ALL TOGETHER NOW! A comment fic meme!

[green]

brokengravity gave me admin privileges so I can bring you this for Three Weeks For Dreamwidth.


prompt//write//feedback

Comments

[green]

Brian/Bob hurt/comfort fic where Brian is the one hurt for a change. (maybe from doing stunts?)

[redsnake05]

Happy belated birthday! I hope you enjoy this.

It's not a stunt, it's my heart

"I'm just saying, it's a little hypocritical of you to be telling me off for getting hurt," said Brian, sitting up in obedience to Bob's prodding. He scowled to cover the pain as his muscles complained about the movement, but Bob just shoved the hot pack behind him and helped him lean back.

"I prefer to think of it as ironic," said Bob.

"Whatever," said Brian. "It's not like you haven't done stupid shit."

"You deliberately chose a job doing stupid shit," Bob retorted, retreating into the little kitchen of Brian's apartment. His voice carried clearly back into the lounge. "I think that means that the stupidity of your injuries trumps anything I have ever done."

"Bullshit," said Brian. He wanted to say more, but Bob stomped back in with a tube of Icy Hot and a scowl that failed to cover his worry.

"Shut up and take your pants off," he said. Brian looked at him for a moment before starting to laugh, stopping to huff weakly and clutch at his protesting ribs. "You know what I mean," huffed Bob. "I'm going to massage your legs before the muscles there completely seize up too."

"It's not the most suave invitation I've ever received," said Brian. "Also, I don't think I can get my jeans off by myself."

Bob rolled his eyes as he put down the tube and knelt on the floor next to Brian. Brian sucked in a breath as Bob's fingers slipped under his t-shirt to find the waistband of his jeans. Shuddering at the friction of Bob's fingers on the sensitive skin of his stomach, Brian tried to tell his body that Bob was just helping him because he was hurt. He hadn't been expecting Bob to actually help him with his pants/

"Did I hurt you?" asked Bob, looking up at Brian. Licking his dry lips, Brian shook his head. If it hadn't been for the fact that every breath hurt, he would totally have made some sort of crude joke or tried to defuse the tension he could feel starting to grow as Bob's fingers flicked the button open and pulled down his zip. "Lift up as much as you can," ordered Bob. His hands were gentle as he got Brian's jeans down over his ass and down his thighs. This wasn't how Brian was accustomed to being undressed by Bob and the tenderness of his hands and careful movements was as erotic as the sight of Bob kneeling at his feet. He hoped that the pain would keep his body under control as Bob pulled his jeans down his thighs, carefully easing the denim over the sorest spots.

"Nearly done," said Bob as he worked the denim over one foot and off. Brian raised his hand, ignoring his sore muscles, and carded it through Bob's hair.

"Hey," he said, smiling as Bob looked up at him.

"I'm going to give you a rub," said Bob. "A therapeutic one. Is this the time for you to be thinking about sex?"

"All Bob times are sexy times," said Brian. "Come here." He tugged on Bob's hair, smile growing wider as Bob shifted and leaned forward. Bob kept the kiss a chaste press of lips, hands planted on the sofa either side of Brian's hips so he didn't put any weight on him.

"This is healing massage for my dumbass boyfriend time," said Bob. Brian smiled again as Bob pulled back, just holding back a wince as his hand dropped from Bob's head and jarred his sore ribs.

"But after this, I get a blow job, right?" he asked. He watched Bob shake out his wrists and pushed aside his worry that Bob was using them too much.

"No," said Bob. "After this, I haul your old man arse to bed and rub your back and then you sleep."

"Aren't you even going to hold me?" Brian asked. Bob stopped in the middle of squeezing some of the cream out onto his palm and looked up at Brian.

"Don't joke," he said. "You could have died today, and you're lucky I'm rubbing your fucking legs instead of shouting at you like I really, really want to."

Rubbing his hands together, Bob slapped his palms down briskly on Brian's legs and started rubbing, possibly a touch rougher than was really comfortable. Looking down at his bent head, Brian couldn't really fault him. He hadn't realised just how bad it must have been for Bob when he got the call to come and pick Brian up from the hospital after he'd been checked over.

"I didn't almost die," said Brian.

"I didn't know that," said Bob. "I just got the call to come to the hospital. No details, just an address. I didn't know if I was going to be picking you up or making all those fucking decisions that no one wants to have to make."

"Sorry," said Brian. "I didn't know that they didn't tell you anything."

"I just," started Bob. He stopped and Brian could see the back of his neck turning red and feel the tremble of his fingers on Brian's thighs. Sliding his hands back into Bob's hair, moving one to cradle his face, took effort that made Brian's back ache. Bob wouldn't look at him, just leaning forward to press his face to Brian's belly. "I was worried," he said, finally. Brian stroked his hands through Bob's hair and down the back of his neck.

"I love you," he said. "And I'm sorry that no one told you anything and you were worried. But I'm fine."

"This time," said Bob. He sat back, keeping his face down, and Brian's arms dropped back to his side as Bob's fingers started massaging again, slower and easier this time. Brian let his fingers work the cream in and felt the warmth starting to spread. He wondered how long Bob had been scared for, if he was scared enough to say something now. He'd never been particularly communicative about his feelings. Brian could still remember how awkward he'd been when they'd first gotten together and how long it had taken him to be comfortable saying anything. Brian couldn't think of anything to say to Bob's fears now, so he just watched him work out what it was that he felt and wanted. Bob's fingers looked large and pale against Brian's skin, spanning over the muscles of his legs competently and with affection. Bob's strokes slowed; Brian could see the tension slowly easing from his shoulders.

"I'm not going to ask you to stop," Bob said. Brian let out a breath that he didn't know he was holding. "Just. I love you too."

Brian couldn't help but beam helplessly at the top of Bob's head. It still felt good to hear it; Bob so rarely said the words even after all this time.

"Come here," Brian said. "I don't care about the fucking therapeutic fucking rub. Kiss me."

[pulchritude]

Any Spencer/Ryan, please!

The Only Difference Between Advocacy and Rabble-Rousing Is Press Coverage (and newsboy caps) 1/3

[verbosewordsmith]

A/N: This was supposed to be a comment fic. Y'know, short. And then I couldn't stop typing. So have a super long comment fic? Also, we're going to ignore everything I got wrong about high school newspapers and yearbooks (specifically when yearbook stuff needs to be done). Also, the timeline might be a bit confusing. Normally there's an issue of the paper distributed around 2/1 and and the staff is working on the next issue, which is distributed around 2/14 (the annual Valentine's issue). Cash's story was published in the 2/1 paper and caused a stir and Ryan (and everyone else) decided to put out another issue for 2/7.


"Spencer," Ryan said.

"Dude, I'm not going to proofread that article."

"Spencer, please proofread the article so I can work my editorial piece and then get started on the rest of the submissions."

Spencer pushed his swivel chair away from the desktop to better look at Ryan. Ryan was perched on the edge of the long table, feet on a chair and slightly hunched over the laptop he borrowed so frequently from the school library that the assistant went out of his way to try and keep it out of regular circulation among classes doing research. He looked slightly stressed out, more than he usually did when the school paper deadline came around. Spencer supposed that made sense, since the Wikofff Scholarship deadline was so soon.

"Ryan, I'm in the middle of laying out the front page. Cassadee's article on the graphic novel unit in Mr. Way's art class is a stupid length and making it harder than it should be. It needs to be like, five lines shorter or three paragraphs longer. Maybe if Jon or Tom can get a photo?" Spencer trailed off, thinking. A big enough photo with like, a long quote from Mr. Way might make the difference. Fucking freshmen who had no idea how to write articles. Well, Singer could write. Sometimes. And Cassadee was pretty awesome, actually and she got her friends to write for the paper (though, Jersey's treatises on Blink-182 reuniting, Twin Peaks, Apple products, and MAC eyeliner leave a lot to desire. Ryan's lj has better written Blink fangirling and comparisons of eyeliner) but even after a couple of months she couldn't write articles that worked with the layout. Whatever. Spencer would figure it out like he did every issue. He rolled back to the desktop, putting in a placeholder image.

Spencer had never intended to join the school paper. He hadn't, as a matter of fact. Ryan had joined his freshman year, inherited the editor's job from Patrick Stump, and proceeded to spend the majority of his weekday afternoons working on stuff for the paper. Spencer started hanging out after school in the classroom the school paper shared with the yearbook kids because it was more interesting than catching the bus home alone and waiting for Ryan to get back and hang out. Freshman year Spencer's homework hadn't been enough to keep him busy until Ryan decided to go home so he'd started helping Ryan out. Somehow this developed into Spencer spending a disturbing amount of his free time at school, working on the stupid paper with Ryan. He'd also gotten to know a lot of the yearbook staff pretty well. They all spent a lot of time in the room and tended to borrow each other's resources pretty freely. Hence the yearbook staff stealing Tom Conrad from the paper pretty regularly and Spencer constantly stealing the good rolly chair from them and now using one of their computers.

"InDesign being a bitch again?" Jon Walker asked, leaning over Spencer.

"Our computer hates it," Spencer said flatly. "We need to get a new one if there's ever money in the budget for it." He craned his neck up to look at Jon. "Maybe if the yearbook complains about us stealing their computers all the time Schechter'll give Wentz enough money for a new one?"

"Yeah, no," Jon said. "We're working with crappy digital cameras that've needed replacing for at least the last three years and that hasn't happened yet. So I don't think you'll be getting a new computer anytime soon."

"Fucking InDesign," Spencer said.

"Fucking InDesign," Jon agreed. "Want to use it for an entirely different project?"

"What've you got in mind?" Spencer asked, saving the file. Last thing he needed was to lose an hour and half worth of work. He glanced over at Ryan, who was still hunched over a laptop, typing furiously. Spencer wasn't entirely certain what Ryan was working on. He'd been pretty quiet all afternoon, just typing and occasionally demanding that Spencer switch between Something Corporate albums in iTunes. It was possible he'd started editing submissions, but unlikely. Ryan always took his editorial pieces very seriously, but this one was a huge deal.

Their high school was part of the National Scholastic Press Association which was apparently some kind of big deal. The only interesting thing they did was give out awards and scholarships. Spencer was for anything that gave out free money, especially if they might give it to Ryan for writing some awesome editorials. Ryan rambled on about the Wikoff Scholarship a lot and he had the grades and he'd had everything ready to mail in two weeks before the due date when Singer inadvertently brought hell down on the school. Singer had encouraged Cash Colligan to submit something to the paper (Spencer was pretty sure this was an attempt to compete with Cassadee for the editor's job next year-Singer was willing to do just about anything to beat Cassadee for the job, though Spencer didn't understand why either of them wanted it. Whatever, he tried not to judge). Cash, being Cash, had submitted what could kindly and generously be called a story with erotic themes to the fiction section. No one was amused by this.

Principal Schechter wasn't happy that Ryan had run it. Ryan and Mr. Wentz both stood by the decision because the freedom of speech was the freedom of speech. Cash's story lacked taste (this is what offended Ryan) but that was no reason not to publish something. Cash's story did increase circulation for the paper, which was awesome from Spencer's perspective—he put hours of work into the damn paper every week and he wasn't even part of the staff (never mind that Ryan listed him as the layout editor and unapologetically published album and concert reviews Spencer wrote on his myspace), but backfired when Ashlee Simpson's crazy conservative dad got a hold of it and brought it to the attention of the school board—the chairman of which was Kevin Jonas, Sr. who was possibly even more conservative than Ashlee's dad. Cash had been suspended for almost a week and several people were demanding that Ryan be suspended.

Spencer thought the whole thing was stupid, but he did have to agree with Ryan that it was kind of cool that the whole school was talking about censorship and stuff like that. Ryan thought that all of this needed a proper response from the paper and that it'd make a excellent third editorial for the Wikoff Scholarship. Like so many things in Ryan's life, it was an great idea that Ryan maybe couldn't pull off. His editorial had to be published before February 15 for it to count, which meant they'd had to move the newspaper deadline up a week (meaning they'd miss the the Valentine's content they usually got to bulk the paper up) which was making everyone's life more stressful. Ryan was kind of an idiot.

"You should help me figure out how to lay out the basketball team page. And I just swung by the auditorium to get some candids for the drama club page. You should help me pick photos."

"You just want an excuse to look at photos of Brendon," Spencer said. "But sure, I'll help you. I need a break."

[poala]

I want a story where Jon joined the Army or Marines and ended up in Afghanistan and came home all messed up with PTSD and meets Ryan and Ryan has to be there for him through all the freak outs

[turps]

I'd love a Mikey/Frank ficlet. Maybe set when they were living together, because there can never be too many of those.

Filled: Polish & Shine

[delphinapterus]

If anybody asked Mikey why he moved in with Frank(they don't but if they did) Mikey would say it was Frank or the basement and he couldn't take the basement anymore. Mikey loved his brother but there were certain things that living in the basement of your childhood home with your older brother precluded so when Frank was looking for a roommate Mikey grabbed his opportunity. In retrospect it was maybe not the best idea considering Frank has already been through three previous roommates and two different apartment complexes (all his mail still went to his mother's).

Gee helped him move in by carrying his pillow in and giving him two really kick-ass drawings to brighten up the walls. He'd used bright red paint so even though they were still mostly black and white it still counted as brightening up the room. The click-thump of the lock turning signalled Frank's return and they both went to greet him. Gerard had a cigarette tucked into the corner of his mouth since he'd been about to light it before they'd heard Frank. Instead saying something like "hey" or "finished yet" or even "where's dinner?" Frank said "No smoking."

"But you smoke," Gerard pointed out perplexed.

"Not in here."

Mikey realized that it did smell suspiciously devoid of the tell-tale scent of smoke now that Frank mentioned it. Gerard shrugged. Frank kept watching him until he tucked the cigarette back into the pack and stuffed the pack back into his pocket. Mikey was suddenly glad he hadn't picked up Gerard's heavy habit.

* * *
Mikey had assumed that living with Frank would be sort of like living with Gerard. It wasn't. Frank owned a broom, mop, and many other cleaning supplies. Seeing them in the cupboard Mikey had assumed they were from Frank's mom. Cleaning supplies seemed like a mom sort of thing even if his own mother had gotten him a new bottle of vodka and a spare set of sheets. There were the usual bottles of windex and dish soap but there were also a slew of other bottles that Mikey had only seen on the store shelves and had never personally used. The bottle of with the bendy neck called Duck Cleaner was especially mystifying and had most of the label ripped off as if it was actually used often. Frank, it turned out, did use the Duck Cleaner as well as the mop, and the broom, and all the other bottles when he cleaned. The day after Mikey moved in he left to find breakfast (Ray's contribution of peanut butter didn't cut it for breakfast and Frank only had weird flaky cereal that looked like it might have dried prunes in it) when Frank was just starting to mop the floors with sudsy water that smelt strongly of lemon. He came back to find Frank had moved to the bathroom and was still cleaning.

"Do you want odds or evens on the cleaning schedule?" Frank asked him two days after him moved in and one since he'd seen Frank clean for two hours.

"Er... I haven't really done" Mikey waved his hand trying to encompass Frank's entire cleaning routine.

Frank looked startled but perked up quickly, "that's okay, you can vacuum."

Frank's vacuum was tooth-paste green and so loud Mikey couldn't hear his phone. If the music didn't make him go deaf he was pretty sure Frank's vacuum would do the trick. He vacuumed anyway because he wanted to be a good roommate and Frank was in the band so he couldn't piss him off until the record was done at least. Frank insisted on weekly vacuuming in accordance with the chart he'd carefully pinned to the front of the fridge with two large plastic guitar-shaped magnets. Gerard and Ray both snickered the first time they saw it and Otter just shook his head and went for another slice of pizza. At least they believe him about Frank's scary focus on cleaning.

* * *
The space-heater was pushing the temperature in the bathroom up to toasty when Mikey finally stripped down. He was about to start fiddling with the temperamental facet when the door was flung open by a rather alarmed looking Frank. Mikey yelped and grabbed a towel to hold protectively in front of himself. Frank looked at him then at the space-heater, then back to him.

"Jesus Christ, you can't have that in here."

"It was cold," Mikey objected as Frank began gathering up the heater.

"Electricity and water don't mix, dumb ass."

Mikey sighed but didn't protest as Frank backed out taking the heat with him. He turned the water temperature up higher to help compensate.

* * *
He plopped down onto the orange love-seat Frank had acquired between his first and second roommates. Frank was curled up at the other end with his nose buried in a book. As far as Mikey knew Frank had hated college yet he read thick books with titles that made them sound dull. It was weird. When he set his mug down on the table Frank's head snapped up.

"Coaster." He snapped his fingers and pointed to the neat pile of beer mats.

"Holy fuck, it's just a table." Mikey snapped.

"And it doesn't need nasty fucking rings on it from your tea." Frank snapped and pointed again,

"Coaster."

"Calm down, jesus."

"Coaster, use one, motherfucker."

"You need to get laid."

"Why, you offering?" Frank asked and there was a note of challenge in his voice.

Mikey could turn down challenges, he really could, but hearing Frank ask with his jaw set and his finger still pointing at the stupid beer mats Mikey just couldn't do it. He uncoiled from his end of the loveseat so he could kneel in front of Frank. Even kneeling he was still at Frank's level.

"Maybe I am."

"Prove it." Frank taunted.

Mikey smirked, "You going to put that book down?"

Frank set it gently on the floor without taking his gaze off Mikey. Tension radiated through his shoulders and Mikey licked his lips. Frank's gaze didn't waver. Slowly, so slowly, Mikey leaned over and whispered against Frank's lips, "I'm going to blow you."

He heard Frank suck in a breath and he ignored it as he skimmed his fingers along Frank's sides until he came to the waistband of his sweats. Mikey could feel the muscles of his stomach jump as he hooked his fingers into the waistband and pulled. Frank hitched his hips up and the sweats slid down his legs. Frank's cock hardened under his gaze. He should have looked ridiculous with his sweats bunched around his ankles and dreds sticking out like a hedgehog but somehow Frank didn't. He stared at Mikey. Mikey leaned down and licked deliberately at the warm head of Frank's cock. He took his time getting use to the taste and the feel of Frank's cock on his tongue, sliding the tip into his mouth as Frank squirmed and panted above him. He grabbed Frank's hips after a particularly vigorous twitch almost chocked him. Frank felt solid under his fingers as Mikey pushed his hips against the couch. Mikey slowly sucked more of Frank's cock into his mouth until the tip was bumping against his throat. He held Frank like that until he said please in a half strangled rough voice that Mikey had never heard before. He began to suck in earnest, pulling back to swirl his head around the crown before sliding back down. Frank clutched at his hair saying his name urgently but Mikey was determined and just sucked harder until Frank jerked under his hands. The bitter salty taste of come filled his mouth and he swallowed as best he could even as he felt Frank going limp under him. Frank was flushed and the tension was gone from his body. He watched Mikey with half lidded eyes.

Mikey took a couple swallows from his mug to wash the taste away. Frank prodded him in the side with his foot.

"You still have to use a coaster," he said and his voice was still rough and slurry.

Mikey punched him in the hip. "Fine, but just for that you're reciprocating now, fucker."

Frank just grinned lazily and crooked his finger.

[(Anonymous)]

I'd love a Spencer/Brendon au, with Brendon as the rentboy
a la pretty woman maybe! ;)

[mizubyte]

ahaha any Pete/Mikey (happy), any of it! *hugs OTP tight*

filled!

[green]

Mikey's on a plane to LA to see Gee, and he's chilly. Planes are always dry and cold to him, and he's dying for a cigarette. He chews gum instead. It doesn't really help the cravings, but it helps pop his ears when they get plugged from the pressure.

There's a hoodie in his carry-on.

Mikey never ordered things from Clandestine; they just always seemed to show up in his closet anyway. Sometimes they came in the mail anonymously, a couple of times fans gave him stuff. Then there were the times he could swear they just appeared out of nowhere.

Right now he's cold, so he grabs the hoodie out of his carry-on and slips it on. It has the Clan logo on the front. It's all black, because no matter what he's not wearing the neon pink one. (that one stays in the back of his closet, although he touches it now and then)

This one smells like Pete, which can't be right because this one came in the mail (he's pretty sure) and he hasn't seen Pete in a year. They've both been too busy for a visit. Pete texts him from time to time, and usually Mikey texts back. But it's been two months since they've even exchanged that much.

Mikey misses Pete like a kid misses his first baby tooth when it comes out. He's trying not to prod the empty place with his tongue; he's waiting for something new to come into the space. So far, and it's been a year, nothing new has come up. He turns his face into the soft fabric of the loose hood and thinks he smells hair product and Pete's frou frou shaving lotion.

*

The plane lands at LAX and Mikey, distracted, calls Pete instead of Gerard and says, “Just made it in,” before Pete can say 'Hello'.

“Mikey?” Pete says, and it's such a relief to hear his voice.

Mikey runs a hand through his hair and says, “Sorry, meant to call Gee.”

“Where are you?” Pete asks.

“Oh. LAX,” Mikey says. “My plane just landed.”

“Need a ride?” Pete says. “I could be there in like, twenty. Or an hour, depending on traffic.”

“I can take a cab,” Mikey says. “But thanks. I know you're busy.” Too busy to call me, he thinks, a little meanly. He's been busy too, so it's not exactly a fair thought.

“Never too busy for you,” Pete says. Mikey snorts and wishes it was true. “You're going to visit me, right?”

It hadn't been in Mikey's plans, but in the back of his mind he's been thinking Pete Pete Pete ever since he planned this trip. So he says, “Yeah. Call me and tell me when.”

He hears the hitch of Pete's breath even over the bad connection. “Don't need to call you. I'm free for the next week. Come over whenever.”

*

Mikey was always afraid that being a husband and dad would change Gerard, make him into someone else. But they hang out the same as always, although they smoke on the balcony instead of inside. Lindsey seems to know they need their alone time, and gives them their space.

They talk about comics and Mikey's story ideas. They talk about the album. They both tiptoe around the subject of Bob and finding a new drummer. Mostly, they share old stories and watch movies.

Mikey doesn't mention Pete until he gets a text that says, so when r u coming?

“Gee, I think I'm gonna bail on you tonight,” Mikey says after he puts his phone away. “Got some friends in town.”

Gerard gives him a look that reminds Mikey that he knows him, and that nonchalant monotone is getting him nowhere fast. “You think that's a good idea?”

Mikey shrugs. It's been years since Pete and he were together, and they've managed as friends since then. He misses him sometimes, the taste of his tattoos and the nip of his teeth, but he knows how to suppress that. He just wants to hang out with Pete right now, to see his smile up close and personal.

Gerard knows when to drop things, and he seems to sense he'll get nowhere on the subject of Pete. He squeezes Mikey's shoulder and fixes another pot of coffee for them both.

*

There are two boxes of Sprinkles cupcakes on the coffee table in Pete's house. That's the first thing Mikey fixates on. He's not looking at Pete, because he's afraid if he does he won't be able to look away.

From the sideways glances Mikey sends him, he knows Pete's wearing a beige tee-shirt and white jeans. No hoodie for a change. He's gotten new ink since Mikey's seen him last, but Mikey doesn't mention it. He wants to pretend it hasn't been a year.

“Cupcake?” Pete says. It would be an awkward offer coming from anyone else, in this same situation, but with Pete it just seems natural.

“Sure,” Mikey says and takes the offered cupcake. When he bites into it, he tastes mocha.

“I picked them up just for you,” Pete says. “I remembered.”

Mikey's throat is suddenly dry, and the cake seems to stick when he swallows.

“I missed you,” Pete says. “I know you're trying to pretend it hasn't been that long...”

Pete knows him too well. “I missed you, too,” Mikey says quietly.

And suddenly Pete is close, close enough that Mikey can feel his heat. They're standing side by side and it would be so easy to jump right back in where they left off, instead of pretending – and that's what it is, plain pretending – that they're just friends.

“Why do we do this?” Pete asks.

“What?” Mikey says, stalling. Pete smells good, like soap and his Bone Daddy cologne. It brings back bittersweet memories.

“...pretend like this,” Pete is saying. “Don't you still...” He trails off, but Mikey can fill in the blanks just fine.

“Yeah,” he says, whisper soft.

“Then why?” Pete asks. He reaches out – his hand doesn't have to go far – and slides his arm through Mikey's. It's an old gesture, one that has Mikey leaning in before he realizes what he's doing.

Mikey licks his chapped lips and tries to shrug off the question, but then Pete is leaning up on his toes and brushing his mouth against Mikey's.

Mikey stills completely, not even breathing. He has so many questions: Why now? Why this? Do you still feel the same? But none of them pass his lips, because he's kissing back, head spinning the same it did that summer.

“Don't leave this time,” Pete breathes. It's so quiet Mikey could pretend he didn't hear, pretend this is just another hookup. But it's never been just that with Pete, and Pete's being so fucking open and honest that Mikey's heart feels like it's breaking.

He brings his free hand up to cup Pete's cheek, really looking at him for the first time since he walked through the door. Pete looks older, more worn, but hopeful, so fucking hopeful.

It wasn't easy leaving Pete after Warped that year, but Mikey had figured it was easier than letting it drag out and die a painful death. He'd known Pete wasn't up for a long-distance relationship then, but now – now things seem different. With experience between them both and a few extra years of wisdom, this might be doable. Maybe.

“I don't want to,” Mikey admits, and wraps his arms around Pete like he's never going to let go.

They end up on the couch, making out like a couple of teenagers. It's slow and they're both okay with that. Eventually, though, the heat begins to build, and before he knows it, Mikey is panting while Pete sucks a mark into his neck. Mikey feels like he's drowning in sensation, even though they haven't even touched below the waist yet.

“Pete,” Mikey gasps. “Bed.”

“Mm hm,” Pete says, and somehow manages to get them both to their feet. The hall seems much longer than it looks, and Mikey kisses Pete against the wall half-way through it. But then they're (finally) in the bedroom and Pete's lifting Mikey's shirt off over his head and stripping himself down at the same time.

Hot. Mikey never forgot how hot Pete's skin is, like he's constantly running a fever.

They've still got their jeans on, but it's easy to just unzip and pull them out of the way. They're on their sides and Mikey quickly rolls over on top of Pete and shifts until they're together, cock to cock.

“Jesus, I missed you,” Pete gasps, then leans up to suck on Mikey's bottom lip.

Mikey moans and thrusts against Pete, and it's not smooth or slick but it's amazing anyway. Pete rocks up and echoes Mikey's moans until they're both making obscene noises and moving together, kissing wet and sloppy.

Pete comes first. He always did. He can never wait, not with Mikey. His come spurts between them and makes the way slick and easy for Mikey to thrust against, which he's doing faster and rougher now, biting down on Pete's lips as he does.

When Mikey comes, it's with a sudden jolt, like free-falling into a hot tub. Pete's stroking his back and sides when he comes back to reality, and Mikey drops to his side in the bed, wide-eyed and blinking.

“Fuck,” Mikey says.

Pete kisses him hard and fast and says, “Yes.”

Mikey laughs. He's relaxed and feeling almost too lazy to kiss back, but he does because he's so happy he can't help but return it. “That wasn't a question.”

“We should fuck later, though,” Pete says. He pushes his jeans off the rest of the way and lets them fall to the floor.

Mikey moves closer, gathering Pete into his arms so Pete's head is resting over his heart. “Definitely.”

Mikey thinks, I love you. He thinks, This is for keeps this time. He thinks, Don't leave me, because I'm not leaving you. And he thinks, We'll work it out this time.

What he says is, “I'm topping.”

And Pete agrees.

[nahemaraxe]

A (happy!) Bob/Brian cowboy AU.

[aedail108]

Pete/Gabe being BFFs or soulmates or just generally getting along really well :D preferably with bottom!Pete.

[(Anonymous)]

How do you feel about gen?

Gabe/Pete fill!

[matchsticks_p]

When Pete goes through his sexual identity crisis, the only person he can call is Gabe. It's not so much a crisis about being gay or bi, it's a crisis about really wanting to be gay or bi but not being able to go all the way with it.

"It's like—I'm an upper middle class male with a great family and great friends, and I feel like a fraud. I just want to be part of a minority. I want to know what it's like to be oppressed."

Gabe shows up in person tells him to stop being such a douche, then bends him over backwards and kisses him until he can't breath. He blows Pete in the cramped bathroom of the shitty motel Fall Out Boy have somehow scraped enough money to stay at. Pete tries to return the favour but he can't get over the taste, so he lets Gabe cum on his face instead.

Gabe tucks himself back into his stupidly tight red jeans when he's done and says, "Crisis solved, dude. You're obviously not queer. If you can't suck my dick, you can't suck anyone's dick."

Pete sighs. He wipes Gabe's spunk off with wads of cheap motel toilet paper that comes apart in his hand and leaves little bits of tissue in his hair. He tries to explain that he doesn't feel entirely straight, that maybe life would be easier if he were more gay, but Gabe tells him to shut up and they watch a Hitchcock movie on the tiny motel television instead.

Patrick's sleeping on the other bed in the room and he's either a really sound sleeper or too polite to say anything to them.

At three in the morning, just when Pete's eyes are about close, Gabe tells him he thinks Midtown are done for good.

"Heath's gig with Senses Fail keeps getting longer and longer. We haven't written anything together in almost a year. All our side projects are getting more interesting than Midtown itself. I don't think we're coming back."

Pete doesn't know what to say to that, doesn't know if Gabe wants him to comfort him or if Gabe even needs comforting. He pats Gabe's arm awkwardly, mutters sorry. It sucks, because Midtown was one of Pete's favourite bands, but Pete has to remind himself that not everything's about him all the time.

Gabe grumbles something, rolls over onto his side on Pete's lumpy bed. On the other bed, Patrick breathes rhythmic and deep. Pete leans towards Gabe and kisses him.

Later, when Gabe tells journalists about the cobra and how it spoke to him and told him to create Cobra Starship, he's genuinely surprised by the weird looks he gets. This is because when he tells Pete for the first time about his concept of the cobra in the desert, Pete doesn't think it's strange at all.

"Should I do it?" Gabe whispers to him in their terrible bed. "Should I follow the cobra?"

Pete says yes. Pete will say yes to anything he asks, so long as he asks in a shitty motel hunched together trying to be quiet so they don't wake the other guy.

-end


Note: see Pete's Out Magazine interview for his desire (but inability) to be queer

[dancinbutterfly]

Jon/Ryan - falling(or realizing that they have been) in love with each other on The Young Veins tour.

[hector_rashbaum]

Those stupid little blanket forts Ryan keeps making out of the van's back bench look so comfy Jon totally can't be blamed for constantly crawling in there with him. Right?

[zeenell]

Ryan/Spencer Ryan finds a kitten and calls Spencer.

[matchsticks_p]

Bob/Frank as a couple of elderly men who have been together for 30+ years. Bob is crotchety and Frankie still acts like a little kid sometimes.

[matchsticks_p]

(Sorry for the double-posting, but I just thought of this and I really want it!)

THE HUSH SOUND happyfic. Darren/Chris or GSF. Anything with The Hush Sound on the road or hanging out together, being adorable.

[green]

You can leave as many prompts as you want, bb. No worries. ♥

[chibigirl626.livejournal.com]

EMPIRES FIC. THERE ISN'T ENOUGH OF IT.

and if you want something more specific to work with: tom/sean, or maybe something about al leaving (although that's sort of a taboo right now...)

filled! sean/tom

[green]

I've never written Empires before so I hope this is okay.

*

Tom is drunk, Sean is high, and they're both camped out on the couch watching infomercials at 3am.

“They're just not as good anymore,” Tom says, shifting his bare foot on the coffee table.

“Nothing's as good as Billy Mays,” Sean says, grabbing an empty bottle from the floor and making an air toast. “May he rest in peace.”

“You know what was good?” Tom asks, hugging his bottle of Jack closer to his body as if Sean might steal that to make a toast with instead. “The chopper.”

“Oh, right. Yeah, the chopper. The Quick Chop,” Sean says.

“Quick Chop,” Tom echoes. “And the Grater... thing. It rhymes. Greater Grater?”

“Grater grater grater,” Sean says slowly, having fun forming the words.

“Man, stop saying grater. It's...” Tom pauses to laugh and lean against Sean. “Grating.”

“Grater Plater,” Sean says. “That's what it was called.”

Tom nods and stares blearily at the television. “My abs don't need that,” he says, pointing with his bottle at the infomercial.

“Lemme see,” Sean says seriously.

“What?”

“Your abs. I wanna see,” Sean says, leaning back and tugging at Tom's teeshirt.

“Okay,” Tom says, lifting his shirt up and sucking in his gut.

Sean rolls his eyes and pokes his stomach. “Stop that. I want to see it normal.”

Tom lets out a breath and relaxes. “My abs are hot,” he says. “Aren't they?”

“Um.”

“Oh, fuck you, I have a hot body. Admit it.”

“You're a little squishy, man,” Sean says.

“Am not squishy,” Tom says defensively, the words slurring on his tongue.

“Squishy and drunk,” Sean laughs.

Tom sighs and takes another swig of Jack. “You know who has good abs?”

Sean doesn't answer right away, even though he knows exactly who Tom is talking about. “Yeah.”

Tom sighs again and fumbles a cigarette out of his pack. “Am not squishy. Not like you.”

“We could both use an Ab Doer Twist, if we're being honest,” Sean says morosely. He watches Tom light his cigarette and says, “We don't have to tiptoe around the Al thing.”

“I'm not fucking tiptoeing,” Tom says, louder than he has to. “I'm just... you know. Still processing.”

Sean steals Tom's cigarette and takes a drag.

“Don't smoke; you'll fuck up your voice,” Tom says, taking it back.

Sean shrugs and lets out a long stream of smoke. It's a familiar argument. He grabs the remote and changes the channel. Another infomercial for another ab machine. He pokes his own stomach.

“I like you squishy,” Tom reassures, stubbing out his cigarette early and resting his head on Sean's shoulder.

Sean nuzzles his hair. “You smell terrible,” he says.

“Yeah,” Tom says. He shifts and tips his face up. “Kiss me anyway?”

The kiss starts out slow and lazy, both of them pretty wasted. But it gets harder and more intense as it goes on, and Tom moves into Sean's lap to get a better angle on his mouth. It's wet and sloppy but it's as good as it always is.

“I'm too drunk for sex,” Tom says apologetically against Sean's lips.

“No problem, man,” Sean says. “This is good.” He nips Tom's bottom lip just because he can.

Tom smiles and kisses Sean some more, slicking their tongues together.

“You're fucking heavy,” Sean says, pushing at Tom.

Tom sighs and moves off Sean's lap. “I'm ready for bed anyway.”

Sean gets up and helps Tom to his feet. They stumble into Sean's bedroom and crash onto the bed, a tangle of limbs.

Tom falls asleep first, snoring lightly. Sean smiles at the ceiling and thinks, We'll be okay.

[green]

Gerard/Mikey/Frank! Any/all!

[redsnake05]

Cab! fic for the win! Since I know it's not a wildly popular band to write, I'll give you options, hmm?

I love Johnson/Singer. I'd love a fic where Johnson's quietly looking out for Singer and Singer is ridiculous and adorkable. Ooooh, or a fic where Johnson quietly calls Singer 'baby' and 'kitten' and Singer just melts because it's just between the two of them.

Or some Cash/Ian, where Cash totally misreads Ian's signals and pounces on him one night in the van and Ian's all 'wow, so wasn't expecting that, but now that it's happening I'm kind of liking it, yeah'

Cash/Johnson, where Johnson visits after Cash left The Cab and he's unexpectedly gentle with Cash when Cash was expecting something rough and angry. What's going on?

[(Anonymous)]

Ian's touchy feely, he can admit that, he's a comfortable dude and he's been jammed into the back of a van with these guys for so long getting more and more comfortable, and that might in fact be a bad thing, maybe. Maybe not, but right now he's not sure because Cash is leaning across the seat through the smoke, kissing him, and Ian opens his mouth, unexpected, and kisses him back.

"Fuck," Cash kind of moans, and he deepens the kiss, okay, Ian tries to say, okay, whoa, that's not what I was expecting myself to do, and instead he fists one hand in Cash's t shirt and tugs. Cash comes, easily, eagerly.

"You don't even know, man," he's mumbling, sliding over the seat, into Ian's lap like it's easy, like Ian should be expecting. "Dude, you do not know how long I've been trying to get you alone, damn."

Oh, that explains it, Ian wants to say, but Cash is unbuttong his shirt, trying to push it back down his shoulders. "Hey, hey," Ian says, and pushes his t shirt up, get the long arch of his back when Cash tugs it it over his own head. He touches Cash's torso, hears his giggles and ducks a flail. "Whoa!"

"Don't fucking tickle me," Cash says, unrepentant, and gets Ian's shirt off. They kiss and Ian thinks dizzily, that's so much skin, and then, there could be MORE. Cash puts both hands in his hair, keeps kissing him, and pushes against him.

"I wanna take your clothes off," Ian says, and wonders why the thought hadn't occurred to him before.

"Yeah, okay," Cash says, and laughs. "Dude, I knew it."

"Shut up," Ian says, and lifts. Cash goes easily, rolls so that Ian can lean over him on the seat and work on his belt, one handed. "You know nothing."

"Oh, Cash," Cash says, still laughing, but not unkindly, "Ooh, Cash, come sleep in the van with me, here Cash, let me help you with your amp, come on, Cash, let's go get stoned. I know everything, Ian."

"I'm not that good at planning," Ian points out, and pulls Cash's belt open. "I just-- I just like you best."

Cash's face gets soft, and he sits up a little, for a kiss. "It's okay. I like you best too."

[roga]

ETA: lol I just saw this linked to and thought it was taking place now /o\ OH WELL.

[green]

lol it's okay, bb. do you think we should reopen this one or start a new one?