(no subject)
Title: A Killer Killing Lovers In The Street [prologue]
Author: levulture, me.
Rating: pg-13?
Pairing: Petrick
Summary: Living in the life of luxury can make you a very better man. [alternate universe.]
A/N: Well, I don't know what to say. Just read the prologue and you'll make me a happy camper.
"How would you say your life has changed since Infinity On High?"
"More hectic, less free time."
"Speaking of free time, there have been rumors that you're dating Ashlee Simpson..."
"True."
"Do you love her?"
Pete paused, dark brown eyes looking straight into the reporter's, burning. Truthfully, he did not want to be answering these questions for the millionth time in a row, but if he refused speaking to the press there would be nothing but utter chaos. Besides, who didn't want to talk to the bassist and lyricist of Fall Out Boy? Only a crazy man would pass up the chance to speak to a celebrity with such status as Pete Wentz. And of course, Peter didn't mind the interviews so much, but the last question this reporter had asked simply crossed the line.
"Do you love your job?" the suddenly displeased dark-haired man reported, and the journalist was obviously taken aback. He shifted uncomfortably in the hard-backed chair, looking down at the hideous, blue plastic table they were sitting at. It had flecks of color bleeding into it, and Pete thought it supposedly were trying to resemble marble. "What kind of person would I be if I liked my job?" The pudgy reporter in the thick-rimmed glasses began fidgeting nervously again.
"Definitely not one of the norm," Pete replied with a slight sneer. He honestly didn't mean to come off as conceited or rude, but this guy had fucked up his job long ago and didn't deserve a report worthy of some teen magazine. Shooting the chubby guy a dirty look, Pete slumped in his chair. Bad posture must have made him look like even more of a snobby rock star. Which, by all means, he was. Well, maybe not all of the time. Maybe just when people asked stupid questions or did equally stupid things.
This guy had done both. Thus the bad posture and death glare.
"You still haven't answered my question, Mr. Wentz." Somehow, this snapped Pete out of his terribly foul mood. Something twisted deep inside of the man, and he sat upright, laying his hands on the table. Since when was Pete Mr. Wentz? To Peter, that had always been his adolescent chums' way of addressing his father... not him. Never him. "Mr. Wentz? Don't call me... Mr. Wentz... for God's sake, call me Peter." For some absurd reason, this made the reporter grin, and Peter had to admire the well-groomed set of teeth.
Peter had a horse's mouth.
Whoever had said smiles were contageous had been absolutely right. They should be given a Nobel Prize, or an impressive award by the same token, of some sort, because after that reporter shined his teeth in Pete Wentz's direction, the moody man with a five o'clock shadow that was assuredly dating a supermodel had smiled back. Not just a sly grin that made preteen girls scream with pure elation, but a true smile that made his stunning dark eyes crinkle at the corners.
"Alright, Peter... I'm Patrick."
____
A/N: What do you think? Let me know if I should continue or not. I know it seems boring and slow, but it will quicken up in future chapters. :]
Author: levulture, me.
Rating: pg-13?
Pairing: Petrick
Summary: Living in the life of luxury can make you a very better man. [alternate universe.]
A/N: Well, I don't know what to say. Just read the prologue and you'll make me a happy camper.
"How would you say your life has changed since Infinity On High?"
"More hectic, less free time."
"Speaking of free time, there have been rumors that you're dating Ashlee Simpson..."
"True."
"Do you love her?"
Pete paused, dark brown eyes looking straight into the reporter's, burning. Truthfully, he did not want to be answering these questions for the millionth time in a row, but if he refused speaking to the press there would be nothing but utter chaos. Besides, who didn't want to talk to the bassist and lyricist of Fall Out Boy? Only a crazy man would pass up the chance to speak to a celebrity with such status as Pete Wentz. And of course, Peter didn't mind the interviews so much, but the last question this reporter had asked simply crossed the line.
"Do you love your job?" the suddenly displeased dark-haired man reported, and the journalist was obviously taken aback. He shifted uncomfortably in the hard-backed chair, looking down at the hideous, blue plastic table they were sitting at. It had flecks of color bleeding into it, and Pete thought it supposedly were trying to resemble marble. "What kind of person would I be if I liked my job?" The pudgy reporter in the thick-rimmed glasses began fidgeting nervously again.
"Definitely not one of the norm," Pete replied with a slight sneer. He honestly didn't mean to come off as conceited or rude, but this guy had fucked up his job long ago and didn't deserve a report worthy of some teen magazine. Shooting the chubby guy a dirty look, Pete slumped in his chair. Bad posture must have made him look like even more of a snobby rock star. Which, by all means, he was. Well, maybe not all of the time. Maybe just when people asked stupid questions or did equally stupid things.
This guy had done both. Thus the bad posture and death glare.
"You still haven't answered my question, Mr. Wentz." Somehow, this snapped Pete out of his terribly foul mood. Something twisted deep inside of the man, and he sat upright, laying his hands on the table. Since when was Pete Mr. Wentz? To Peter, that had always been his adolescent chums' way of addressing his father... not him. Never him. "Mr. Wentz? Don't call me... Mr. Wentz... for God's sake, call me Peter." For some absurd reason, this made the reporter grin, and Peter had to admire the well-groomed set of teeth.
Peter had a horse's mouth.
Whoever had said smiles were contageous had been absolutely right. They should be given a Nobel Prize, or an impressive award by the same token, of some sort, because after that reporter shined his teeth in Pete Wentz's direction, the moody man with a five o'clock shadow that was assuredly dating a supermodel had smiled back. Not just a sly grin that made preteen girls scream with pure elation, but a true smile that made his stunning dark eyes crinkle at the corners.
"Alright, Peter... I'm Patrick."
____
A/N: What do you think? Let me know if I should continue or not. I know it seems boring and slow, but it will quicken up in future chapters. :]