mommy's boy (bert/pete, for azrielen)
Bert/Pete (wtf?)
Standalone
R (swearing)
written August 2006
for my "request-a-fic" meme. azrielen requested the pairing, scent (food), colour (dark blue) and verb (scream).
Bert doesn't like Pete Wentz. At all.
Fucking little mommy's boy, hiding behind his bullshit metaphors and twisted cliches, Bert thinks with a snort. Writes songs, but can't sing 'em. Spends all his time bitching about his problems. Oh wow, let's all cry for me because I tried to kill myself once, huh? Let's all feel sorry for fucking Pete Wentz because his girlfriend's a mindfuck and he's a whore. Fucking holier-than-thou fucking straight-edge little prick. Little Petey fucking pussy-head Wentz doesn't know what it's like to have motherfucking problems. Still lives with his mommy, huh? Try living on the streets, asshole.
Bert hates Pete Wentz.
So when Bert finds out he's in the same room as Pete, he wants to scream. Okay, so maybe he should have expected it; these fucking industry parties are always a pain in the ass, and he usually ends up having to make polite small-talk with boring execs and people he hates, or being confronted by chicks he fucked once and never called back ...
Bert pulls a face and shovels a random hors d'oeuvre into his mouth, chewing vigorously and glaring at the members of Fall Out Boy on the other side of the room. For a brief second, he locks eyes with Pete, who flashes him a huge smile. Bert grunts and lifts his chin in acknowledgement, then empties his wine glass with one gulp and sets it on the nearest table.
Donny Osmond, he thinks. Teeth like fucking Donny fucking Osmond.
He doesn't mind the other guys in Pete's band; he actually likes Patrick a lot. Nice guy, Patrick -- goofy and cute in a childlike way that reminds him of Gerard, and he's a Bowie fan, which always earns Bert's respect. The guitarist dude's always good for a toke, and the drummer ... well, Bert's never really talked to him, but he seems like an okay guy.
But there's something about Pete that pisses Bert off, and when he's walking across the room, slender hips swaying in those fucking tight girl jeans, eyelids so heavy with liner that he can barely lift them to look around, Bert sees no reason to change his opinion.
Just a fucking overgrown scene kid, he thinks as Pete approaches him.
"Bert, hey," he says, flashing another toothy grin at him. "What's happening?"
"Uh -- Pete, isn't it?"
He closes his eyes and laughs softly, the slightly condescending laugh of a celebrity. "That's right."
"That guy from The Simpsons sued you yet?"
"Nope," Pete says, smiling again. This time, he doesn't reveal his teeth, and Bert notices the heavy slick of gloss on his lips as it catches the light. Pete laughs again and lifts a tanned, manicured hand to run through his black hair, which looks almost blue in the electric light.
Fucking pussy, Bert thinks, but stays silent.
The waitress with the hors d'oeuvres returns, and Pete turns his attention to her, chatting away happily as his hand hovers over the tray. He's making jokes because he doesn't know which delicacy to choose from, and the waitress grins indulgently. Bert, on the other hand, thinks he's going to be sick.
And then he notices that Pete has really nice skin. Smooth, coffee-coloured skin that looks as if it'd be silky to the touch. Hmm, I like the ink too, he says to himself as Pete's sleeve slides up his arm. Wonder who does his tats?
Without a second thought, Bert grabs Pete's left arm and examines the designs on his skin, running his fingers along the patterns. Definitely silky. Nice. Pretty hairless for a guy ... I bet he waxes or some other girly shit.
"You like?"
Pete's voice snaps Bert back to reality. He looks up, slightly confused, and smiles faintly as he drops the other man's arm. "Yeah. S'cool, man."
"You think? I've got the most awesome design figured out for my next one ... "
Bert shakes his head and reaches for another drink, downing it quickly as Pete talks about his new tattoo. He doesn't like Pete -- he hates Pete -- but Pete's dark, liquid eyes remind him of a puppy, and Pete's skin feels fantastic under Bert's fingers. He's a pissy little mommy's boy, but he's got some fucking awesome ink and the sort of mouth Bert likes to kiss -- full but not quite pouting. He's a mouthy little prick who spends all of his time on his Sidekick, but he's got a great ass, and those internet pics of his dick were kinda impressive --
Holy shit, Bert says to himself, eyes wide. I am not finding Pete Wentz attractive. I'm not. No fucking way!
"So then I went -- hey, what's wrong?" Pete says, a tiny frown appearing between his brows.
Bert shakes his head again. "Nothing, man. Sorry, what were you saying?"
"Need some fresh air?" Pete leans over him, and Bert can smell the hors d'oeuvre -- cheese and smoked salmon -- on his breath. "C'mon."
***
The night sky is the same blue-black shade as Pete's hair, Bert thinks as stares up at the moon, puffing on a cigarette. He's not drunk yet, but he wishes he was. Things are easier when you're drunk. Sitting on the front steps of this fucking hotel, with Pete Wentz sitting on the step below, would be a lot easier if he were drunk.
"Feeling better?"
"Mmm."
"Anything you wanna talk about?"
Bert raises an eyebrow. "To you?"
"Do you see anybody else around?"
"Huh," Bert says, pulling a face.
"You don't like me much, do ya?"
"Nope," he says succinctly, stubbing out his cigarette.
"Figured."
"What d'you mean, you figured?"
Pete grins. "You're a moody asshole ... fucking staring at me all night. That's why I came over to talk to you. Thought I'd piss you off."
"Yeah, well you did."
"And I felt kinda sorry for you ... "
"You felt sorry for me, you little shit?" Bert snaps. "Why don't you do us both a favour and go feel sorry for yourself?"
"Would if I could, but I'm back on the meds. Feeling pretty good, you know?"
"Halle-fucking-lujah," he grumbles, then stands up. "Look, why don't you fuck off back to your little scene friends? I'm outta here."
"Just sit down for a sec, okay? I wanna talk to you."
"Go to hell," he says, turning around and heading towards the entrance. Pete leaps to his feet -- no mean feat in those jeans -- and grabs Bert's arm before he can move any further.
"Get your head out of your ass, Bert."
"Ha! That's fucking rich coming from you, Mr Dick-Pics," he says, struggling against Pete's grip. The little bastard's stronger than he looks ...
"You saw those, huh?"
"Who didn't?"
"Did you like what you saw?"
Bert blinks. "What the -- "
"I think you're kinda hot," Pete says quietly, a smirk tugging at the corners of his full lips. "And, if it's like, you know, mutual, we could -- "
"You're fucking insane."
"Yeah, we established that before. So what d'you say?"
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Bert splutters. He hates the fact that he's wavering, that he's actually considering Pete's proposal, and that Pete knows it.
Before he knows it, Pete is dragging him down the steps, into the parking lot, and Bert can only follow blindly. His eyes haven't adjusted to the lack of light, and he feels almost helpless as he stumbles along the concrete path. Pete's hand slides downwards, from Bert's bicep to his fingertips; he laces their fingers together and drags Bert deeper into the darkness.
Surrounded by inky black, Bert can only make out rough shapes -- cars, trees, Pete -- but his other senses are heightened by lack of sight. His own breathing is harsh in his ears and the queasiness churns almost violently in his stomach as Pete stops abruptly and pushes him up against the side of a catering truck.
"Made up your mind yet?"
Bert can't quite see his eyes, but he knows they're sparkling with mischief and flirtation -- and there's no way in hell that Pete's having the upper hand in this situation.
"Yup," he whispers.
There's a pause before Pete answers. "And what is it?"
Bert grins, twisting out of Pete's grip and reversing their positions, then slamming Pete hard against the truck. He shuffles forward even further, until their bodies are pressed together from chest to thigh, and brushes his lips against Pete's. And they're perfect, just like he thought they would be; soft and warm, slightly fruity from the gloss.
"I still don't like you," he says firmly before leaning in for another kiss.
Standalone
R (swearing)
written August 2006
for my "request-a-fic" meme. azrielen requested the pairing, scent (food), colour (dark blue) and verb (scream).
Bert doesn't like Pete Wentz. At all.
Fucking little mommy's boy, hiding behind his bullshit metaphors and twisted cliches, Bert thinks with a snort. Writes songs, but can't sing 'em. Spends all his time bitching about his problems. Oh wow, let's all cry for me because I tried to kill myself once, huh? Let's all feel sorry for fucking Pete Wentz because his girlfriend's a mindfuck and he's a whore. Fucking holier-than-thou fucking straight-edge little prick. Little Petey fucking pussy-head Wentz doesn't know what it's like to have motherfucking problems. Still lives with his mommy, huh? Try living on the streets, asshole.
Bert hates Pete Wentz.
So when Bert finds out he's in the same room as Pete, he wants to scream. Okay, so maybe he should have expected it; these fucking industry parties are always a pain in the ass, and he usually ends up having to make polite small-talk with boring execs and people he hates, or being confronted by chicks he fucked once and never called back ...
Bert pulls a face and shovels a random hors d'oeuvre into his mouth, chewing vigorously and glaring at the members of Fall Out Boy on the other side of the room. For a brief second, he locks eyes with Pete, who flashes him a huge smile. Bert grunts and lifts his chin in acknowledgement, then empties his wine glass with one gulp and sets it on the nearest table.
Donny Osmond, he thinks. Teeth like fucking Donny fucking Osmond.
He doesn't mind the other guys in Pete's band; he actually likes Patrick a lot. Nice guy, Patrick -- goofy and cute in a childlike way that reminds him of Gerard, and he's a Bowie fan, which always earns Bert's respect. The guitarist dude's always good for a toke, and the drummer ... well, Bert's never really talked to him, but he seems like an okay guy.
But there's something about Pete that pisses Bert off, and when he's walking across the room, slender hips swaying in those fucking tight girl jeans, eyelids so heavy with liner that he can barely lift them to look around, Bert sees no reason to change his opinion.
Just a fucking overgrown scene kid, he thinks as Pete approaches him.
"Bert, hey," he says, flashing another toothy grin at him. "What's happening?"
"Uh -- Pete, isn't it?"
He closes his eyes and laughs softly, the slightly condescending laugh of a celebrity. "That's right."
"That guy from The Simpsons sued you yet?"
"Nope," Pete says, smiling again. This time, he doesn't reveal his teeth, and Bert notices the heavy slick of gloss on his lips as it catches the light. Pete laughs again and lifts a tanned, manicured hand to run through his black hair, which looks almost blue in the electric light.
Fucking pussy, Bert thinks, but stays silent.
The waitress with the hors d'oeuvres returns, and Pete turns his attention to her, chatting away happily as his hand hovers over the tray. He's making jokes because he doesn't know which delicacy to choose from, and the waitress grins indulgently. Bert, on the other hand, thinks he's going to be sick.
And then he notices that Pete has really nice skin. Smooth, coffee-coloured skin that looks as if it'd be silky to the touch. Hmm, I like the ink too, he says to himself as Pete's sleeve slides up his arm. Wonder who does his tats?
Without a second thought, Bert grabs Pete's left arm and examines the designs on his skin, running his fingers along the patterns. Definitely silky. Nice. Pretty hairless for a guy ... I bet he waxes or some other girly shit.
"You like?"
Pete's voice snaps Bert back to reality. He looks up, slightly confused, and smiles faintly as he drops the other man's arm. "Yeah. S'cool, man."
"You think? I've got the most awesome design figured out for my next one ... "
Bert shakes his head and reaches for another drink, downing it quickly as Pete talks about his new tattoo. He doesn't like Pete -- he hates Pete -- but Pete's dark, liquid eyes remind him of a puppy, and Pete's skin feels fantastic under Bert's fingers. He's a pissy little mommy's boy, but he's got some fucking awesome ink and the sort of mouth Bert likes to kiss -- full but not quite pouting. He's a mouthy little prick who spends all of his time on his Sidekick, but he's got a great ass, and those internet pics of his dick were kinda impressive --
Holy shit, Bert says to himself, eyes wide. I am not finding Pete Wentz attractive. I'm not. No fucking way!
"So then I went -- hey, what's wrong?" Pete says, a tiny frown appearing between his brows.
Bert shakes his head again. "Nothing, man. Sorry, what were you saying?"
"Need some fresh air?" Pete leans over him, and Bert can smell the hors d'oeuvre -- cheese and smoked salmon -- on his breath. "C'mon."
***
The night sky is the same blue-black shade as Pete's hair, Bert thinks as stares up at the moon, puffing on a cigarette. He's not drunk yet, but he wishes he was. Things are easier when you're drunk. Sitting on the front steps of this fucking hotel, with Pete Wentz sitting on the step below, would be a lot easier if he were drunk.
"Feeling better?"
"Mmm."
"Anything you wanna talk about?"
Bert raises an eyebrow. "To you?"
"Do you see anybody else around?"
"Huh," Bert says, pulling a face.
"You don't like me much, do ya?"
"Nope," he says succinctly, stubbing out his cigarette.
"Figured."
"What d'you mean, you figured?"
Pete grins. "You're a moody asshole ... fucking staring at me all night. That's why I came over to talk to you. Thought I'd piss you off."
"Yeah, well you did."
"And I felt kinda sorry for you ... "
"You felt sorry for me, you little shit?" Bert snaps. "Why don't you do us both a favour and go feel sorry for yourself?"
"Would if I could, but I'm back on the meds. Feeling pretty good, you know?"
"Halle-fucking-lujah," he grumbles, then stands up. "Look, why don't you fuck off back to your little scene friends? I'm outta here."
"Just sit down for a sec, okay? I wanna talk to you."
"Go to hell," he says, turning around and heading towards the entrance. Pete leaps to his feet -- no mean feat in those jeans -- and grabs Bert's arm before he can move any further.
"Get your head out of your ass, Bert."
"Ha! That's fucking rich coming from you, Mr Dick-Pics," he says, struggling against Pete's grip. The little bastard's stronger than he looks ...
"You saw those, huh?"
"Who didn't?"
"Did you like what you saw?"
Bert blinks. "What the -- "
"I think you're kinda hot," Pete says quietly, a smirk tugging at the corners of his full lips. "And, if it's like, you know, mutual, we could -- "
"You're fucking insane."
"Yeah, we established that before. So what d'you say?"
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Bert splutters. He hates the fact that he's wavering, that he's actually considering Pete's proposal, and that Pete knows it.
Before he knows it, Pete is dragging him down the steps, into the parking lot, and Bert can only follow blindly. His eyes haven't adjusted to the lack of light, and he feels almost helpless as he stumbles along the concrete path. Pete's hand slides downwards, from Bert's bicep to his fingertips; he laces their fingers together and drags Bert deeper into the darkness.
Surrounded by inky black, Bert can only make out rough shapes -- cars, trees, Pete -- but his other senses are heightened by lack of sight. His own breathing is harsh in his ears and the queasiness churns almost violently in his stomach as Pete stops abruptly and pushes him up against the side of a catering truck.
"Made up your mind yet?"
Bert can't quite see his eyes, but he knows they're sparkling with mischief and flirtation -- and there's no way in hell that Pete's having the upper hand in this situation.
"Yup," he whispers.
There's a pause before Pete answers. "And what is it?"
Bert grins, twisting out of Pete's grip and reversing their positions, then slamming Pete hard against the truck. He shuffles forward even further, until their bodies are pressed together from chest to thigh, and brushes his lips against Pete's. And they're perfect, just like he thought they would be; soft and warm, slightly fruity from the gloss.
"I still don't like you," he says firmly before leaning in for another kiss.