(no subject)
UGH YOU GUYS so I just watched the end of season 3 of Doctor Who.
But more importantly a few nights ago Eggo and Reili and I finally watched Blink, which got me back into the BBC mood and somehow I thought it was a good idea to write terrible crack.
And then Eggo made me post it.
Have I ever even posted fic to my journal, oh my god.
A Little Less Straight Line, A Little More Timey-Wimey
RATED PG, KEEP ALL INFANTS AWAY FROM PETE WENTZ. Oh, wait.
Fandom: BANDOM, DO I TALK ABOUT ANYTHING ELSE THESE DAYS, and also Doctor Who
Pairing: If you squint it could be Pete/Patrick? ...Nah.
Warnings: ...You guys, Pete Wentz is a Time Lord. This is really silly crackfic.
Disclaimer: THIS DIDN'T HAPPEN, DON'T GOOGLE YOURSELF, NO SERIOUSLY.
Summary: The only logical explanation for Pete showing up in every Decaydance video ever is that he's a Time Lord, okay.
Title blatantly stolen from kisforkurama, also this was written for her Fail Battle, which everyone should be writing for.
“…It’s bigger on the inside.”
“That’s what she said.”
“That doesn’t-no, seriously, what’s going on?”
“I told you, it’s a surprise. Just sit over there while I turn some buttons and press some dials.”
Patrick gives up, deciding to stand over where Pete was indicating with a very articulate handflail, because there are no chairs in this whatever-it-is, and he is not going to sit on the floor.
“This had better not end up like-“ Patrick starts, but before he can name one of the many times Pete’s antics have made his life harder, the room begins to shake, enough that he has to brace himself against the wall to keep from falling flat on his ass-maybe he should’ve sat on the floor after all.
“Right, sorry,” Pete says, grabbing onto the console he’d been fiddling with and grinning at Patrick completely unapologetically. “Should’ve warned you.”
Patrick just rolls his eyes and glances around the room for some windows, some indication of the direction they’re going. Nope, nothing but blinking lights and weird levers and-is that the weird design Pete had tattooed on his stomach? On that screen above the big red button? Yeah, that’s totally a bartskull. On the screen. Blinking in blue and white. What the hell.
Before Patrick can vocalize that last statement, though, the shuddering stops, and Pete lets go of the console to go grab Patrick by the wrist. “C’mon, let’s go outside.”
“Where did we just go?” Patrick tugs his arm away, but Pete tugs back.
“Come on, it’s great, I promise. There’s parades and clocks and music, ‘Trick, you like music!”
“Yeah, and I’d rather be back where I was a few minutes ago, playing it.”
“We can go back later, okay, just come on.” Pete pulls on Patrick’s arm again, and this time, Patrick goes along with the movement. It’s not like there’s anywhere else to go.
“I should know better than to trust someone who takes me away from my guitar with a line like ‘let me show you my blue box.’”
“Stop complaining, Jesus, you’re the one who got all curious and actually went along with me.”
“I wasn’t curious, you would’ve pestered me for hours until I gave in anyway.”
“Unimportant, get out here.” Pete opens the door and steps outside, Patrick following with only a pout as protest.
Patrick doesn’t bother asking how they had somehow gone from the broom closet of the high school they were playing at to an alleyway opening to an unfamiliar city street. Stranger things have happened around Pete.
“Impressed?” Pete asks, grinning at Patrick and clearly expecting him to gasp in awe or something dramatic like that.
“So we teleported.” Patrick wasn’t going to give Pete the pleasure.
“Sort of, yeah.”
“This was your big surprise? A dingy street?”
“It’s not dingy, it’s-“ Pete looks around, then frowns. “Okay, maybe it is, but it shouldn’t-“
Pete’s commentary on just what this wholly unimpressive street should be like is cut off by a man sprinting down the sidewalk, shoving Pete out of the way-which is probably a good thing, because seconds later, a pie whizzes just past his nose.
A pie, Patrick knows even before the splat-thunk of the running guy getting the projectile to the back of the head and face-planting on the ground.
“Shit,” Pete hisses, dragging-again with the dragging, he’s starting to get sick of this-Patrick back into the alleyway where the weird blue box is still sitting.
They’re back inside-the inside which is still bigger than the outside, what the fuck-the box when Patrick finally gives in to the litany of what the fuck what the fuck going through his head.
“Pete, what the fuck?”
“You mean, what the fuck kind of telephone booth is this, or what the fuck kind of pie kills people?”
“Yes, both, just-kills people?”
“Yeah, that, okay. I’m kind of a Time Lord.”
“…A what.”
“An alien. From space. This is my spaceship. I can go to other-well, not really times, that’s why I say I’m only kind of a Time Lord, but, y’know. There’s your world, and there’s this one, and there’s the really cool one with chicks in mustaches and this kid who plays everything, you’ll love him, that’s what I was trying to go to, because I thought it’d be great, but I hit the wrong button and now-“
“Forget it, I shouldn’t have asked, just take me home.”
“Oh, come on! I haven’t had anyone to run around with in a while, it’ll be fun. You can ride my Vespa!”
“Pete. You’re telling me that my best friend’s an alien, and there are other worlds, and I’m going into shock and you’re talking to me about alien Vespas.”
“It’s not an alien Vespa, all right? Just a normal one. If you want aliens, though-“
“Pete.”
“All right, all right, fine. You sit in here and process everything, I need to go outside for a bit. That sound good?”
“Fine. And then we’re going home.”
“Just one more trip, promise! You really need to meet this kid, he plays the accordion and everything!”
“Fine, whatever, just. Fine.”
Pete grins, the way he always does when Patrick gives in to his ridiculous demands, and rushes to the back of the room, to another door. Patrick goes back to leaning against the wall.
Pete jumps out of the back door a few moments later, wearing what looks like a police uniform and a terrible fake mustache. Patrick doesn’t get a chance to even stammer out an attempt at asking before Pete barrels out the front door.
Patrick was quickly learning that asking got him nowhere, anyway.
It was a few minutes before Pete’s return, giving Patrick just enough time to have an internal monologue about how difficult his life was, and how much he wants to go home, and how he really should be more concerned about the fact that his best friend is a maybe-time-traveling-alien-creature, but before he can get concerned enough about this to start being more concerned, Pete waltzes back in, carrying a doughnut in each hand. “Hungry?”
He is, actually; all he has in his stomach right now is some punch he took from the table before the show. “Is it made of alien sugar?”
“We’re not actually on some crazy alien planet right now, ‘Trick, all right? Just eat it.” Pete holds out the doughnut as he finishes off the one in his other hand, sucking the powder off his fingers. Patrick takes it, inspecting it for-he doesn’t know, purple polka-dots or something that could be seen as dangerous. He’s only slightly disappointed to find no excuse not to eat it.
“Right then, let’s hit the right buttons this time,” Pete’s saying half to himself, already fiddling with the console again. He’s still wearing the stupid hat.
“You’ve got powder in your mustache.”
“Whatever, silly mustaches are a staple where we’re going.” Pete presses one more button, and this time, Patrick’s already bracing himself for the shuddering.
“All right!” Pete shouts theatrically when the ride’s over, chucking his hat to a corner of the room, “Now we can see a real city!” He runs to the door, motioning for Patrick to follow-at least he doesn’t drag him this time-and opens it slowly, grinning at Patrick for a moment before they both step out-
Onto another, even dingier street. Fantastic. “Is this where that parade was supposed to be? I think it’s too late at night for one.”
Pete was busy staring in the other direction, grimacing. Patrick follows his gaze to the sight of a tall guy in a suit and hat, which wouldn’t be quite as grimace-worthy if not for the fact that he’s currently draining blood out of someone’s neck.
The guy looks up from the twitching body in his arms to grin at them, blood dripping from his-oh god, he has fangs, could this day get any weirder?
Patrick looks back at Pete. “So, parades? Music? Mustaches?”
Pete just groans. “Goddammit, that damn button.”
EDIT: HEY GUYS
I POPPED THIS THROUGH AN ANALYSIS MACHINE AND APPARENTLY--
I write like
Douglas Adams
I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!
/glee
But more importantly a few nights ago Eggo and Reili and I finally watched Blink, which got me back into the BBC mood and somehow I thought it was a good idea to write terrible crack.
And then Eggo made me post it.
Have I ever even posted fic to my journal, oh my god.
A Little Less Straight Line, A Little More Timey-Wimey
RATED PG, KEEP ALL INFANTS AWAY FROM PETE WENTZ. Oh, wait.
Fandom: BANDOM, DO I TALK ABOUT ANYTHING ELSE THESE DAYS, and also Doctor Who
Pairing: If you squint it could be Pete/Patrick? ...Nah.
Warnings: ...You guys, Pete Wentz is a Time Lord. This is really silly crackfic.
Disclaimer: THIS DIDN'T HAPPEN, DON'T GOOGLE YOURSELF, NO SERIOUSLY.
Summary: The only logical explanation for Pete showing up in every Decaydance video ever is that he's a Time Lord, okay.
Title blatantly stolen from kisforkurama, also this was written for her Fail Battle, which everyone should be writing for.
“…It’s bigger on the inside.”
“That’s what she said.”
“That doesn’t-no, seriously, what’s going on?”
“I told you, it’s a surprise. Just sit over there while I turn some buttons and press some dials.”
Patrick gives up, deciding to stand over where Pete was indicating with a very articulate handflail, because there are no chairs in this whatever-it-is, and he is not going to sit on the floor.
“This had better not end up like-“ Patrick starts, but before he can name one of the many times Pete’s antics have made his life harder, the room begins to shake, enough that he has to brace himself against the wall to keep from falling flat on his ass-maybe he should’ve sat on the floor after all.
“Right, sorry,” Pete says, grabbing onto the console he’d been fiddling with and grinning at Patrick completely unapologetically. “Should’ve warned you.”
Patrick just rolls his eyes and glances around the room for some windows, some indication of the direction they’re going. Nope, nothing but blinking lights and weird levers and-is that the weird design Pete had tattooed on his stomach? On that screen above the big red button? Yeah, that’s totally a bartskull. On the screen. Blinking in blue and white. What the hell.
Before Patrick can vocalize that last statement, though, the shuddering stops, and Pete lets go of the console to go grab Patrick by the wrist. “C’mon, let’s go outside.”
“Where did we just go?” Patrick tugs his arm away, but Pete tugs back.
“Come on, it’s great, I promise. There’s parades and clocks and music, ‘Trick, you like music!”
“Yeah, and I’d rather be back where I was a few minutes ago, playing it.”
“We can go back later, okay, just come on.” Pete pulls on Patrick’s arm again, and this time, Patrick goes along with the movement. It’s not like there’s anywhere else to go.
“I should know better than to trust someone who takes me away from my guitar with a line like ‘let me show you my blue box.’”
“Stop complaining, Jesus, you’re the one who got all curious and actually went along with me.”
“I wasn’t curious, you would’ve pestered me for hours until I gave in anyway.”
“Unimportant, get out here.” Pete opens the door and steps outside, Patrick following with only a pout as protest.
Patrick doesn’t bother asking how they had somehow gone from the broom closet of the high school they were playing at to an alleyway opening to an unfamiliar city street. Stranger things have happened around Pete.
“Impressed?” Pete asks, grinning at Patrick and clearly expecting him to gasp in awe or something dramatic like that.
“So we teleported.” Patrick wasn’t going to give Pete the pleasure.
“Sort of, yeah.”
“This was your big surprise? A dingy street?”
“It’s not dingy, it’s-“ Pete looks around, then frowns. “Okay, maybe it is, but it shouldn’t-“
Pete’s commentary on just what this wholly unimpressive street should be like is cut off by a man sprinting down the sidewalk, shoving Pete out of the way-which is probably a good thing, because seconds later, a pie whizzes just past his nose.
A pie, Patrick knows even before the splat-thunk of the running guy getting the projectile to the back of the head and face-planting on the ground.
“Shit,” Pete hisses, dragging-again with the dragging, he’s starting to get sick of this-Patrick back into the alleyway where the weird blue box is still sitting.
They’re back inside-the inside which is still bigger than the outside, what the fuck-the box when Patrick finally gives in to the litany of what the fuck what the fuck going through his head.
“Pete, what the fuck?”
“You mean, what the fuck kind of telephone booth is this, or what the fuck kind of pie kills people?”
“Yes, both, just-kills people?”
“Yeah, that, okay. I’m kind of a Time Lord.”
“…A what.”
“An alien. From space. This is my spaceship. I can go to other-well, not really times, that’s why I say I’m only kind of a Time Lord, but, y’know. There’s your world, and there’s this one, and there’s the really cool one with chicks in mustaches and this kid who plays everything, you’ll love him, that’s what I was trying to go to, because I thought it’d be great, but I hit the wrong button and now-“
“Forget it, I shouldn’t have asked, just take me home.”
“Oh, come on! I haven’t had anyone to run around with in a while, it’ll be fun. You can ride my Vespa!”
“Pete. You’re telling me that my best friend’s an alien, and there are other worlds, and I’m going into shock and you’re talking to me about alien Vespas.”
“It’s not an alien Vespa, all right? Just a normal one. If you want aliens, though-“
“Pete.”
“All right, all right, fine. You sit in here and process everything, I need to go outside for a bit. That sound good?”
“Fine. And then we’re going home.”
“Just one more trip, promise! You really need to meet this kid, he plays the accordion and everything!”
“Fine, whatever, just. Fine.”
Pete grins, the way he always does when Patrick gives in to his ridiculous demands, and rushes to the back of the room, to another door. Patrick goes back to leaning against the wall.
Pete jumps out of the back door a few moments later, wearing what looks like a police uniform and a terrible fake mustache. Patrick doesn’t get a chance to even stammer out an attempt at asking before Pete barrels out the front door.
Patrick was quickly learning that asking got him nowhere, anyway.
It was a few minutes before Pete’s return, giving Patrick just enough time to have an internal monologue about how difficult his life was, and how much he wants to go home, and how he really should be more concerned about the fact that his best friend is a maybe-time-traveling-alien-creature, but before he can get concerned enough about this to start being more concerned, Pete waltzes back in, carrying a doughnut in each hand. “Hungry?”
He is, actually; all he has in his stomach right now is some punch he took from the table before the show. “Is it made of alien sugar?”
“We’re not actually on some crazy alien planet right now, ‘Trick, all right? Just eat it.” Pete holds out the doughnut as he finishes off the one in his other hand, sucking the powder off his fingers. Patrick takes it, inspecting it for-he doesn’t know, purple polka-dots or something that could be seen as dangerous. He’s only slightly disappointed to find no excuse not to eat it.
“Right then, let’s hit the right buttons this time,” Pete’s saying half to himself, already fiddling with the console again. He’s still wearing the stupid hat.
“You’ve got powder in your mustache.”
“Whatever, silly mustaches are a staple where we’re going.” Pete presses one more button, and this time, Patrick’s already bracing himself for the shuddering.
“All right!” Pete shouts theatrically when the ride’s over, chucking his hat to a corner of the room, “Now we can see a real city!” He runs to the door, motioning for Patrick to follow-at least he doesn’t drag him this time-and opens it slowly, grinning at Patrick for a moment before they both step out-
Onto another, even dingier street. Fantastic. “Is this where that parade was supposed to be? I think it’s too late at night for one.”
Pete was busy staring in the other direction, grimacing. Patrick follows his gaze to the sight of a tall guy in a suit and hat, which wouldn’t be quite as grimace-worthy if not for the fact that he’s currently draining blood out of someone’s neck.
The guy looks up from the twitching body in his arms to grin at them, blood dripping from his-oh god, he has fangs, could this day get any weirder?
Patrick looks back at Pete. “So, parades? Music? Mustaches?”
Pete just groans. “Goddammit, that damn button.”
EDIT: HEY GUYS
I POPPED THIS THROUGH AN ANALYSIS MACHINE AND APPARENTLY--
I write like
Douglas Adams
I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!
/glee