can see the 157 heading down the road towards him. "Don't lay down the marimba stuff until I'm there, okay?"

"Will do," Joe says solemnly. "We will save the marimba for your gentle loving fingers alone."

"Shut the fuck up," Patrick says. "I'll be there in twenty, okay?"

"Affirmative," Joe says. "And hey, dude? Congrats."

"Thanks," Patricks says. "I think."

—

Patrick spends the next few days deep in the studio with The Hush Sound, emerging only to eat and make some necessary phone calls and shift money around so the studio can stay afloat until he gets his first advance. He sticks Joe on office duty, which means that Joe gets to watch Kevin Smith's entire oeuvre on Patrick's shitty old laptop in Patrick's tiny windowless office and order everyone food when they get hungry and wait for the phone to ring. It doesn't, not with anything important, until Thursday morning when Joe sticks his head out of the office and tells Patrick that he has to take the call.

"Be right back," Patrick mouths through the glass at Bob, who nods and continues laying down the backing guitar parts.

"Who is it?" Patrick says, turning to Joe and taking the cordless phone out of his hand.

"Pete," Joe says, winking at him. "He wants you to come in to tour the studios. And then he wants to take pictures of your dick."

"He does not," Patrick says flatly, his heart suddenly racing in his chest. The phone squawks in his hand, and Patrick sighs and raises it to his ear.

"Pete, hi," he says, and hopes he sounds like a professional, competent studio owner and not someone who just nearly swallowed his own tongue at the thought of showing Pete Wentz his dick. "What can I do for you?"

"Paperwork's all set," Pete says. "You want to come down and get the tour? Or are you guys busy in the studio?"

"Uh," Patrick says, considering. He slants his eyes over at Bob, who is lost in his own world behind the studio glass. "Not too busy, I guess. Joe can take it from here."

"Great," Pete says. "Great. We're shooting a couple of different scenes today for Hot Asses 3, so you'll get a feel for what we offer. You checked out the website, right?"

"Sure," Patrick lies. He's been practically sleeping at the studio all week, and Pete's card is still sitting untouched in his front jacket pocket. Hot Asses 3 sounds terrifying. Patrick doesn't have a hot ass. "Yeah. Good stuff. Very, uh. Sexy."

"We like to think so," Pete says easily. "So hey, can you make it here by around two?"

"Will do," Patrick promises. "I'll see you then." He hangs up, and then hands the phone back to Joe.

"Sexy porno times?" Joe says, wiggling his eyebrows at him. "Can I come?"

"You're not invited," Patrick says. "You get to watch the studio while I'm gone."

"Just promise you'll tell me everything when you meet the girls from Switchblades and Lace," Joe says, giving Patrick a rueful look. "Tell me, and take lots of pictures. On-set pictures. Close-up ones."

"I am not fueling your jerk-off fantasies even a little bit," Patrick says, and privately resolves to ask Pete if he can snag Joe one of those free memberships at some point in the future.

—

Gabe Saporta is very tall, very thin, very handsome, and he likes to fist people.

These are the first facts that Patrick learns about him once he steps through the door of Clandestine Studios as an official employee-to-be, although as Gabe points out, they certainly won't be the last.

"If you wanted to shoot a scene together, I'd be down," Gabe says, giving Patrick a winning smile and a long once-over as they walk side-by-side down the hall to business office. "How big's the package? Pete said it's pretty big. Think we could go for a jerk-off contest? Those always get lots of hits. The internet loves that shit."

"Wow," Patrick manages. "Uh."

"Two big dicks, lots of come," Gabe says, flashing him another saucy smile. "My favorite thing. Pete's favorite thing, too. Okay, it's this door, right here," Gabe says, steering Patrick into a room to his left. He thinks Gabe might be teasing him, but he's not entirely sure. It's slightly worrying.

In contrast to Pete's office, the business office is well-organized and mostly spotless. There is a small and very tattooed man sitting behind the desk in a baseball cap, watching the game on his laptop.

"Paperwork's on the desk," he says, without looking away from the screen. "I put those little sticky arrow things where you have to sign. Just drop it off in my inbox when you're done." He pauses for a moment, and then continues with a thoughtful, "Welcome to the company. Don't fuck it up."

"Thanks?" Patrick says, picking up the stack of papers carefully and edging away. Gabe nods at him when they're back outside, continuing to walk down the center hallway. "That's Brian," Gabe says. "He's really serious about baseball sometimes. You just kind of have to roll with it."

"Right," Patrick says. "No, that's cool. Understandable."

"If you're into that sort of thing," Gabe says, shrugging as he leads Patrick into what seems to be a green room. There's only one person in there, a little guy with big glasses and a guitar resting on his lap, and Patrick stares openly as he connects the familiar face with a name.

"Brendon?" Patrick says, and Brendon Urie grins and jumps up from his seat on the couch, tripping across the room to give Patrick a one-armed hug, guitar still in hand.

"Dude," Brendon says, beaming at him. He looks different than he did at seventeen; he's filled out, grown into his features, and Patrick realizes with a weird sort of shock that Brendon is no longer tiny and adorable. He's hot, and it's throwing Patrick for a loop.

"Holy shit, I didn't even make the connection," Brendon says, rocking up on his toes a little. "Everyone was talking about how we'd hired some guy named Patrick but I didn't think it was you."

"Hah, yeah," Patrick says awkwardly, looking down at his feet. He's pretty sure that no one who has ever met him would suspect him of being the type of person to willingly whip his dick out on camera, which is partially why this whole gig makes so much sense. If anyone ever recognizes him, Patrick is pretty sure they'll just convince themselves it's a disturbingly close doppelganger. "We, ah. The studio could use some extra cash."

"Word," Brendon says solemnly. "This is how I pay for my studio time in LA. Shit, I haven't seen you in forever. Did you get the copy of Mona Lisa I sent you?"

"Oh yeah," Patrick says, starting to grin. "Yeah, of course. I actually - Track Five is loaded onto the third soundboard, you know, the one with all the samples? Because that shit you did with with the layering was awesome, and sometimes I can't figure out how to explain what I want from a vocalist and then I just have to press the button and they can hear it," Patrick says. Brendon grins at him, bright and wide. Patrick has always wondered if maybe he shouldn't have encouraged Brendon to move out to LA after high school, because even at sixteen Brendon was stupidly talented, a bona-fide musical genius just waiting to break free. He'd come into Patrick's studio off the street with $500 and a guitar and a plea for just two minutes of Patrick's time to show Patrick he was worth it, and the minute he'd opened his mouth Patrick had known he was going to let this kid record a demo whether he could pay for it or not. It sucks that Brendon's amazing talent isn't associated with Soul Punk Studios except by word of mouth, but Patrick can live with that. There was never any question in his mind that Brendon had been worth taking a chance on.

"That's amazing," Brendon says. "Coming from you, I mean—such an honor, you know? Dude, I have so much to tell you, I've been working with this amazing guy in LA—" but before he can finish his story Gabe's wrapping his large palm around Brendon's shoulder.

"B, your scene starts shooting in an hour, and Patrick needs to fill out his new hire paperwork," Gabe says. "Talk while you suit up, okay?"

"Oh, totally," Brendon says, nodding at Gabe. "Sorry, I just—Patrick took a chance on me when I was like sixteen and broke. He's awesome. He's got his own studio downtown and he's seriously like the best producer in Chicago."

"Did he now," Gabe says, and Patrick doesn't think he's imagining the new-found respect in Gabe's eyes. He can definitely see why Pete put him in charge.

"It was just—you know," Patrick fumbles. "I mean. It's Brendon."

"It is," Gabe agrees. "Truer words, my friend. But listen, I need to head out and check on the scenes that are already filming," Gabe says. "Lots of cock that needs my attention. I'll be back for you, Stump. Just hang around here and fill that stuff out. Or hang out with Brendon in the dressing room or something."

"Okay," Patrick says, and follows Brendon's excited voice through a door in the back of the room, into to a well-lit closet stuffed with lingerie.

"Just put the guitar down in the corner," Brendon says, tugging his shirt off and starting in on his pants. Patrick blinks at him, and then he sets Brendon's guitar down in the corner. He knows that people generally have to get naked to do porn, and that the fact that Brendon needs to get ready for his shoot means that Brendon needs to be naked. He just hadn't connected those facts with the fact that Brendon is suddenly completely fucking naked in front of him until right now.

"So what's your specialty going to be?" Brendon says, pulling what looks like a large alcohol wipe out of a tub and carefully rubbing himself down. He's already entirely shaved—legs, balls, armpits, everything—and Patrick wonders if he's going to have to do that. Maybe he'll just have to shave his dick, since it's only part anyone's going to see. But if he's supposed to be some blushing virgin why would he shave his dick? That's stupid. Maybe he should talk to Pete about that.

"Uh," Patrick says, and tries not to stare at Brendon's dick as it waves around. Brendon has one of those model-perfect bodies, and the whole package is rather distracting. "It's going to be a semi-clothed thing. Like, really playing up the innocent virgin, doesn't want to get naked, that kind of thing."

"Oh nice," Brendon says, nodding approvingly. "Maybe we could do a scene together once you've done some solo vids. Maybe your innocent persona wants to explore the dark side." He's tugging on a pair of tiny black satin panties, and Patrick's having a lot of trouble looking away.

"What's your specialty?" Patrick says, even though he thinks he might know the answer. Brendon's leaning over now, gathering up a pair of black seamed stockings up into a circle before pointing his toe and sliding his left leg into them.

"Three guesses," Brendon says, grinning at him. "Nah, I mean, I don't always do the crossdressing thing? But I have a great ass, and I do a lot of spanking scenes. It looks awesome on camera with the thigh-highs."

"Right," Patrick says. "Of course."

"I need you to help me get into the corset, though," Brendon says, sliding his other leg into the stockings and then clipping a garter belt around his waist. It hangs low on his hips and frames his crotch and wow, Patrick seriously cannot look anywhere but Brendon's dick right now, which he supposes means the outfit is working. "It's really hard to lace it up without help."

"There's a corset?" Patrick says dumbly, and then rolls his eyes at himself because duh, of course there's a corset. Brendon is standing next to a rack full of corsets in thigh-high stockings and a garter belt. A corset is the next obvious step.

"It's the one at the front," Brendon says, doing a little shimmy-step in the mirror to make sure his garter belt will stay on. "Can you grab it for me? I'm just going to put the plug in."

"Oh my god," Patrick says incredulously, because okay, fuck it, he's played this really cool so far but Brendon is lubing up a fairly large buttplug with a completely unconcerned expression and jesus christ, maybe Patrick isn't cut out for this.

Brendon smirks at him in the mirror, giving him a little wink. "It's okay," Brendon says. "I went and threw up in the bathroom on my first day here. And then I went home and jerked off for like two hours. You get used to it."

"Yeah," Patrick says. "I do. I just. Is it rude? If I watch you do it? Because I don't think I can not watch you do that right in front of me. Except that's weird, right? Because I'm not all blase about it? Fuck, maybe I shouldn't watch—oh fuck," Patrick says, because Brendon is tugging his panties down and just sliding the plug in, no big deal, and Patrick can see everything, can see how his body just takes it, all snug and perfect, and his ass is framed by the garter belt and now Patrick is hard and this is awkward.

"Nah," Brendon says, pulling his panties back up. His voice sounds a little breathier than it was a moment ago. "You can watch my scene, if you want. I got rid of all my shame a long time ago. Hand me the corset?"

"I have lots of shame," Patrick says, handing the corset to Brendon. It's black and silky, with lace all over and cream ribbons down the back. "Lots and lots of it."

"Nobody's perfect," Brendon says. He wiggles himself into the circle of the corset with his hands above his head, and then one he's got it settled around his hips he looks over his shoulder at Patrick. "It's like lacing up a shoe," Brendon says. "Just go slow, I kind of like my ribcage the way it is."

"It's a very nice ribcage," Patrick says, and then resolves to never speak again. He concentrates on figuring out the laces instead, poking here and pulling there until it's nice and tight against Brendon's skin. He tells himself that Brendon isn't wearing a plug right now, so there's no point in looking down to see if he can see the shape of it through the panties. It's just a figment of his imagination, that's all. He totally dreamed it up. Totally.

"Great," Brendon says, when he's all done. "Thanks. I just need to do my makeup and stuff, and I'll be all set. You should sign your paperwork, Gabe will be back soon."

"Shit," Patrick says, and fumbles through his pockets for a pen. He signs hurriedly at all the arrows and tells himself he'll read the fine print later. He trusts Pete, even though he's only met him once, and most of the forms he glances at deal with things like privacy notices and making sure Patrick gets a battery of medical tests and bloodwork before he's allowed to shoot a scene. He doesn't think Clandestine Industries is out to screw him.

Figuratively, anyway.

"Okay," Brendon says, turning around once he's finished his primping. As far as Patrick can tell Brendon's just added some smudgy eye-makeup-stuff and made his mouth all pink and shiny. It's subtle, but noticeable, and it makes Patrick kind of want to give him a thumbs-up for being really good at this crossdressing thing but maybe that's rude or something.

"I need my heels, and we can go," Brendon says. "I need to run over to the set real quick and see if Spence needs me for scene blocking for before we start." He gives Patrick an expectant look, eyes flickering over his head, and Patrick stares cluelessly at Brendon for a moment before he thinks to turn around and oh, duh, he's standing in front of a small shelf full of shoe boxes. He picks the one labeled BDEN :)! in thick sharpie off the shelf and hands it over to Brendon, who tugs out the stilettos inside and slips them on. Patrick turns to grab Brendon's guitar, but Brendon shakes his head, smiling at Patrick as he stands up and crosses the tiny room, his gait noticeably different now that he's wearing heels.

"Don't worry about it, no one will touch it," Brendon says. "Pete stole half his staff from Chicago's indie music scene when he first opened up. No one at Clandestine would willingly damage my guitar."

"That's good," Patrick agrees, setting the guitar more carefully in the corner so it won't fall over while they're gone. "I like this company's priorities."

"Me too," Brendon says. "It's pretty much why I work here." He opens the door that leads out to the green room, and Patrick follows him out, a little taken aback at the change in atmosphere. When he'd left to help Brendon get ready, it had been a quiet, cozy room full of threadbare couches, strewn haphazardly with backpacks and personal belongings. Now there are at least twelve people crammed into the tiny room, perched on couch arms and sitting on laps, laughing and eating and drinking.

"Everyone, this is Patrick," Brendon says, to the room at large, giving a little wave and a nod in Patrick's direction. He doesn't raise his voice, but Patrick notices that almost everyone stops to at least listen to what Brendon has to say, giving Patrick a friendly nod or a smile. He wonders how long Brendon's been working here, to have that kind of seniority over the rest of staff—and then he remembers Brendon was sixteen when he first met him, and attempts to erase that train of thought all together. He thinks he's probably better off not knowing when Brendon started working for Pete's porn company.

"Just hang out, okay?" Brendon says, giving Patrick's shoulder a squeeze. "Find an empty chair and introduce yourself to people. Everyone's pretty nice. I need to run and find Spencer."

"Sure," Patrick says, and goes to find an empty seat. He's not the best at meeting new people, but there's an empty folding chair in the corner next to a large, muscular guy and Patrick decides that at the very least, Muscular Guy looks pretty engrossed in his copy of Musician's Friend. It's less intimidating than trying to squeeze himself on to one of the couches with lots of people he doesn't know yet.

Muscles Guy nods at Patrick when he sits down, giving him a friendly smile, but stays silent, wrapped up in his reading. Patrick has enough time to look over and discern that yeah, this guy is really big compared to Patrick, and yeah, that's definitely like, body oil that he's covered in and yeah, that's definitely an erection that's poking up from under his modesty towel. Muscles Guy seems unconcerned by all of this, occasionally shaking his brown curls out of his eyes when he needs to turn a page, but otherwise remaining still and silent.

"So," Patrick says, when he can't take it any longer. He wants to say something like dude, you have a boner, how can you concentrate on that magazine? but he doesn't, because that would be a weird and creepy thing to say to someone he's barely met, even on the set of a porn studio. "What's your, um, specialty?"

"Huh?" the guy says, looking up and focusing on Patrick as if he's just noticed that Patrick is there. "Oh, my, um. Yeah. I—mostly I fuck people," the guy says, looking amused. He has a high, surprisingly squeaky voice for such a big guy. He looks down at his lap, and then back up at Patrick. "Yeah," the guy says unnecessarily. "I didn't really—Pete said I didn't really need a specialty."

"I can see that," Patrick says.

"I'm Ray," the guy says, reaching out to shake Patrick's hand. His palm is greasy. "Ray Toro. Nice to meet you."

"That's a great name," Patrick says approvingly, once he's flashed back to 9th grade Spanish class. "How do you guys come up with the names, anyway? Do the writers give them to us, or do we get to pick?"

"Oh—no, that's my actual name," the guy says, flashing Patrick a big smile. "Ironic, right? No, my character's name is Steven Jones."

"Oh," Patrick says.

"Yeah," Ray says. "Anyway, you can come up with something on your own, and if you don't the writers can come up with something for you. Find out who's in charge of your character in the writing department and then you can go from there."

"I am," a girl says, leaning over the back of the couch to give Patrick a smile. She has short blond hair, and she's wearing a lot of eye makeup. "I told Ryan he couldn't have you. What do you think about Jameson Smith? Too prep school? Actually, hey—" she cuts off, setting her sandwich aside on someone's lap and fumbling in her bag for a pen. "Prep school," she mutters, writing the words on the back of her hand. "Prep school. I like it. How do you feel about school uniforms? Ties?"

"Great," Patrick says, nodding emphatically. The more clothing he gets to wear, the better.

"Are you going to eat this?" the guy next to her says, raising his eyebrow. He's tall and handsome and covered in tattoos, and Patrick feels his face heat just a little at the idea that he could conceivably shoot a scene with this guy. It doesn't help that he's only wearing a towel, his skin shiny and glistening just like Ray's. "Because seriously, if you don't take it back, I'm going to eat it."

"Go for it," the girl says, still writing on her hand. "I'm Z, by the way," Z says, nodding at Patrick. "And this is Travis—" she points to the guy next to her, digging into the other half of her sandwich—"and Mikey, Shane, Ian, Ryan, Tom, Frank and Bob." She goes around the room as she points, and Patrick nods along, trying desperately to match names to faces so he'll remember.

"We have two full crews," the guy named Shane tells Patrick, chasing the last pasta noodle out of his tupperware container with a fork. "Spencer and I each head up a team, and we can both split our teams down even further so we can run up to four scenes at once if we need to. You'll get a small team at first, I think - Pete said something about you only wanting to do solo shoots for a while?" Shane looks expectantly at Patrick, so Patrick nods, feeling the weight of the room's eyes on him. Their gaze isn't unfriendly, but Patrick still kind of sucks at being the center of attention. He can feel himself starting to blush.

"Yeah, for solo shoots Spence and I will probably just set everything up and then pop in and out and make sure everything's running okay," Shane says. "You'll have either Dallon or Bob here behind the camera—" he points to the blond guy with the beard, who stays expressionless—"and you'll have either Jon or Tom shooting stills, and that's it. As long as you memorize the script, you'll be fine."

"And don't come all over everything before you're supposed to," the tiny guy with the curly hair adds, to a general round of laughter. Shane rolls his eyes. "This is my cousin Ian," he says, jerking a finger at the tiny guy. "He managed to hit Jon's camera lens once by accident, and he's still way too damn proud of that fact."

"Hazards of the job," Ian says, grinning at Patrick. Patrick can't help by smile back—Ian's whole face just lights up when he smiles, and it's infectious. "I would have tried to hit Shane, but he was too far away."

"Isn't that weird for you guys?" Patrick says, before he realizes that maybe that's not a tactful thing to ask in case it is weird. But Shane had mentioned that they were cousins right away, so maybe Patrick's okay.

"Nah" Shane says, grinning. "I just spend a lot of time staring very firmly at Ray's ass." Patrick whips his head around, looking back and forth between Ian and Ray because like—wow. That's one hell of a size difference there. A sexy, sexy size difference. Ray hides behind his magazine and pretends not to notice them, but when he turns the pages Patrick can see that he's blushing. He wonders if the blush is for Shane or for Ian, and then he's interrupted by the arrival of Gabe, bursting into the room while clapping his hands to a syncopated beat like he's about to start beatboxing.

"No more Micheal Jackson," the blond guy with the faux-hawk tells him witheringly. Patrick thinks his name might be Mikey.

"Victoria lets me sing Michael Jackson to her when she's getting ready to film," Gabe croons, leaning on the back of the couch so he's even closer to Mikey.

"Victoria loves you more than I do," Mikey tells him, not cracking a smile. "And you didn't prank Victoria's set this morning by switching all of her prerecorded soundboard moans to Micheal Jackson."

"That's what you think," Gabe says, flashing him a smile. "Anyway. People! Lunch ends in ten, vamanos, let's go," Gabe calls out, still clapping along to his own beat. Patrick's starting to recognize it—it's either the bridge from A-B-C, or I Want You Back. Or both. His toe is starting to tap along to the beat.

Everyone groans and begins to stand up, dumping Tupperware back into messenger bags and shoving paper plates and empty soda cans into the trash. "Hey," Ian says, suddenly closer, and Patrick looks up only to see he's talking to Ray, standing in front of Ray's chair and shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"Hey," Ray says, blinking up at Ian and then smiling awkwardly, lowering his magazine. Patrick stays right where he is, unwilling to interrupt.

"How'd this morning go?" Ian says, rubbing the back of his neck and not making eye contact with Ray. "With the solo shoot? Everything work out okay?" He's blushing.

"Yeah, no, it was great," Ray says. "I mean, uh, no money shot, because Spencer said we're going to swap in an old one, so, you know." He coughs. "Ready to go, and all that." Ray is definitely blushing.

"Good," Ian says, almost too quick. "Great. That's great. I'm going to uh—run and shower? I didn't get a chance this morning. But I'll be in a sec, okay? And then we can run through the positions and the framing?"

"Sure, sure," Ray says, bobbing his head, and Patrick thinks, oh my god, they're totally gone for each other.

"How often do you and Ian shoot together?" Patrick asks casually, after Ian's hurried out. Ray's standing up and stretching his back, placing his catalogue carefully on the folding chair for later.

"We, uh, it's a new thing," Ray says, hiding behind his hair a little. "He used to shoot mostly with Travis, but now Travis is being worked into Gabe and Pete's storyline? As a second top for Pete? So that left Ian free, and my old shooting partner just retired from the business, so," Ray says. "He, uh—Ryan's in charge of our script, and he came up with this whole story about Ian being this aspiring musician and me being his guitar teacher."

"Wow," Patrick says. "That's. Innovative." And weirdly close to my day job, Patrick thinks, but he keeps his mouth shut.

"It's a good plot," Ray says, nodding earnestly. "And Ian's great to work with. He's super talented, seriously, you should come and watch. He's really flexible."

"I'm sure he is," Patrick says, just as he feels a hand on his shoulder. "But I think my schedule this afternoon is up to Gabe."

"Damn straight it is," Gabe purrs, and Patrick fights not to shrug Gabe's hand off his shoulder. It's not that he doesn't like Gabe, but there's a thread of steel beneath the tone that immediately sets Patrick on guard. He thinks back to Ray mentioning how Gabe was a top for Pete, and Pete's offhand remarks about fisting, and feels suddenly grateful that Pete and Gabe aren't shooting a scene. He likes Gabe well enough, but he's not sure he could handle watching that today. The thought of it makes him feel weird inside.

"Right," Patrick says, attempting a smile and letting himself be led out of the green room behind Ray and Gabe. "All yours."

—

Patrick doesn't run into Pete again until he's huddled by the coffee maker in the green room, pouring himself a cup while trying futilely to make sense of the past few hours. There's been an unprecedented amount of dick in his day so far, and it's throwing his whole worldview out of whack. It's not that Patrick doesn't enjoy dick, he's just not sure he's even seen quite so much of it before.

"So?" Pete's voice says calmly, from way too close behind Patrick. Patrick startles, but he manages not to burn himself on the coffee.

"It's good," Patrick says, taking a deep breath and then turning around to give Pete an encouraging, if weak smile. "The company seems great, I love it."

"You hate it," Pete says, his face falling. He's wearing a thin black t-shirt that says "Straight Above the Waist" and his arms are crossed in front of him, showing off his tattoos. "You hate it and you totally don't want to do this, do you?"

"No, it's not—no," Patrick says, scrubbing a hand across his eyes. Fuck. Pete's looking at him like Patrick killed his puppy, and even though Patrick has invested a lot of time and energy over the years into not giving a fuck what people think, he's suddenly struck by the urge to somehow make Pete happy. It's an unfamiliar feeling. "It's really good, and everyone is awesome, and the working environment is great and the porn is hot," Patrick says honestly, because all of that is true.

"So what's wrong?" Pete says. "Why aren't you smiling? Porn should make people happy. You should be smiling. You're so cute when you smile."

"I'm just—adjusting," Patrick says, and very carefully does not say, I am so scared to get up in front of those cameras, and also every single person I saw filming today is twenty times hotter than me. "I mean, it's just. It's a little weird. I've actually known Brendon since he was a teenager," Patrick says, trying not to blush at the memory of Brendon's scene. Even the director, Spencer, had had trouble looking away. Patrick really didn't know you could make yourself come that hard with just a plug. It had been enlightening. Patrick's starting to think he should have taken notes.

"Oh, Brendon," Pete says, smiling fondly. The expression comes out a little demented, but Patrick supposes it's the thought that counts. "Isn't he fantastic? God, you should have seen him when he first tried out, he was so shy. And I mean, just between you and me, I probably shouldn't have hired him because of the age thing, but—"

"Oh god don't tell me," Patrick says quickly, wincing. "Fuck. Sorry. I just. He's like my kid brother. Please don't tell me he was illegally shooting gay porn when I was helping him record demos."

"Oh," Pete says. "Well, in that case, he definitely wasn't illegally shooting gay porn when you were helping him record demos."

"Good," Patrick says. "I appreciate that. Thank you for reaffirming my faith in humanity."

"You're welcome," Pete says. "And don't worry, that's not standard operating procedure anymore." He flashes Patrick another grin. "It never really was. It was back when we were trying to find a distributor, and it was just me, Brendon, and Ryan. Those were the days," Pete says wistfully, and Patrick tries not to think about how many times Pete has probably had sex with Brendon. On camera.

Oh god.

"Right," Patrick says. "So, I. Anyway. It's just weird. I'll get over it. When did you want to start filming?"

"Z said she'll have your first script in a day or two," Pete says. "What's your schedule look like next week?"

"It's pretty open," Patrick lies. "Whenever you need me." It's not open at all—he's got the Hush Sound with him for a month, and they're paying good money for his experience and his equipment, and Patrick feels fucking terrible for skipping out on them in the studio even for a few days. But he also knows that Joe's talked to both Bob and Greta about the situation, and while Joe doesn't have quite the range of experience that Patrick has, it's pretty close. Besides, it's not like he has another option. Patrick has to make up his back-rent payments, and soon, or there won't be any Soul Punk Studios to record at.

"Great," Pete says. "Come in on Monday, and we'll take it from there. Go see Brian first thing and he'll tell you where you need to be and when for the rest of the week."

"Sure," Patrick says. He sets down his coffee cup and holds out his hand, feeling like he should probably thank Pete again for this whole deal—for hiring him, for checking up on him, the works. Pete looks down at Patrick's hand in confusion, and then pulls him into a quick hug.

"This is a hugging kind of workplace," Pete tells him seriously. He smells really good.

"Right," Patrick says weakly. He stands there and lets himself be hugged by Pete for a moment, and then Pete pulls back. "And if you're not cool with that, Brian has these neat little sexual harassment forms all made up for you that say NO HUGGING and you've just got to sign at the bottom," Pete says. "And then you get stickers for your locker and everything. 'No Hugging' stickers. We like to keep everyone comfortable around here."

"I might sign one of those," Patrick says. He has no idea if Pete is kidding or not. "I'm not really the hugging type."

"Well then," Pete says, flashing him a grin. "I'm glad I got to you first."

"Right," Patrick says, choosing to politely ignore any and all of the implications of that sentence. He's starting to see what Joe meant about Pete and innuendo. "Well. I'll, um. See you next week, then."

"Looking forward to it," Pete says, giving him a once-over that tries and fails at subtle. Patrick leaves before things can get any more awkward.

—

The first thing Patrick does when he gets home is take out his trash, which is starting to smell pretty funky. Then he cleans out the fridge, tossing anything that's starting to look sentient. He piles all of his dirty dishes into the sink to soak, moves his laundry from his floor to the bed in the vague hope that he'll remember to start a load before tomorrow morning, and then he takes a shower and jerks off twice thinking about Pete teaching seventeen-year-old Brendon how to fuck him on camera.

He feels kind of weird about it afterwards, slumped against the wall of the shower, his hand still sticky. It's not like he'd been harboring some creepy crush on Brendon when he was actually seventeen, but the fantasy of it is hot. He thinks about Pete lying back against the pillows on some grungy mattress and spreading his legs and guiding Brendon in and then he squeezes the base of his dick firmly and reminds himself that he doesn't have time for round three.

"Okay," Patrick says to himself, once he's clean and showered and sitting next to an uncomfortably large pile of his own unwashed laundry on his unmade bad. He's got his ancient laptop out, and Pete's card in his hand. He's seen a lot of porn today, and he figures the best way to desensitize himself is to just overload his brain until he doesn't think it's hot anymore. No one else at Clandestine seems to be unduly concerned about it, which is where Patrick needs to be.

Seriously, he's a grown man.

He can do this.

—

"If you ever breathe a word of this to anyone, you will die," Patrick says, very calmly, into his phone. A quick glance at his digital clock on the bedside table tells him it's past 3am. "But seriously dude, how many times are you supposed to be able to jerk off without it being weird and abnormal? Because I think I just hit that point."

"Hnnngh?" Joe says, which Patrick supposes is probably fair.

"Joe," Patrick says. "Just wake up and answer the question, and you can go back to bed." He would apologize for waking Joe up like this, but it's not like Patrick has all that many friends. And out of those aforementioned friends, he knows exactly one person that he can reliably wake up in the middle of the night with questions about jerking off, so Joe is shit out of luck right now.

"It's 3am," Joe mumbles. "Why are you still awake? I just went to bed, fuck."

"Because I can't stop watching this fucking porn," Patrick says, scrubbing his face with his hand. "It's stupid, right? Like I know what dick looks like. This fucking company shouldn't be allowed to make porn this hot. What the fuck have I gotten myself into?"

"I thought you saw them filming already," Joe says. "How is it hotter on the screen than in person? Has porn been lying to me all these years?"

"It's hot in person," Patrick says. "But there's a lot of like. Stopping and adjusting and camera angles and stuff."

"This is why I'm never going into porn," Joe says sagely, yawning through the phone. "I don't want all the magic to be gone."

"I will give you all of my fucking magic," Patrick says desperately. "I don't want any of the magic. I want it all to be gone. Why can't I stop jerking off?"

"Because it's hot," Joe says. "I've seen Pete's videos. They're fucking hot. And I don't even like dick, dude."

"That..." Patrick pauses for a moment. "Actually, that kind of makes me feel better," Patrick admits.

"I mean, I didn't jerk off like sixteen times when I watched it," Joe says. "But, you know. It was an enjoyable twenty minutes of my life."

"What the fuck, no one can jerk off sixteen times," Patrick says. "Fuck. Can you really jerk off sixteen times? I don't want to do this sixteen times. I have to sleep."

"So turn the porn off," Joe says. "Seriously though, how many times did you spank it? You don't usually call me at 3am just to share."

"Doesn't matter," Patrick says, wincing into the phone.

"Seven," Joe guesses confidently.

"Fuck," Patrick sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. What the hell. He should probably get used to talking about this stuff, seeing as how he's expected to whip his dick out on camera in a week.

"Four," Patrick admits. "Shut up, don't laugh."

"I'm not laughing," Joe says. "That's a respectable number. You should tell Pete, he'll take it as a compliment."

"Oh my fucking god," Patrick says. "No. No. I am not telling Pete about this."

"Suit yourself," Joe says. He yawns again. "Anyway, as enlightening as this conversation has been," Joe says. "I'm going back to bed now. And I'm not coming in tomorrow until noon, either. I need my beauty sleep."

"Fuck off," Patrick grumbles, but he lets Joe hang up the phone. He stares at the screen in front of him, frozen with an image of Pete's mouth falling open in obvious pleasure. Patrick bites his lip. It sucks that he'd freaked out and called Joe halfway into the middle of this video, because it's really hot. It's the one where Pete's getting spanked for "misbehaving," and his stupid skinny jeans are all bunched up under his ass and his arms are above his head and every time Gabe hits him Pete makes this little breathy whining noise, like it hurts and he can't wait for more.

"Dammit," Patrick says, under his breath, and then presses play.

—

When Monday morning finally dawns, bright and early and terrifying, Patrick is still no closer to figuring out what the hell he's going to do about the Pete situation. He's also fairly invested in lying to himself and telling himself that there IS no Pete situation, because it seems like an easier way to get through the day.

"Nervous, huh," Joe says, as he makes his way into the studio, yawning long and loud. Patrick glances up at the tiny digital clock in the corner of the studio, which reads 9am.

"No," Patrick says. He's been here since 6am. "Totally not nervous."

"Don't be freaked," Joe says. "Just whip it out and think sexy thoughts and you'll be golden. Close your eyes and pretend like no one's there. Or pretend Pete's there, and he's doing that tongue thing like he did in that one vide—"

"Stop talking," Patrick tells Joe. "Just. We're going to pretend that never happened, okay? That whole conversation. It never happened."

"Oh," Joe says. "Oh, okay."

"We have never had a conversation about Pete Wentz and his tongue last Wednesday," Patrick says. "Just remember that. For the future."

"Got it," Joe says, tossing him a salute. "It's pretty hot, though, right?"

"No," Patrick says, and rewinds Greta's vocal track for another listen. "It's hideous. No one should ever do that on camera."

"Oh, it's a code," Joe says, looking delighted. "Oh. Oh I get you. Yeah. Yeah Pete's tongue thing is awful. Fucking terrible. Not sexy at all."

"Oh, for the love of fucking Christ," Patrick says, closing his eyes for a brief, calming moment. It doesn't work. His heart is still beating double-time in his chest. "Yeah," Patrick says, eventually. "Sure. It's a code. Whatever helps you sleep at night."

"I think it's whatever helps YOU sleep at night, bro," Joe says, looking far too solemn for the hour of the morning. "Anyway, aren't you supposed to be there right now?"

"Studio doesn't open until 10am," Patrick says, jamming his finger down on the 'pause' button. Greta aspirated the "k" sound on that last repetition of the chorus a little too much, and Patrick thinks that might be what's bothering him about this vocal track. He makes a note of it in the computer. "I just wanted to catch up on all the work I'm going to miss today."

"Absolutely," Joe says, nodding sagely. "Work before dick, bro. Work before dick."

Onward!