#dcd2 reader au

you've always idolized pete, from the moment you discovered the joys of the emo trinity, crankthatfrank youtube videos, and wattpad. for most of your (somewhat cringeworthy) teenage years, he was a face on a screen, a poster on your wall, or a character in something you read self-indulgently under the covers late at night.

but if you think about it more deeply than that, he's the reason you started writing songs in the first place. when your head got scary, you thought about how he managed to channel all his pain into his words, and how those words saved so many people just like you. if he can do it, why can't you?

it takes practice. your first few songs sound like bad fall out boy parodies, but you keep writing until the words you put to music sound more like yourself. you meet some friends in high school who play instruments, and do a few shows in people's basements and backyards, but then your guitar player gets into an ivy league college and your drummer marries her boyfriend at 18 and has a baby less than a year later. you still write, but it seems like the dream of doing this forever is just that, a dream.

then, a year or two later, after doing karaoke in some bar you had to use a fake to get into, you meet another drummer. he asks you if you if you ever write your own songs. he knows a guitar player, and, oh yeah, your roommate plays bass. one thing leads to another, and it's not long before you're playing basement shows again. soon enough you're recording a demo too. you don't get your hopes up this time though. it's just a silly dream.

you send the demo to pete on a drunken dare. well not exactly, because you figure pete wentz himself isn't the one checking the dcd2 business email, but it's the thought that counts. your roommate cracks a joke about how you'd probably have to suck him off to actually get signed, and you laugh, but your mind swims at the thought of getting on your knees for him. you take another shot and press send, deciding to keep drinking until you won't remember this enough to be embarrassed about it in the morning.

it's all fun and games until you get a reply. it's not from him directly, of course it isn't. but no matter how many times you pinch yourself, the message still reads the same thing: "We get a lot of demos, but yours caught our attention. When would you be free to set up a meeting?"

you bite the hell out of your nails waiting for the meeting to start. the intern that you've been emailing with is the first person to join. the two of you are about the same age, and you compliment her neon green braids. conversation flows easily between the two of you, easing you out of the anxious spiral you'd been falling into.

unfortunately, all the nerves return when another square appears on your screen. it buffers, but the face inside of it is unmistakable. long blonde hair tied into a bun, and that yellow dotted sweater you've seen in a handful of recent photos. this isn't a photo, though. he's right here, live on your screen, introducing himself totally clueless to the fact that you wrote his name on your desk in 7th grade history with a heart around it and had to go to the principal's office over it.

but once you get over the initial instinct to freak out, the meeting is...professional. you weren't expecting anything else, really, but that joke your roommate made the night you sent in the demo, and the guilty fantasy it sparked, linger at the back of your mind while he talks about the logistics of when and where you can play for him in person. you're not sure if the webcam hides your blush or if he's just too nice to point anything out.

you're beginning to let go of the fantasy of pete as a total sleaze. he's nothing but polite in your emails, asking questions about your lyrics and complimenting (appropriately) the way your voice sounds on the demo. the reality finally sets in that he's going to be your boss, and there's probably nothing sexy about that. you two plan to meet up in a recording studio between your two cities. he's flying you out, and although you're excited, you can't help but feel a little bad for your friends who are (at least for now) being replaced by session musicians that pete knows.

then again, that degenerate part of your brain nags at you. he wants you alone. he wants to hear you sing in a room filled with only people in his network. the kind of people who would turn a blind eye to anything less-than-squeaky clean that he might try. you lay in your hotel room the night before the studio session with your hand between your legs, trying to replace the face in your fantasy with anyone else's so that you can look him in the eye tomorrow. when you hit your peak, though, it's his voice you imagine in your ear talking you through it.

you're right about it being difficult to look him in the eye. on top of all of the nerves of finally singing in front of the man who is the entire reason you started making music in the first place, you have to deal with the fact that you've also gotten off to the thought of him far too many times throughout your life, and even as recently as yesterday. plus, it doesn't help that he's wearing a tight tee shirt that shows off his strong forearms. he keeps them crossed over his chest while he watches you intently.

before you can even process it, you're done singing. somehow, you survived. pete keeps staring though. he's smiling as the musicians start to pack up and leave. you adjust your jacket a little and approach.

"you've got it, you know. it's hard to take my eyes off you," he tells you, and even though he says it so casually, you can't help but nearly choke on air. he tugs the hairtie out of his hair and it falls around his shoulders. you think it's funny that he's calling you eye-catching when he looks like that.

"is this the part where you tell me to get on my knees?"

fuck. you slap your hand over your mouth cartoonishly and squeeze your eyes shut. why the hell did you say that? your face burns bright red. not only did you embarrass yourself, you probably just threw away a career. finally, you dare to open your eyes and face the consequences, only to find that pete's...laughing?

he's definitely laughing, wrinkles around his eyes from smiling and shoulders bobbing up and down gently. there isn't even a trace of anger there. instead, he reaches out to place a steady hand on your shoulder and give it a squeeze, before moving it up to cup your cheek. your insides feel like they're in a pressure cooker, and the only way to release the steam is to get his cock down your throat.

"i mean, i wasn't going to ask, but if you're offering..." he drags his thumb over your bottom lip, pressing down just enough to reach the soft wet part and drag the dampness down the rest of your lip. you fight the urge to suck on it like a pacifier. you'd rather save that for a different part of his body.

your mind is short-circuting, but you find the words to answer after you swallow dryly and let his thumb rest on your chin. "i'm offering," you promise him, and it's the last phrase that leaves your lips before you're lowering yourself down right there on the studio floor and undoing the button of his jeans.

you work on freeing his stiffening cock as he works his hands into your hair. for a guy on the shorter side, he's got big hands. they feel so steadying against your scalp. but before you take him into your mouth, you let yourself have one indulgence.

"can i see your tattoo?"

he pets your hair with one hand and lifts his shirt with the other, leaving the beautiful ink right there on display in front of you. you've imagined this moment so many times, told yourself it's just a silly dream, but here you are, getting everything you want all at once.

you take him in until your nose presses right up against the tattoo, and then get to work.