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Post #203
merigibu wrote in anon_lovefest

Preaching to the Wind (Maybe It'll Catch On Eventually) (Pete/Patrick, 16 candles)
The Mad Ones (Patrick/Gabe)


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Pete/Patrick, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery

Jet Star/Mikey, vocabulary

Hiatus!Peterick -- You laugh louder now. I'm still not sure if it's at my expense.

title or description

Give me Pete/Patrick little red riding hood fic :) Obvs Trick as Little Red, Pete as the wolf.

It'd only been two weeks since Patrick's family packed up and moved them out into the middle of nowhere. His mother had insisted they move nearer to his grandmother, who was dying and while that upset him, he wasn't entirely sure why they don't move the woman to them, instead of joining her nearly a hundred miles away from any hospitals or civilization. Every time he asked this question, his mother told him to drop the attitude, and went on and on about her mother not leaving the house she worked so hard to own herself until she passed on. So Patrick dropped the attitude and spent two weeks holed up in his unpacked bedroom with only his guitar out.

It hadn't been until the first time his mother bitched at him for the noise that he realized he'd left his headphones back in Chicago. He'd grumbled and played quieter, but eventually had to give in and play some games on the computer because there was no internet and there was nowhere for him to go unless he wanted to pay for gas. At fifteen and a year away from any employers, Patrick was stuck without that leisure. So he wasted away in his room on the Sims 3. He'd made a cute little family based on his own, and then he'd let the mother drown in the pool. He felt a little bad, but it also made him feel a little better, so.

One Wednesday afternoon, after Patrick had finally woken up (around three-ish?), he'd pulled out his drums and started playing. He was bored and he hadn't had the chance to play since he'd moved in. Technically, now was not his chance, since his mom was home and probably watching her "stories" or just doing something that meant she didn't want to hear "noise". Five minutes into his playing she threw open his door and dragged him to the kitchen.

"You obviously need something to do," she said, tossing wrapped foods into a basket.

Patrick stood in the doorway with his arms crossed, scowling.

"Obviously. I also need a garage to play in and neighbors so that I don't feel so much like your hostage out here," he grumbled. He couldn't see her face, but she definitely rolled her eyes.

"You aren't a hostage, you're free to walk into town any time you like. You just choose not to."

"My legs would fall off before I got there," he said, regretting the whine it came out in. She turned and shoved the basket at him.

Patrick frowned and took it. "What's this for?"

"You're going to take that to your grandmother," she told him.

Patrick stared at it, frowning.

"That walk will take an hour. Why don't you drive it to her?"

"Because you need to leave the house. Anyway, it'll only be a half hour if you take the trails."

"I'll get eaten by a coyote..." he said, putting the basket on the counter and grabbing his red hooded sweater (he liked it best, it had this robot on it and yeah), because it was nearly winter in Illinois. It was bound to be cold.

"I really doubt that," she said, bringing the basket to him again. "Just stay on the pathway."

Patrick sighed and pulled the door closed hard behind him, cutting his mother's "have fun" off.

It was cold and within minutes Patrick's ears felt like they might fall off. He pulled his hood over his head and drug his feet all the way to the beginning of the dirt path leading into the dense trees of the woods right next to their house. Patrick often exaggerated the middle of nowhere-ness of their new home. They had neighbors five minutes from their house in each direction. It was just a lot of really old people and trees and a small, useless town just past his grandmother's house.

Out in the woods, off the trail and deep in the trees was a small campsite. Sitting in front of a makeshift fire pit was a dirty, scratched up Pete Wentz. His already big teeth were a little pointier, specifically the canines, and his eyes could be described as kind of glowy. It was Pete, but different. Across from him sat his friend Gabe, who had similar oddities in his facial features and they were chatting mindlessly about something. Gabe eventually interrupted the topic Pete was on.

"Wait. We're off topic, man. Pack. We need more people in our pack. I love you, but this is boring as shit, dude."

Pete shrugged. He agreed, but he also didn't like having to find people and the whole biting them made things awkward, and there just wasn't anyone cool enough to join their pack. Pete didn't even want to be in a pack, he'd rather be back in Chicago doing music, not running around as a werewolf with Gabe Saporta, fighting the urge to eat people whenever they came around.

"Then go get someone," Pete said, sliding forward and laying his head on the log he'd been sitting on.

"We have to decide together. I'm not gonna bring someone in and then listen to you bitch for the rest of our lives about them." Gabe was frowning at him.

"Do you smell that?" Pete sat up suddenly, sniffing the air.

"No more changing the subject," Gabe snapped, and while he was sort of right, Pete was trying to avoid talking about making a "family" with Gabe, he really did smell something.

"I think it's muffins," Pete said, hopping to his feet and turning to the direction it was coming from.

"Ooh. What kind?" Gabe sniffed, too. He always did like muffins.

"How the hell would I know? But I'll go get them," Pete said, before taking off, running much faster than a normal person would, considering his wolf-ness and whatnot.

It didn't take too long to find the muffins. They were in a basket, moving along the dirt trails through the middle of the woods, in the hands of a young teenage boy in a red hood. The kid was all scowl-y and red-headed and pudgy and Pete fought the urge to take both the boy and the muffins back to Gabe. Because eating people was wrong, and so was kidnapping.

Instead, Pete sauntered out from behind the trees into the pathway in front of him. The boy was startled, of course, but Pete gave him a big toothy grin, forgetting that wasn't a comforting or charming anymore because of his monster teeth.

Patrick frowned at the man, because he was dirty and his jeans were ripped and he was really creepy. Maybe coyotes won't be eating him, he thought bitterly, but he most certainly was going to get stabbed by some bum. He no longer felt at all bad for drowning his mother in a computerized pool.

"You got muffins in there?" Pete asked, and took a step toward the basket. Patrick moved back, looking confused.

"Um. Maybe? Why?"

"I'd like them," Pete said, coming forward again, then adding, "Please?"

"Uh, no," Patrick said, moving to the side, hoping to get around him.

Pete pouted and stopped. "Well, why not? They smell awesome, you definitely have more than one. Sharing is caring, and all."

Patrick made a face, wishing a tree would all on this guy. He moved around him, but Pete turned to watch him.

"They're for my grandma, and even if they weren't...anyway. Bye."

Patrick, against his better judgement, turned and started walking (a little more briskly than before) in the direction of his grandma's house. At first, everything was silent again, but then he heard footsteps behind him. When he turned around, however, the bum was gone. He glared down the path, wishing he had just taken the main road. He turned back around to find Pete directly in front of him.

There was no way to describe his eyes other than glow-y and his teeth were sharp and something weird was happening with his nose that Patrick didn't think had been happening before. He also seemed to be...furry. Either way, it was horrifying, and Patrick yelped out an embarrassing noise and ducked as swiped at his basket. Patrick took off down the path. Nothing ran after him, but he had heard a growl and a animal-like whine, but he didn't bother to find out what was happening with that. He just hurried towards his destination.

Gabe sat on top of Pete, just off the dirt path. The boy in the red hoodie was gone, but Pete could still smell him and the muffins. But most importantly, him. Gabe was tall and lanky and but he was still heavy and crushing Pete's stomach. He did not care though.

"What are you doing?" he said, glaring down at Pete, who was glaring up at him. "You go to get me food, and I find you reenacting fairy tails. We eat people food, dude, not people."

Pete wriggled and pushed at Gabe's side until he got free and rolled away from him. He sat up.

"I didn't go to get you anything," he said. "And you know...the kid was off to his grandmother's house."

Gabe looked amused. "Well, you won't be eating her, either."

"I don't plan to," Pete snapped. He looked down the empty trail for a moment before continuing. "I didn't want to eat him. He did smell good, though... and he had these stupid sideburns, though they kind of worked..."

Gabe raised an eyebrow, even more amused looking. Pete glared and said, "I was just trying to scare him into dropping the basket."

"You could bring him in!" Gabe said, sounding like he'd had the best idea ever. Probably because Pete hadn't said anything remotely ...nice (if you could call it that) about anyone, since he'd turned. Pete growled.

"Shut up," he said, getting up and starting in that direction.

"Are you getting him?" Gabe called after, hopefully.

"I'm getting the muffins."

When Patrick got on the porch at his grandmother's house, he turned around to make sure no one was behind him. It was dark now, but he didn't see anything creepy or suspicious. He knocked on the door, then opened it.

"Grandma?" he called out as he wandered inside. Without waiting for a response, he continued on - because the lights were on and the door was unlocked and she wasn't hard of hearing or anything so. "You should probably start locking the door, grandma, there's hobo's in the woods. At least, there's one, and he's kind of psycho and you know? He might actually be a werewolf..."

Patrick had been considering the possibility of that since he'd seen that creepy, wolf-man like face growling at him.

He walked through the living room, pulling off his hood and looking around to see it empty. "Huh," he said, as he moved to the bedroom. The door was open and the light was on and he moved in. Under the covers was a lump like a person, and Patrick moved to the bed and set the basket down. For a second, he worried maybe she wasn't answering because she'd died, but when he touched her shoulder, she moved.

Actually, he moved, because it was the man from the woods who rolled over and grinned up at Patrick.

Pete snatched him by the hood of his red sweater, before he'd escaped, pulling him back and without having planned very well, getting crushed for the second time that day by the weight of a person. It turned into a wrestling match with fist from the little red riding hood boy, but Pete had claws and super-human strength, so he inevitably won.

He was the one sitting on someone now, holding down the boys arms and grinning at him with a normal face this time, but baring his disturbingly sharp teeth. Patrick wriggled and fought under him but it was futile.

"Get off me."

Pete shook his head. "It wouldn't have come to this if you had just been a little more polite. I mean, I said please."

Patrick glared. "Where is she?"


"My grandmother!" he shouted, trying harder to break free. Patrick was pretty set on his first course of action kneeing the guy in the balls.

"Oh," Pete said, glancing around the room. "I have no idea. She wasn't here. Maybe you should have called first."

"Did you eat her?"

"What? No. Don't be ridiculous." Pete was a little offended, but he remembered he had been acting rather wolf-like since he met the boy, and he had played the whole hide in grandma's bed bit. So he really couldn't blame him for jumping to that conclusion.

"I don't believe you."

"Well you should. Really, If I ate her, you'd never shared you muffins with me."

Patrick stared, incredibly confused.

"You seriously just want the muffins?" he asked, baffled.


"Fine. Have the fucking muffins. Take the whole basket, I don't care. Just get off me and tell me what you did with my grandmother."

"Awesome!" Pete said, and was off Patrick in an instant. He plopped down in the chair in the corner of the room, opening the basket now in his lap. As he unwrapped a muffin, he looked back up at Patrick, who had been too startled to actually move much. "I really didn't do anything with your grandma."

"Then where is she?" Patrick snapped, sitting up.

"How the hell should I know? Bridge? She's your grandma."

It was silent for a while as Pete happily scarfed down the food in the basket. It was all rather tasty. Patrick stared at him, curious but glaring.

"What are you?"

Pete glanced up.

"Hm? I thought you knew. What was it you were saying...a hobo werewolf?"

Patrick folded his arms, huffily. "How did you know where I was going?"

"I followed you. This was the only house down the last trail you took, so I kind of assumed. I'm Pete, by the way. Do I really look like a hobo?" Pete stuffed the final snack in his mouth and glanced down at his clothes.

"Yes, you do," Patrick said, watching as Pete pouted. Getting over this, Pete hopped up and started moving around the room, looking at things on the dresser and the night stands, then going through drawers.

"What is wrong with you?" Patrick snapped, getting to his feet. "You don't just go through someones things."

Pete shrugged, closing the drawer and moving to open the one next to it. "I thought she might have something less homeless I could wear."

"Stop it."

Pete ignored him and snatched up a CD and examined it.

"Thanks for muffins, Patrick," he said, turning around to smile at the boy. Patrick's face fell, a little horrified, and Pete knew he'd been right. The CD in his hand said "to grandma from patrick" and the kid kind of looked like a Patrick.

"How'd you know that-" but Pete shut the drawer and walked out into the living room, CD in hand and Patrick was no longer curious.

"Put it back," he was nearly yelling as he followed Pete into the living room. But Pete wasn't going to, and Patrick knew that. What he didn't know was that Pete hadn't listened to music in nearly two months and that it happened to be his thing. He stuck it in the CD player then stopped.

"This is music, right?" he asked. "You're not like, reciting poetry or like, reading a book out loud or something?"

Patrick glared.

"Eh, I wanna hear it either way," Pete decided, and pressed play.

It was in fact music, decent acoustic recordings of things and lyrics that Pete was hardly impressed by. However, this magical voice came out of the speakers and it was official, he was just in love with this kid. Now how to convince him to let him keep him?

"You should join our pack," he said cheerfully.

"What." Patrick was dumbfounded. What were these words even supposed to mean? He knew the man was insane, though, so he really didn't expect much more sense than that to come from him.

"It'll be awesome. Gabe already approved you. Not that I would ask his opinion, but..."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Be a werewolf with me. We can play music all the time, and we can run around and be best friends. You'll love it, I swear." Pete grinned, and Patrick, for a moment, looked tempted.

"No. You're insane, and kind of annoying."

"Fair. But you'd get used to me. I think we'll get along great once you do." Pete considered just biting him and dragging him back, but Gabe would be pissed and then Patrick would be strong enough to beat the shit out of him for it and take off. That would really put a damper on their romance.

"I'm going home," Patrick said, pulling his hood on. "Please don't follow me this time."

Pete frowned. "Okay...well, if you ever want to...or if you ever just wanna come play your music with us, we live right around here, you're welcome anytime because I just love your voice."

Patrick was glad he was turned away and almost out the door because that last comment made his cheeks turn red.

He was out and hurrying down the trail back toward his house. That was honestly the weirdest outing he had ever had, and now he really understood why he didn't go outside around here. He wasn't going to be making that mistake again.

But the more he thought about it, the less unappealing the idea was. The guy was crazy, sure, but he seemed to just be a harmless idiot. Also...who in their right mind wouldn't want to be a supernatural being?

He was also just offered a place to play music all the time, and this Pete seemed to even like his. That was better than his mom's reaction to what she called his noise. She complimented him, but she absolutely hated his drums.

Patrick was pretty sure Pete would think his drums were awesome... He sighed, his heart racing a little because this was really going to be the stupidest decision he ever made, and he turned around coming face to face with Pete.

He glared. "Didn't I say not to follow me?"

Pete chuckled and raised his hands up in surrender.

"I swear I was just walking back to my camp. We just so happen to need the same path."

Patrick really didn't believe him, and Pete really wasn't being completely honest because he was kind of following him, but whatever. Patrick grumbled and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

"Can...Can I still be part of your...pack, or whatever?"

Pete grinned all toothy and happy, and Patrick's stomach felt a little funny - maybe a sign to take that question back.


He didn't, though, and responded with a small, "Yes."

"Awesome!" Pete said and grabbed him.

Spencer/Brendon, this place is a prison

Peterick based on this

I'm personally imagining it from Pete's pov, but I'd take either.

Anon, you just broke my heart with that prompt.

Expect this filled in the next 24 hours, but I need to find my angst-hat. I know it's around here somewhere...

I Used to Waste My Time Dreaming of Being Alive (now I only waste it dreaming of you)

(Iiiiiii hope this is kind of what you were hoping for?) *awkwardly posts*

"They say that good guys drive shitty cars," Pete says into the cellphone pressed against his ear. "Which is why I’m sitting on a rust bucket with a blue hood and a red door in the middle of Wal-mart parking lot."

On the other end of the line is silence, but the lack of response is enough for Pete to know Patrick is scoffing, rolling his eyes, maybe shaking his head a little.

"Nobody says that, Pete," Patrick says, amusement in his voice. Pete would be offended, but it's been over ten years that Patrick's been amused by his antics - or by him. Or both. Pete's never been too sure, and when he thinks too much on it, he assumes the worst.

Pete shrugs to himself, because Patrick can't see him. No one says that, and he doesn't really remember where he got that idea.

"Go home," Patrick tells him after a moment of silence, because Pete had forgotten to say anything.

He agrees, but before Patrick can hang up, Pete says, "Come over?"

"I'm across the country. Go home, Pete, and get rid of that car on the way."

Pete pockets his phone when Patrick hangs up and looks down at the black suburban he's sitting on. It's the middle of the night and the Wal-Mart part of that lie was true. He looks at the store for only a second before deciding to go in and buy a soda - he ran out earlier that evening.

For a long time after Fall Out Boy went on their "indefinite hiatus", Pete waited around, hopeful and sure the other three would get their projects out of their system. They would come back and everything would be as it was. The only problem was that things had been changing long before they essentially broke up the band.

They hadn't ever changed for the worse, either, everything that had happened to them had been good. Pete was now a father and that was something he would never undo, and their music had developed better than he could have ever hoped. What he has come to realize, after the hopefulness got crushed by reality, is that nothing's the same as those first few years - before the fame. When it comes to him and Patrick, that is.

Things continue to get better, especially for Patrick. He looks better, he sounds better, he just is better. What has Pete crushed is that he's been getting better without him, that only now is he realizing that Patrick's been moving away from him, to be better without him, for a long while now.

Now Patrick's out there, being amazing for everyone to see, and so positive in response to the fans inquiries about the reunion of Fall Out Boy. Pete knows, though, the truth. They won't ever tour again, make music together again. Not only are Joe and Andy perfectly content where they're at - but Patrick has been escaping for years, and it might sound nice to say he'll come back, but he won't, and knowing this, Pete couldn't let him fool himself into trying. Things have changed, they've been changing, and none of that changes the fact that Patrick stopped loving him a long time ago, back when Pete had failed to realize what he could've had. He wouldn't change it, though, because that would change what they each have now.

Pete crawls into the car, Pepsi bottle in hand. He tosses it into the passenger seat and starts the engine. He sighs and looks into the rear view mirror, at himself, because he's pulling forward anyway. It doesn't always work out the way it should. Fate really does lay down it's hand to change everything possible. Unfortunately for the overwhelming part of Pete that was in love with Patrick, everything had changed in the best ways possible.

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