FIC:Addiction [1/1] Pete Wentz/Kanye West

Title:Addiction [1/1]
Pairing:Pete Wentz/Kanye West
Rating:R.
Disclaimer:NOT true in the slightest.
Summary:He’s got a smart mouth. Sarcastic. Kanye likes it. He’s got pink, pink lips and they look…like a girl’s mouth. He doesn’t care that he’s staring at Wentz like a banquet spread, because Wentz is wetting his lips and staring right back.
Dedication: To pookiechick for agreeing that this would be pretty damn hot.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I know this is a weird pairing. Please just try it. ALSO: lyrics at the end are from Kanye West's song "Addiction", from his album "Late Registration".



It’s dark, smoky, and he’s leaning up against a dirty cement wall, diamonds weighing at his throat and a bottle in his hand, raising it every few moments to his lips. He’s watching him, watching the way his skin looks in the light of the party, glistening with sweat and his eyes rimmed with dark liner. Friends, they’re friends now, because of Jay Z, he thinks, watching the boy flitter around, talking to anyone, everyone all at once. He’s not drinking anything except water, a bottle in his hand, rising and falling just like Kanye’s breath.

They haven’t talked much before. Only a few words in passing during meetings with Jay, Pete’s eyes glancing nervously around at those present. Kanye isn’t sure what the fuck he’d say to Wentz, except maybe talk about all the places in Chicago they know or something. He wants to say something to him, anything, and he is fucked up. He puffed in the limo on his way to the party, eyes stinging and red, body relaxed.

“Life of the party, aren’t you, Wentz,” he says when Pete gets near the wall.

“What? I can’t hear you, music’s too loud.” And he smiles devilishly, his eyes shining with something dangerous and exciting. Kanye drunkenly offers Pete a sip of his drink, and he shakes his head vehemently.

“No, man, it’s cool. I don’t drink that, I drink this,” he says, twisting the cap off the water bottle and downing a few mouthfuls. Kanye notices that Pete’s got a dog tag around his neck, dangling to the middle of his chest. He wants to look at it, there are diamonds; Wentz has diamonds.

“What the fuck is on your tag, Pete?”

“Says “FOB”, Kanye. Makes sense, doesn’t it?” He’s got a smart mouth. Sarcastic. Kanye likes it. He’s got pink, pink lips and they look…like a girl’s mouth. He doesn’t care that he’s staring at Wentz like a banquet spread, because Wentz is wetting his lips and staring right back.

Kanye’s blood is boiling beneath his skin. Talk, he urges himself. Talk about…Chicago. He’s drunk, but not drunk enough to not be able to ramble off some places…

“You okay, Kanye? You look a little flushed. Maybe we should move away from all the people, stand in the corner over there.” He points, and it’s in the direction of the darkest corner of the room. It might as well be an entirely different place. He lets Pete guide him over, well aware of the searing heat he’s feeling through his shirt where Pete’s hand is.

He doesn’t know why he’s letting this happen, maybe it’s because he’s too drunk to stop it or he wants to know what it feels like or something…but then again, maybe all Wentz wants to do is talk. But his lips are saying something entirely different. After a couple of minutes (feels like forever to him) they’re standing against the wall. Pete’s hip is jutting out, his pants riding just below it. Fuck. Say something. Say something. Say something.

“Wentz, do you like Bush?”

“No.”
“Good. George Bush doesn’t like black people,” he mumbles, not quite sure if he’d be sorry for saying that in the morning or not. Never know where the fuckin’ paparazzi are, waiting for him to say something fucked up so they can plaster his shit all over the tabloids.

“I’m not George Bush.” With that, he’s on his knees, hands scraping blindly in the darkness for a belt buckle. What the fuck is going to happen? Wentz is undoing buttons. He tries to shove his hands away, mind clearing just enough to know what Wentz is all about.

“You wanna suck my dick? Fuck, I’m not like that.”

“Shut up. Just shut up and let me, okay? You’re drunk, and I know you want it. I saw you looking.” He should relax. Pete won’t tell anyone, it’s just one time right? One time doesn’t make you gay, does it? Why the fuck does he even care?

“Fine, just, fuckin’ do it quick, I don’t want people to notice. I got ice man and hoes wanna be with me. You’re just like them. Suck it, come on, you want to so bad, I can taste it.”

Wentz makes short work of his pants, pulling them down to his ankles, letting them pool around his shoes and the dirty floor. Hands find their way beneath boxers, Pete touching him like every girl he’s ever met wishes they could. He puts a hand in Wentz’s hair, pulling his head forward.

“Pushy, aren’t we?” He smirks. Fuck, just put those lips around me, he thinks, and he’s trying not to think about how it will feel when his tongue is pressing in all the right places. And he’s sure Wentz is well aware of where they are.

Fuck. Pete’s mouth is warm and wet, his tongue licking smooth lines. He opens his eyes and watches as he slides his head up and down, the pink of his lips a contrast to dark skin. Throwing his head back, Kanye moans. It feels good, probably better than any he’s gotten from women. But he doesn’t want to think of that now; he’ll probably just keep drinking and avoid Wentz after this.

Pete’s hands are all over his thighs, nails pressing half circles deep into his skin, and he isn’t going to last much longer. Pete seems to sense it, and takes him in deeper, and he feels himself hit the back of his throat. Pete gags a bit, backing off a little before trying again. If it was anyone but Wentz, Kanye would have thrown them down and fucked them, but not with him. He didn’t want it, didn’t want to be feeling so fucking high on this man sucking him off.

He feels himself lose control, spilling down Pete’s throat. Quickly, he pushes Pete away, pulling up his boxers and pants. The other man is standing there, the smile on his face saying what words can’t: this won’t be the last time.

“and I keep co-coming over
‘cause it’s ne-never over”