Hasselhoff [standalone]
Title: Hasselhoff [standalone]
Author: yeyaness
Pairing: Ryte/Pyro [Pete Wentz/Ryan Ross].
POV: Third, limited omniscient.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Pete Wentz can't seem to drink enough to have a good time at this rep party. The beer doesn't taste right, the band playing pretty much sucks, and everywhere he turns dumb teenagers shanghai him. But when one teen, a slight, brown-eyed boy, pops up, Pete can't help but feel something other than annoyance.
Warning[s]: slash, odd observations, slightly younger man.
Disclaimer: people ain't mine, characters are. Plot never happened outside the vast wasteland that is my imagination.
So, yeah, Pete's pretty bored and this party's actually really lame. The seizure lights are trying too hard, like everyone else in this joint, and all they succeed in doing is giving Pete a headache. Even the beer is cheap and watered down like God spit in it and that is exactly why Pete's an atheist. Seriously, come on, who wants to worship a guy who backwashes into red plastic cups filled with shitty kegger beer? But whatever, Pete thinks, if you wanna worship your mom's imaginary friend...
But, yeah, Pete can't seem to get drunk enough to make this party suck a little less, which is probably because the alcohol is more like aquafina. He stops drinking after maybe the fifth or sixth cup but every time some kid comes up to him and tries to make conversation over this seriously, seriously horrible band, he feels like he should take a shot. Only replace his beer with a bottle of whiskey. And make the whiskey in the shape of a gun. Because, honestly, these kids are that annoying.
But they don't have whiskey here so after some kid named Santino gets the hint that Pete really doesn't feel like talking about rockets and the moon he goes and gets another pump of beerwater. He barely takes a sip when another cliché emo kid decides to take a safety pin off his hoodie and pop the fuck out of Pete's personal space bubble.
"Ohmygod, beer! Can I have a sip, yeeahh, thanks!" says the kid in about less than three seconds and in a lot of breath that smells like he's had maybe an ocean of alcohol to drink. He takes the cup right out of Pete's hands and tips it back so the brim bumps up against the bridge of his nose. His adam's apple jumps with each gulp he takes and it slides in out of sight with the flutter of blue light.
Hm, yeah, Pete just stands there while this wasted-ass kid slams back something that might have maybe closed his liver down for the night. Just stands there and watches the kid, who Pete's already named Hasselhoff in his head, swallow and gulp and pull the cup away from his lips, breathing hard like drinking were an Olympic sport. Hasselhoff grins at him and even in the bad lighting Pete thinks he doesn't look so bad. Very soft, kind of like what Pete imagines Arielle from the Little Mermaid were to look like if she were less cartoon and more real. Very soft and very young, Pete realizes. That's probably why he's so downy, the lack of years to sand away the smooth babyfat along his jaw. Very soft, very young and very... no, Pete. Because it's pretty much 100% possible that Hasselhoff's name isn't Hasselhoff but Jailbait. Esquire.
"Aahh, thanks dude, that hit the spot!" says Hasselhoff. He tries to hand Pete the red plastic cup back, even though it has maybe half a swallow of aquabeer left. Even though everyone knows, regardless of how much more alcohol than blood is driving through their veins, that the last sip of anything is nothing but backwash, nasty, and a three-week cold.
"Ahm, no, you can keep it," Pete says softly, not taking his eyes away from the kid. The more he looks at Hasselhoff the more he likes what he sees. Yeah, he's soft, like marshmallows and clouds, and yeah, he's young, like statutory rape young, but... fuck. He's soft in a very angular way; his jaw is lined with baby cotton but underneath the layer of squishy velvet it looks hard, and chiseled almost (and what the fuck, did Pete seriously just think chiseled in his head? What is this a romance novel?). His brown eyes pop out in the blue light, sparkling like maybe the stars live there, surrounded by streaks of coal-colored eyeliner. Lips are perfect bows of pink flesh and they're a little wet, a little slippery from Pete's alcohol, which Pete realizes he drank some of. He drank some of the beer and he probably backwashed a little, so really, in a way, Hasselhoff has a bit of Pete on his lips.
The kid's mouth falls open and, yeah, Pete's half-hard in his grey skinny jeans just thinking of what he could do with that mouth. "I can have it? Whoa, you're like fuckin' Mother Theresa!" he says and drinks the last swirl of spit, beer and water. "I'm Ryan, by the way, and you're actually kind of really hot."
Pete smirks, and takes his hands out of his pockets in the vain attempt to hide the bulge of something against his zipper. "Yeah, you're not so bad yourself. I'm Pete."
"Oh, I know. You're Pete fuckin' Wentz, everyone knows you're here and everyone knows who you are. It's a little hard not to with your dick taking up a gig and a half on everyone's hard drive." Ryan's words are a little slurred, a little too inconsistent with the speed. Ryan tips the cup back again and turns into the Incredible Sulk when he realizes there's none left. Pete resists the urge to swallow his pout and instead flushes a shade of red so deep Kafka wouldn't comprehend it.
"You've seen those?"
"Who hasn't seen those. To be honest, they were kind of nice. I dig. Props," he replies and starts walking away. But he's drunk as fuck, so walking might be overshooting it - stumbling like he were blind fits better.
Pete chases after Ryan, his face still approximately the same shade as a bunch of roses. "How old are you?" he says, but he didn't mean to say that. He meant to say something suave, something that would make Ryan run his big, drunk, brown eyes up and down Pete's physique and lick his lips like there's nothing much he'd like to savor. But, remembers Pete, being a smooth talker isn't exactly something he could claim to be a champ in (Gabe definitely could, but that's a different story for a different time... like tonight if Pete didn't find someone for the evening).
"Sixteen," replies Ryan, a little too quickly, and with just a tad and half of defense in his tone.
"...sixteen?"
"Sixteen."
Yeah, definitely not named Hasselhoff or Ryan, thinks Pete, making a dash-underscore-dash face. "Really? Uh. Wow. That's. Uh."
"Nevermind?"
"What?"
"I know that look. It's the look that guys give me when they realize I'm a little bit younger than they thought. Yeah, I get that a lot."
And, hey, Ryan sounds kind of sad. The corners of his wide, chocolate brown eyes droop down towards the beer-sticky floor and the corners of his mouth seem to quiver in the flashflashflash of light. Pete wonders if maybe he's going to cry. The very idea makes that hollow little thing in the middle of his chest ache.
"Hey now..." he says, in a voice that would be soft and soothing if no shitastic band were blasting on stage. He reaches out an ink-splayed arm and snakes it around Ryan's shoulders. "That's not what I'm thinking," lies Pete through his monster-truck sized teeth.
"What were you thinking, then?"
Oh. Smooth move, Wentz. Caught now like a moth in the strands of a sticky lie. "Well, I was... I was thinking that maybe -- maybe you should come back to my place." There. He said it. Said the words that might just maybe have the potential to earn his name a few cover stories on OK! magazine, and, god, who knows how many months being referred to as Pedo Pete on TMZ.
Yet... the way Ryan's smile flares up brighter than the Fourth of July, the way his eyes pop open like a bottle of bubbly on New Years' Eve. The very way that suddenly his entire, completely illegal body seems to radiate sexuality and he twists his drunk little self up to Pete until their chests are nearly together. "And I think that would make my night."
And that's how Pete Wentz found himself in the back of a taxi cab with Ryan Ross, staring out the window, mind racing through the city with the windows down, letting in all the doubts, all the excitement. I shouldn't be doing this. I'm having a good night tonight. Yeah, I'm going to jail. And hell. But tonight, god, tonight I'll be in heaven...
The buildings rush past in a blur of color that pretty much send Pete's head into a blurry, messy rush. He's a little surprised that Ryan hasn't barfed yet, considered how Pete can smell the alcohol radiated from that kid's breath from the other side of the taxi cab. With the windows down. He turns and looks at Ryan sideways, seeing the couple feet of space between them. He kind of wants to slide his ass closer to Ryan, but, the cab driver could be an undercover agent for Child Protection Services, who will arrest him faster than you can say michael jackson.
But as it turns out, Pete doesn't have to do anything, because three seconds after he looks away, a seatbelt clicks and Pete suddenly finds that the back of the taxi cab is a little too crowded for his liking.
"Hi," Ryan says softly, and Pete can feel the hot and heavy ghost of his breath impregnating little goosebumps up and down his body. One particular prick feels harder than the rest.
"Hey," swallows Pete, trying not to turn his face toward the boy's, because, hey, Pete's just a man and god if Ryan doesn't take his hand off of Pete's thigh the cab driver is going to charge him a million dollars to clean up the mess he makes on the seats.
But, of course, Ryan doesn't take his hand off of anything, and actually kind of slides it up a little until Pete's breath is coming in faster than the air through the open windows. Despite that wind, Pete thinks that maybe they've driven into the Sahara Desert because, hey, did it just get hotter in here or what?
"Hey..." Ryan says again and Pete knows that he's gotta turn his neck now. He knows, and he wants to, fuck, does he want to. But the undercover CPS cab driver keeps flicking his eyes in the rearview mirror, at the space (or lack thereof) between Pete and Ryan and oh, fuck it.
Pete turns his head and Ryan kisses him. Ryan kisses him and Pete thinks that maybe the world has stopped revolving, for a second everything is still and Pete can think of nothing but these two perfect bows of flesh on his, working with forces that Luke Skywalker would be confused with. Ryan leans into Pete, his hand fully on the older man's zipper, their thighs pressed together like there's no room in the car.
And, just like that, with the feel of a hand hot on his belt, Pete forgets everything, and kisses back until he's sure they're underwater because fuck he can't breathe, fuck he can't breath, god, oh god he needs Ryan.
The cab stops, Pete empties his pockets into the lap of the driver and yanks Ryan faster than the speed of light up to his apartment. For the first time, ever Pete hates his topfloor penthouse, and crowds Ryan into the corner of the elevator, pressing him tight so there's no chance of this kid getting away, and sucks on his neck, licking, palming, biting any bit of skin that gets in the way of his rushing hands and mouth.
The elevator pings just as Ryan lets out a tiny moan. Pete pulls him in and doesn't stop to be a good host and offer a tour. He doesn't ask Ryan if he wants a drink, or if he's hungry, or if he needs to use the bathroom or phone, no, Pete gives him the executive tour of the black silk sheets and his body on top.
He undoes Ryan's belt speedy-quick, and doesn't wait for the younger boy to return the favor. In less than no time at all, Pete pulls Ryan into his lap and feels the tight ecstacy take over his entire being.
It's quick, messy, and a little dirty, with one of Ryan's legs on either side of Pete's taut torso, sweat-slick and hairless. Pete thrusts up and Ryan thrusts down, moans, groans and cries spilling forth up from his throat like it's replaced English as his first language. Pete takes Ryan by the throat, swirling his tongue over the protrusion of his Adam's apple, teeth nagging into his earlobe and, god, the way that boy is breathing, hot and heavy like it's a new concept. And Pete loves the fact that here he is, twenty-something years old and making a young hot thing writhe in pleasure.
"Fuck," Ryan breathes, those sparkling eyes fluttering just like the strobe lights back at the club, and Pete remembers the pulse of excitement he felt the first time he ran his eyes up and down this kid's tight, fit body, in those fucking second-skin jeans and the lips, his lips shiny and wet as he sucked back gulps of alcohol like a champ...
A volcano erupts down in Pete's lower stomach, he goes still, body shifting into fitful lapses colored by the intense surge of ecstacy, better than any drug, any high, any anything that Pete Wentz has ever had the pleasure to know.
Ryan finishes on Pete's stomach seconds later, growling the older man's name faster than his heartbeat. He slides off of Pete's lap, breath still coming in sharp gasps. Pete himself falls back on the bed, uncrossing his legs, and letting the cool end of the bed dry the sweat dripping off his spine. They both lay there for a while, wait until both of their breaths slow down to something more normal and the sweat slowly diffuses into their skin.
Pete reaches into his bedside table, grabbing a pack of cigarettes (even though he quit last month. Again.) and flicks a lighter on. He offers Ryan one and after the boy refuses, takes a long, satisfying drag. Clouds of smoke fester in the air, so Pete feels the shift of weight on the bed, rather than see Ryan get up.
The boy of the two stretches and starts grabbing his clothes off the ground. He shifts through the pockets of jeans much too small even for his miniscule body. Something pops out of the blue-grey smoke and hits Pete square in the chest. "What's this?" he asks and he's a little surprised to hear how raspy his voice sounds.
"My band's demo."
"Oh?" Pete picks it up and looks at it, eyebrow hiding under his swoop of sweaty emo hair.
"My cell phone number is on there too. Listen to it. I think if you liked tonight, you'll like this." And, just like that, sixteen year old Ryan Ross buttons the top of his girljeans, gives Pete a smirk and a kiss, and walks out the door.
Author: yeyaness
Pairing: Ryte/Pyro [Pete Wentz/Ryan Ross].
POV: Third, limited omniscient.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Pete Wentz can't seem to drink enough to have a good time at this rep party. The beer doesn't taste right, the band playing pretty much sucks, and everywhere he turns dumb teenagers shanghai him. But when one teen, a slight, brown-eyed boy, pops up, Pete can't help but feel something other than annoyance.
Warning[s]: slash, odd observations, slightly younger man.
Disclaimer: people ain't mine, characters are. Plot never happened outside the vast wasteland that is my imagination.
So, yeah, Pete's pretty bored and this party's actually really lame. The seizure lights are trying too hard, like everyone else in this joint, and all they succeed in doing is giving Pete a headache. Even the beer is cheap and watered down like God spit in it and that is exactly why Pete's an atheist. Seriously, come on, who wants to worship a guy who backwashes into red plastic cups filled with shitty kegger beer? But whatever, Pete thinks, if you wanna worship your mom's imaginary friend...
But, yeah, Pete can't seem to get drunk enough to make this party suck a little less, which is probably because the alcohol is more like aquafina. He stops drinking after maybe the fifth or sixth cup but every time some kid comes up to him and tries to make conversation over this seriously, seriously horrible band, he feels like he should take a shot. Only replace his beer with a bottle of whiskey. And make the whiskey in the shape of a gun. Because, honestly, these kids are that annoying.
But they don't have whiskey here so after some kid named Santino gets the hint that Pete really doesn't feel like talking about rockets and the moon he goes and gets another pump of beerwater. He barely takes a sip when another cliché emo kid decides to take a safety pin off his hoodie and pop the fuck out of Pete's personal space bubble.
"Ohmygod, beer! Can I have a sip, yeeahh, thanks!" says the kid in about less than three seconds and in a lot of breath that smells like he's had maybe an ocean of alcohol to drink. He takes the cup right out of Pete's hands and tips it back so the brim bumps up against the bridge of his nose. His adam's apple jumps with each gulp he takes and it slides in out of sight with the flutter of blue light.
Hm, yeah, Pete just stands there while this wasted-ass kid slams back something that might have maybe closed his liver down for the night. Just stands there and watches the kid, who Pete's already named Hasselhoff in his head, swallow and gulp and pull the cup away from his lips, breathing hard like drinking were an Olympic sport. Hasselhoff grins at him and even in the bad lighting Pete thinks he doesn't look so bad. Very soft, kind of like what Pete imagines Arielle from the Little Mermaid were to look like if she were less cartoon and more real. Very soft and very young, Pete realizes. That's probably why he's so downy, the lack of years to sand away the smooth babyfat along his jaw. Very soft, very young and very... no, Pete. Because it's pretty much 100% possible that Hasselhoff's name isn't Hasselhoff but Jailbait. Esquire.
"Aahh, thanks dude, that hit the spot!" says Hasselhoff. He tries to hand Pete the red plastic cup back, even though it has maybe half a swallow of aquabeer left. Even though everyone knows, regardless of how much more alcohol than blood is driving through their veins, that the last sip of anything is nothing but backwash, nasty, and a three-week cold.
"Ahm, no, you can keep it," Pete says softly, not taking his eyes away from the kid. The more he looks at Hasselhoff the more he likes what he sees. Yeah, he's soft, like marshmallows and clouds, and yeah, he's young, like statutory rape young, but... fuck. He's soft in a very angular way; his jaw is lined with baby cotton but underneath the layer of squishy velvet it looks hard, and chiseled almost (and what the fuck, did Pete seriously just think chiseled in his head? What is this a romance novel?). His brown eyes pop out in the blue light, sparkling like maybe the stars live there, surrounded by streaks of coal-colored eyeliner. Lips are perfect bows of pink flesh and they're a little wet, a little slippery from Pete's alcohol, which Pete realizes he drank some of. He drank some of the beer and he probably backwashed a little, so really, in a way, Hasselhoff has a bit of Pete on his lips.
The kid's mouth falls open and, yeah, Pete's half-hard in his grey skinny jeans just thinking of what he could do with that mouth. "I can have it? Whoa, you're like fuckin' Mother Theresa!" he says and drinks the last swirl of spit, beer and water. "I'm Ryan, by the way, and you're actually kind of really hot."
Pete smirks, and takes his hands out of his pockets in the vain attempt to hide the bulge of something against his zipper. "Yeah, you're not so bad yourself. I'm Pete."
"Oh, I know. You're Pete fuckin' Wentz, everyone knows you're here and everyone knows who you are. It's a little hard not to with your dick taking up a gig and a half on everyone's hard drive." Ryan's words are a little slurred, a little too inconsistent with the speed. Ryan tips the cup back again and turns into the Incredible Sulk when he realizes there's none left. Pete resists the urge to swallow his pout and instead flushes a shade of red so deep Kafka wouldn't comprehend it.
"You've seen those?"
"Who hasn't seen those. To be honest, they were kind of nice. I dig. Props," he replies and starts walking away. But he's drunk as fuck, so walking might be overshooting it - stumbling like he were blind fits better.
Pete chases after Ryan, his face still approximately the same shade as a bunch of roses. "How old are you?" he says, but he didn't mean to say that. He meant to say something suave, something that would make Ryan run his big, drunk, brown eyes up and down Pete's physique and lick his lips like there's nothing much he'd like to savor. But, remembers Pete, being a smooth talker isn't exactly something he could claim to be a champ in (Gabe definitely could, but that's a different story for a different time... like tonight if Pete didn't find someone for the evening).
"Sixteen," replies Ryan, a little too quickly, and with just a tad and half of defense in his tone.
"...sixteen?"
"Sixteen."
Yeah, definitely not named Hasselhoff or Ryan, thinks Pete, making a dash-underscore-dash face. "Really? Uh. Wow. That's. Uh."
"Nevermind?"
"What?"
"I know that look. It's the look that guys give me when they realize I'm a little bit younger than they thought. Yeah, I get that a lot."
And, hey, Ryan sounds kind of sad. The corners of his wide, chocolate brown eyes droop down towards the beer-sticky floor and the corners of his mouth seem to quiver in the flashflashflash of light. Pete wonders if maybe he's going to cry. The very idea makes that hollow little thing in the middle of his chest ache.
"Hey now..." he says, in a voice that would be soft and soothing if no shitastic band were blasting on stage. He reaches out an ink-splayed arm and snakes it around Ryan's shoulders. "That's not what I'm thinking," lies Pete through his monster-truck sized teeth.
"What were you thinking, then?"
Oh. Smooth move, Wentz. Caught now like a moth in the strands of a sticky lie. "Well, I was... I was thinking that maybe -- maybe you should come back to my place." There. He said it. Said the words that might just maybe have the potential to earn his name a few cover stories on OK! magazine, and, god, who knows how many months being referred to as Pedo Pete on TMZ.
Yet... the way Ryan's smile flares up brighter than the Fourth of July, the way his eyes pop open like a bottle of bubbly on New Years' Eve. The very way that suddenly his entire, completely illegal body seems to radiate sexuality and he twists his drunk little self up to Pete until their chests are nearly together. "And I think that would make my night."
And that's how Pete Wentz found himself in the back of a taxi cab with Ryan Ross, staring out the window, mind racing through the city with the windows down, letting in all the doubts, all the excitement. I shouldn't be doing this. I'm having a good night tonight. Yeah, I'm going to jail. And hell. But tonight, god, tonight I'll be in heaven...
The buildings rush past in a blur of color that pretty much send Pete's head into a blurry, messy rush. He's a little surprised that Ryan hasn't barfed yet, considered how Pete can smell the alcohol radiated from that kid's breath from the other side of the taxi cab. With the windows down. He turns and looks at Ryan sideways, seeing the couple feet of space between them. He kind of wants to slide his ass closer to Ryan, but, the cab driver could be an undercover agent for Child Protection Services, who will arrest him faster than you can say michael jackson.
But as it turns out, Pete doesn't have to do anything, because three seconds after he looks away, a seatbelt clicks and Pete suddenly finds that the back of the taxi cab is a little too crowded for his liking.
"Hi," Ryan says softly, and Pete can feel the hot and heavy ghost of his breath impregnating little goosebumps up and down his body. One particular prick feels harder than the rest.
"Hey," swallows Pete, trying not to turn his face toward the boy's, because, hey, Pete's just a man and god if Ryan doesn't take his hand off of Pete's thigh the cab driver is going to charge him a million dollars to clean up the mess he makes on the seats.
But, of course, Ryan doesn't take his hand off of anything, and actually kind of slides it up a little until Pete's breath is coming in faster than the air through the open windows. Despite that wind, Pete thinks that maybe they've driven into the Sahara Desert because, hey, did it just get hotter in here or what?
"Hey..." Ryan says again and Pete knows that he's gotta turn his neck now. He knows, and he wants to, fuck, does he want to. But the undercover CPS cab driver keeps flicking his eyes in the rearview mirror, at the space (or lack thereof) between Pete and Ryan and oh, fuck it.
Pete turns his head and Ryan kisses him. Ryan kisses him and Pete thinks that maybe the world has stopped revolving, for a second everything is still and Pete can think of nothing but these two perfect bows of flesh on his, working with forces that Luke Skywalker would be confused with. Ryan leans into Pete, his hand fully on the older man's zipper, their thighs pressed together like there's no room in the car.
And, just like that, with the feel of a hand hot on his belt, Pete forgets everything, and kisses back until he's sure they're underwater because fuck he can't breathe, fuck he can't breath, god, oh god he needs Ryan.
The cab stops, Pete empties his pockets into the lap of the driver and yanks Ryan faster than the speed of light up to his apartment. For the first time, ever Pete hates his topfloor penthouse, and crowds Ryan into the corner of the elevator, pressing him tight so there's no chance of this kid getting away, and sucks on his neck, licking, palming, biting any bit of skin that gets in the way of his rushing hands and mouth.
The elevator pings just as Ryan lets out a tiny moan. Pete pulls him in and doesn't stop to be a good host and offer a tour. He doesn't ask Ryan if he wants a drink, or if he's hungry, or if he needs to use the bathroom or phone, no, Pete gives him the executive tour of the black silk sheets and his body on top.
He undoes Ryan's belt speedy-quick, and doesn't wait for the younger boy to return the favor. In less than no time at all, Pete pulls Ryan into his lap and feels the tight ecstacy take over his entire being.
It's quick, messy, and a little dirty, with one of Ryan's legs on either side of Pete's taut torso, sweat-slick and hairless. Pete thrusts up and Ryan thrusts down, moans, groans and cries spilling forth up from his throat like it's replaced English as his first language. Pete takes Ryan by the throat, swirling his tongue over the protrusion of his Adam's apple, teeth nagging into his earlobe and, god, the way that boy is breathing, hot and heavy like it's a new concept. And Pete loves the fact that here he is, twenty-something years old and making a young hot thing writhe in pleasure.
"Fuck," Ryan breathes, those sparkling eyes fluttering just like the strobe lights back at the club, and Pete remembers the pulse of excitement he felt the first time he ran his eyes up and down this kid's tight, fit body, in those fucking second-skin jeans and the lips, his lips shiny and wet as he sucked back gulps of alcohol like a champ...
A volcano erupts down in Pete's lower stomach, he goes still, body shifting into fitful lapses colored by the intense surge of ecstacy, better than any drug, any high, any anything that Pete Wentz has ever had the pleasure to know.
Ryan finishes on Pete's stomach seconds later, growling the older man's name faster than his heartbeat. He slides off of Pete's lap, breath still coming in sharp gasps. Pete himself falls back on the bed, uncrossing his legs, and letting the cool end of the bed dry the sweat dripping off his spine. They both lay there for a while, wait until both of their breaths slow down to something more normal and the sweat slowly diffuses into their skin.
Pete reaches into his bedside table, grabbing a pack of cigarettes (even though he quit last month. Again.) and flicks a lighter on. He offers Ryan one and after the boy refuses, takes a long, satisfying drag. Clouds of smoke fester in the air, so Pete feels the shift of weight on the bed, rather than see Ryan get up.
The boy of the two stretches and starts grabbing his clothes off the ground. He shifts through the pockets of jeans much too small even for his miniscule body. Something pops out of the blue-grey smoke and hits Pete square in the chest. "What's this?" he asks and he's a little surprised to hear how raspy his voice sounds.
"My band's demo."
"Oh?" Pete picks it up and looks at it, eyebrow hiding under his swoop of sweaty emo hair.
"My cell phone number is on there too. Listen to it. I think if you liked tonight, you'll like this." And, just like that, sixteen year old Ryan Ross buttons the top of his girljeans, gives Pete a smirk and a kiss, and walks out the door.