(no subject)
For airgiodslv, who wanted the fic to go along with this picture.
Brendon/Ryan/Pete
Gen
~595 words
Brendon totally does not fangirl Pete Wentz. Because Pete Wentz is a prick. A really hot prick who’s hysterically funny and actually really sweet and will totally give you the shirt off of his back if he needs to (no guarantees that said shirt won’t be advertising him or his clothing line), but still! Prick.
“Dude,” Pete says, draping himself along the back of their booth like, um, something that drapes itself on booths. “Ross. Ryan Ross. Are you like, famous now or something? What’s with that?”
“I am“, Ryan says smugly. “I am very famous. Oh, hey, have you met my friend Brendon?”
“No! Hey, man, Brandon, it’s nice to meet you. How do you know Ross?”
Ryan smiles beatifically, his special, shiny Pete Wentz smile. “No, Pete. It’s Brendon.”
“God,” Pete says, and he kips up onto the smooth formica island between their booth and the one behind and suddenly, Brendon remembers the comparison. Pete’s draped like a fucking barroom singer across a piano. All he really needs is a red dress with an indecent slit up the side and there you go. “Man. I’m sorry. Brendan.”
Brendon takes a fortifying sip of his extremely girly but extremely delicious drink and smiles broadly. It drips with as much insincerity as he can pour into it, so. “God,” he echoes, “I really hate you sometimes, Wentz.”
“You love me,” Pete counters. Ryan is silent but for an amused sip of his very virginal orange juice.
“Actually, no. I think you have me confused with the makers of penicillin.”
Pete bumps the blunt end of his fist into his chest and grins even harder at Brendon. See? Prick. Hot, irresistible prick. “Dude,” he says. “What are you drinking?”
“Whatever,” Brendon says. “Um. Whatever the house specialty drink is tonight. I think it’s a glorified Sex On The Beach.”
Ryan smirks. “What is that, like, Sex On The Beach With A Really Hot Girl?”
“Sex On The Beach That Doesn’t End In Sand Burn?” Pete volunteers.
“Sex On The Beach Where No One Gets Stung By A Jellyfish?”
Fucking Ryan. Brendon would be angry, except for how Ryan’s lit up like the fucking New Year ball, laughing back at Pete like they’re all just hanging out in someone’s basement and there aren’t cameras, like, everywhere.
Pete laughs back, but that’s totally normal. Pete would probably laugh in the middle of his prostate exam, if the mood struck him.
…
Dude. Brendon really does not want to think about Pete’s prostate, thanks.
He rolls his eyes at the pair of them, but tacks something on anyway. “Sex On The Beach Where No One Gets Stung By A Jellyfish And Has To Be Pissed On.”
They stop laughing, mouths slightly agape, and then Pete starts back up with a vengeance. “Shit. Shit, Bren,” he says. “Dude. Dude your drink is totally a Golden Shower.”
Brendon is never drinking again. Or, you know, speaking to Pete Wentz again.
“I’m never speaking to you again,” he says, pursing his lips and hissing exasperatedly down at the table.’
Ryan mocks his pain by laughing. If Ryan turns up bald one morning, Brendon is totally not going to feel bad for him. At all. Pete turns the full force of his Wentz charisma on Brendon, all flirty eyes and white teeth and suggestive self-touching. “You love me.”
And ok. Maybe he does. Even if he really, really is a prick. “You’re a prick,” he says.
“You love pricks,” Pete shoots back.
“Dude,” Spencer says from across the table. “That’s news to no one.”
Brendon/Ryan/Pete
Gen
~595 words
Brendon totally does not fangirl Pete Wentz. Because Pete Wentz is a prick. A really hot prick who’s hysterically funny and actually really sweet and will totally give you the shirt off of his back if he needs to (no guarantees that said shirt won’t be advertising him or his clothing line), but still! Prick.
“Dude,” Pete says, draping himself along the back of their booth like, um, something that drapes itself on booths. “Ross. Ryan Ross. Are you like, famous now or something? What’s with that?”
“I am“, Ryan says smugly. “I am very famous. Oh, hey, have you met my friend Brendon?”
“No! Hey, man, Brandon, it’s nice to meet you. How do you know Ross?”
Ryan smiles beatifically, his special, shiny Pete Wentz smile. “No, Pete. It’s Brendon.”
“God,” Pete says, and he kips up onto the smooth formica island between their booth and the one behind and suddenly, Brendon remembers the comparison. Pete’s draped like a fucking barroom singer across a piano. All he really needs is a red dress with an indecent slit up the side and there you go. “Man. I’m sorry. Brendan.”
Brendon takes a fortifying sip of his extremely girly but extremely delicious drink and smiles broadly. It drips with as much insincerity as he can pour into it, so. “God,” he echoes, “I really hate you sometimes, Wentz.”
“You love me,” Pete counters. Ryan is silent but for an amused sip of his very virginal orange juice.
“Actually, no. I think you have me confused with the makers of penicillin.”
Pete bumps the blunt end of his fist into his chest and grins even harder at Brendon. See? Prick. Hot, irresistible prick. “Dude,” he says. “What are you drinking?”
“Whatever,” Brendon says. “Um. Whatever the house specialty drink is tonight. I think it’s a glorified Sex On The Beach.”
Ryan smirks. “What is that, like, Sex On The Beach With A Really Hot Girl?”
“Sex On The Beach That Doesn’t End In Sand Burn?” Pete volunteers.
“Sex On The Beach Where No One Gets Stung By A Jellyfish?”
Fucking Ryan. Brendon would be angry, except for how Ryan’s lit up like the fucking New Year ball, laughing back at Pete like they’re all just hanging out in someone’s basement and there aren’t cameras, like, everywhere.
Pete laughs back, but that’s totally normal. Pete would probably laugh in the middle of his prostate exam, if the mood struck him.
…
Dude. Brendon really does not want to think about Pete’s prostate, thanks.
He rolls his eyes at the pair of them, but tacks something on anyway. “Sex On The Beach Where No One Gets Stung By A Jellyfish And Has To Be Pissed On.”
They stop laughing, mouths slightly agape, and then Pete starts back up with a vengeance. “Shit. Shit, Bren,” he says. “Dude. Dude your drink is totally a Golden Shower.”
Brendon is never drinking again. Or, you know, speaking to Pete Wentz again.
“I’m never speaking to you again,” he says, pursing his lips and hissing exasperatedly down at the table.’
Ryan mocks his pain by laughing. If Ryan turns up bald one morning, Brendon is totally not going to feel bad for him. At all. Pete turns the full force of his Wentz charisma on Brendon, all flirty eyes and white teeth and suggestive self-touching. “You love me.”
And ok. Maybe he does. Even if he really, really is a prick. “You’re a prick,” he says.
“You love pricks,” Pete shoots back.
“Dude,” Spencer says from across the table. “That’s news to no one.”