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Five snippets of sex-type stuff; all bandslash; all FICTION.
RPS disclaimer: None of this happened - and if it did, that's none of my business. If you are, or think you may be, any of the people mentioned in this post, please DO NOT CLICK THE MOTHERFUCKING CUT TAGS. Trust me. We will all be happier that way.
1.![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
shoemaster:
It's not even dark outside, is what really blows Gerard's mind. He'd always figured that this would happen late at night, the van dark and quiet, everyone else asleep - curling together, lazy and slow and more than half asleep themselves. That, or else it'd be after a show, high on adrenaline and hundreds of voices shouting his words back at him, getting off just to be able to breathe without shaking apart.
That was what the first time was like, actually - eight days ago, backstage in Seattle, shaking and urgent and actually not that great. They didn't talk about it, afterwards, just grinned at each other and headed back to the bus. Gerard had figured that that was it, that was the pattern - and he'd been okay with that, honestly.
Instead, it's 10 AM, and they're driving through Wyoming, heading for Minneapolis for the show that night, and Frank has a hand on Gerard's dick. There's no excuse, here - no plausible deniability, no outside influences. Instead, there's just Frank's hand, slow and tight and not quite slick enough; Frank's shoulder digging into his ribs; Frank's mouth, open and wet against his neck; Frank; Frank.
He's pressed up against the window, breathing white clouds against the glass, being careful not to clench his teeth and hiss when Frank twists his wrist, smoothing his thumb over the head of Gerard's cock. Frank grins against the side of his neck, biting down just a little when Gerard shivers. They're both slumped down in the seat, so that Matt can't see them in the rearview mirror, and Frank's got one leg across Gerard's lap, holding him steady. The other guys are still mostly sleeping or listening to music, sprawled in their seats and ignoring the outside world.
There are times where everyone makes their own zone in the van, so they can pretend that they don't have to share everything with four other guys, and boxes of merch. They love it, but there are things you have to do to not go insane.
Gerard's pretty sure he is going insane right now - trying not to move or gasp or even think too loudly, pressing slowly up into Frank's fist. His hand is resting on Frank's side, sliding up under his shirt, resting against warm, sweaty skin.
When he comes, he doesn't make any noise, but Frank grins against his neck and gentles him through it. It's not what he was expecting - too slow, too deliberate, too much them - but he thinks he'll like it anyway.
2.helleboredoll:dirty (FOB, pete/patrick)
"No," Patrick says. "Pete, no." He's staring at Pete while he says it, eyes narrowed, arms crossed over his chest. Pete tries not to grin - it's not polite to gloat, after all.
See, Pete knows Patrick. If Patrick were really, truly, one-hundered-percent against it, he'd just have rolled his eyes and turned away, or put on his headphones and opened his computer. This, though - this means he's interested, and that means that Pete can argue him around.
"Pete, I'd rather fuck Dirty," Patrick says, and Pete gives in, lets the smirk grow.
Once he's got that first spark of interest, Pete can argue anyone around.
Sure enough, two and a half weeks later, Pete's on his hands and knees on a hotel bed in Detroit, pressing back against the slick, aching stretch of Patrick's fingers. He's already come once - flat on his back, Patrick fucking him with three fingers and blowing him so sweetly Pete almost started laughing, breaking open with the sheer unbelievable awesomeness of his life.
"This is so wrong," Patrick says, tracing the edge of Pete's asshole with his thumb. "I can't believe you like this." There's an edge of uncertainty in his voice, a waver that doesn't belong, and, no - that's not right, Patrick should know -
It takes a superhuman effort to lift his head and turn it, but it's worth it to be able to see Patrick's face, flushed with embarrassment and sex and a too-warm hotel room.
"I've never - " Pete says, and then breaks off, gasping, when Patrick dips his thumb in - just a little, just enough to short out all of Pete's higher brain function and his memories of 10th grade.
"Never?" Patrick asks, and pushes in again before Pete can answer. "Not - but how did you know you'd like it?"
"It's you," Pete says - because it is. It always is.
3.misspamela: plus ça change (FOB, pete/patrick)
It's surprising how little changes, really.
Pete's still a total bitch before coffee, for one, surly and disoriented, slouching around the bus with his hands in his pockets and his hood pulled over his face. It's a little weird to call him on it, now - there's a moment of cognitive disconnect, wires crossing in Patrick's brain before he remembers that, no, this is Pete - this is normal, or as close to normal as they can really get.
And they still fuck in the back of the bus, as quietly as they can manage, knowing that it's not a good idea. Pete still bites his lip when he comes - or Patrick's, if he can reach it - and he still grins whenever he can make Patrick shudder. (He didn't use to bite his lips quite so red, quite so abused-looking - but, hey, it suits him.) They still lie together afterwards, pressed together all sweaty and disgusting. Patrick still, when Pete asks him, sings them both to sleep.
And Pete still says the weirdest fucking shit of anyone Patrick knows, with the possible exception of Gabe Saporta (which totally doesn't count).
"Look," he says, nodding at the couple making out at the bus stop across the street. "Look, Patrick." Patrick doesn't really want to - kissing is one of those things that never looks as awesome as it actually is, and Patrick's not nearly as much of a voyeur as Pete is anyway.
"Like us, see?" And that's just like Pete, too - making Patrick look even when he really doesn't want to, just to figure out what the hell Pete is talking about this time. And of course - because this is Pete - looking doesn't help. The girl is wearing a sundress and a floppy hat and leaning up to kiss her boyfriend - and, oh, Patrick thinks, turning back to Pete.
The ink didn't go away, and the shirt Pete's wearing shows off most of it. Conservation of awesome, Pete says, and Patrick's not sure what that means but it makes sense, because they still fit, twining spiky and dark around new muscles, different skin. Pete's hair is the same, too - and he always wore girls' jeans, anyway.
Now they fit, is all.
"Pete," he says, rolling his eyes, "nothing you could do could ever be even half that straight." Pete rolls his eyes and wraps an arm around Patrick's shoulders, and, really, it's surprising how little has changed.
4.lordessrenegade: flash flash flash (FOB/Entourage, patrick stump/eric murphy)
Patrick does okay for the first hour or so, making the rounds and smiling at all of the right people, talking up the album. After the twelfth question about Pete's most recent Bad Idea, though, he gives up and ducks behind the row of potted plants along one wall.
There's a pair of girls making out behind the first pot, which is pretty much par for the course at these things; they ask him to join them, but he shakes his head and ducks behind the second pot.
This one's occupied, too, but they guy behind it just grins and scoots along the wall, making space for Patrick.
"You look like I feel," the guy says, saluting Patrick with his glass. "I hate these things, you know? I mean - " he laughs a little, gesturing out past the plants at the rest of the room - "there's only so many times you can watch your best friend try to hit on skinny emo boys, really."
Patrick follows the line of his arm, already knowing, on some level, what he's going to see. Sure enough, Pete's right there, maybe ten feet away, tipping his head backwards to grin up at a guy with dark curly hair and gleaming white teeth.
"Well," he says, leaning back against the wall, "I'd say that he was doing a good job, but I don't really think that would help." The guy looks at him again - sharp and attentive, all of a sudden - and then grins, a little sheepish.
"Hey, sorry," he says. "I didn't realize that you were - I mean, that he was - Hi," he says finally, shaking his head in self disgust. "I'm Eric Murphy, and I'm kind of an asshole."
"Hi," Patrick says. "I'm Patrick Stump, and I don't really care." He sets Eric's glass next to the fern, where they won't knock it over, and leans in to pin Eric against the wall. Eric grins against his mouth and settles a hand on the back of his neck, holding him close, rocking his hips forward slowly, carefully.
They're going to get caught, of course, and it's going to be a disaster - but right now, with potted palms above them and Eric Murphy biting at his lips, Patrick doesn't really give a fuck.
It's his turn for a bad idea.
5.greyandgrey: not really like a cult at all (drummer!love)
"So, wait," Spencer says, standing next to the couch, watching Andy carefully. "Is this, like - is this some sort of cult?"
Andy shakes his head. "Gabe's not allowed, man," he says, and pulls on Spencer's arm until he's sitting down, close enough to feel the warmth of Andy's bare arm. It shouldn't be reassuring - bringing Gabe Saporta into a conversation generally isn't - but it makes Spencer laugh, helps him settle back into the corner of the couch and start breathing again.
"It's like - " Andy tries to explain - but it's early, and Spencer's tired, and mostly he just winds up watching the way Andy's hands move.
Fortunately, that's when Bob comes back in. He sets his mug of coffee on the table and flops down on the couch, resting his head on Andy's leg and smiling up at Spencer.
"Dude," he says, "haven't you noticed that everyone else we know is completely insane?"
Andy looks like he's going to argue it, but Bob pokes him in the side, and he sighs.
"Pretty much, really. We just - we got tired of hanging out with crazy people all the time." And that makes sense, really - knowing Pete and Gerard, Spencer can't really blame them - but -
Spencer frowns. "What about - " the sex, Bob on his knees sucking Andy's dick like there was nothing else he'd rather do, his mouth wet and red, Andy's back and arms and goddamn skin -
Andy smirks and leans in, catching Spencer around the back of his neck and holding him steady, kissing him soft and steady - trying not to scare Spencer off, keeping things low-key. It's nice, and Spencer appreciates the thought, but at the same time - at the same time, fuck that. He opens his mouth and leans forward, pushing his way into Andy's space. Andy grins back up at him, meets him kiss for kiss and bite for bite, and oh, yeah.
Spencer could do this forever, or at least until lunchtime, but suddenly there's a hand on the front of his jeans, warm solid pressure with just a little bit of squeeze. He pulls back, panting a little, and sees Bob grinning at him.
"Well, you know what they say about drummers," Bob says. "They're good with sticks."
...everyone else, I'll get back to you. I WILL.
RPS disclaimer: None of this happened - and if it did, that's none of my business. If you are, or think you may be, any of the people mentioned in this post, please DO NOT CLICK THE MOTHERFUCKING CUT TAGS. Trust me. We will all be happier that way.
1.
shoemaster:It's not even dark outside, is what really blows Gerard's mind. He'd always figured that this would happen late at night, the van dark and quiet, everyone else asleep - curling together, lazy and slow and more than half asleep themselves. That, or else it'd be after a show, high on adrenaline and hundreds of voices shouting his words back at him, getting off just to be able to breathe without shaking apart.
That was what the first time was like, actually - eight days ago, backstage in Seattle, shaking and urgent and actually not that great. They didn't talk about it, afterwards, just grinned at each other and headed back to the bus. Gerard had figured that that was it, that was the pattern - and he'd been okay with that, honestly.
Instead, it's 10 AM, and they're driving through Wyoming, heading for Minneapolis for the show that night, and Frank has a hand on Gerard's dick. There's no excuse, here - no plausible deniability, no outside influences. Instead, there's just Frank's hand, slow and tight and not quite slick enough; Frank's shoulder digging into his ribs; Frank's mouth, open and wet against his neck; Frank; Frank.
He's pressed up against the window, breathing white clouds against the glass, being careful not to clench his teeth and hiss when Frank twists his wrist, smoothing his thumb over the head of Gerard's cock. Frank grins against the side of his neck, biting down just a little when Gerard shivers. They're both slumped down in the seat, so that Matt can't see them in the rearview mirror, and Frank's got one leg across Gerard's lap, holding him steady. The other guys are still mostly sleeping or listening to music, sprawled in their seats and ignoring the outside world.
There are times where everyone makes their own zone in the van, so they can pretend that they don't have to share everything with four other guys, and boxes of merch. They love it, but there are things you have to do to not go insane.
Gerard's pretty sure he is going insane right now - trying not to move or gasp or even think too loudly, pressing slowly up into Frank's fist. His hand is resting on Frank's side, sliding up under his shirt, resting against warm, sweaty skin.
When he comes, he doesn't make any noise, but Frank grins against his neck and gentles him through it. It's not what he was expecting - too slow, too deliberate, too much them - but he thinks he'll like it anyway.
2.
helleboredoll:dirty (FOB, pete/patrick)"No," Patrick says. "Pete, no." He's staring at Pete while he says it, eyes narrowed, arms crossed over his chest. Pete tries not to grin - it's not polite to gloat, after all.
See, Pete knows Patrick. If Patrick were really, truly, one-hundered-percent against it, he'd just have rolled his eyes and turned away, or put on his headphones and opened his computer. This, though - this means he's interested, and that means that Pete can argue him around.
"Pete, I'd rather fuck Dirty," Patrick says, and Pete gives in, lets the smirk grow.
Once he's got that first spark of interest, Pete can argue anyone around.
Sure enough, two and a half weeks later, Pete's on his hands and knees on a hotel bed in Detroit, pressing back against the slick, aching stretch of Patrick's fingers. He's already come once - flat on his back, Patrick fucking him with three fingers and blowing him so sweetly Pete almost started laughing, breaking open with the sheer unbelievable awesomeness of his life.
"This is so wrong," Patrick says, tracing the edge of Pete's asshole with his thumb. "I can't believe you like this." There's an edge of uncertainty in his voice, a waver that doesn't belong, and, no - that's not right, Patrick should know -
It takes a superhuman effort to lift his head and turn it, but it's worth it to be able to see Patrick's face, flushed with embarrassment and sex and a too-warm hotel room.
"I've never - " Pete says, and then breaks off, gasping, when Patrick dips his thumb in - just a little, just enough to short out all of Pete's higher brain function and his memories of 10th grade.
"Never?" Patrick asks, and pushes in again before Pete can answer. "Not - but how did you know you'd like it?"
"It's you," Pete says - because it is. It always is.
3.
misspamela: plus ça change (FOB, pete/patrick)It's surprising how little changes, really.
Pete's still a total bitch before coffee, for one, surly and disoriented, slouching around the bus with his hands in his pockets and his hood pulled over his face. It's a little weird to call him on it, now - there's a moment of cognitive disconnect, wires crossing in Patrick's brain before he remembers that, no, this is Pete - this is normal, or as close to normal as they can really get.
And they still fuck in the back of the bus, as quietly as they can manage, knowing that it's not a good idea. Pete still bites his lip when he comes - or Patrick's, if he can reach it - and he still grins whenever he can make Patrick shudder. (He didn't use to bite his lips quite so red, quite so abused-looking - but, hey, it suits him.) They still lie together afterwards, pressed together all sweaty and disgusting. Patrick still, when Pete asks him, sings them both to sleep.
And Pete still says the weirdest fucking shit of anyone Patrick knows, with the possible exception of Gabe Saporta (which totally doesn't count).
"Look," he says, nodding at the couple making out at the bus stop across the street. "Look, Patrick." Patrick doesn't really want to - kissing is one of those things that never looks as awesome as it actually is, and Patrick's not nearly as much of a voyeur as Pete is anyway.
"Like us, see?" And that's just like Pete, too - making Patrick look even when he really doesn't want to, just to figure out what the hell Pete is talking about this time. And of course - because this is Pete - looking doesn't help. The girl is wearing a sundress and a floppy hat and leaning up to kiss her boyfriend - and, oh, Patrick thinks, turning back to Pete.
The ink didn't go away, and the shirt Pete's wearing shows off most of it. Conservation of awesome, Pete says, and Patrick's not sure what that means but it makes sense, because they still fit, twining spiky and dark around new muscles, different skin. Pete's hair is the same, too - and he always wore girls' jeans, anyway.
Now they fit, is all.
"Pete," he says, rolling his eyes, "nothing you could do could ever be even half that straight." Pete rolls his eyes and wraps an arm around Patrick's shoulders, and, really, it's surprising how little has changed.
4.
lordessrenegade: flash flash flash (FOB/Entourage, patrick stump/eric murphy)Patrick does okay for the first hour or so, making the rounds and smiling at all of the right people, talking up the album. After the twelfth question about Pete's most recent Bad Idea, though, he gives up and ducks behind the row of potted plants along one wall.
There's a pair of girls making out behind the first pot, which is pretty much par for the course at these things; they ask him to join them, but he shakes his head and ducks behind the second pot.
This one's occupied, too, but they guy behind it just grins and scoots along the wall, making space for Patrick.
"You look like I feel," the guy says, saluting Patrick with his glass. "I hate these things, you know? I mean - " he laughs a little, gesturing out past the plants at the rest of the room - "there's only so many times you can watch your best friend try to hit on skinny emo boys, really."
Patrick follows the line of his arm, already knowing, on some level, what he's going to see. Sure enough, Pete's right there, maybe ten feet away, tipping his head backwards to grin up at a guy with dark curly hair and gleaming white teeth.
"Well," he says, leaning back against the wall, "I'd say that he was doing a good job, but I don't really think that would help." The guy looks at him again - sharp and attentive, all of a sudden - and then grins, a little sheepish.
"Hey, sorry," he says. "I didn't realize that you were - I mean, that he was - Hi," he says finally, shaking his head in self disgust. "I'm Eric Murphy, and I'm kind of an asshole."
"Hi," Patrick says. "I'm Patrick Stump, and I don't really care." He sets Eric's glass next to the fern, where they won't knock it over, and leans in to pin Eric against the wall. Eric grins against his mouth and settles a hand on the back of his neck, holding him close, rocking his hips forward slowly, carefully.
They're going to get caught, of course, and it's going to be a disaster - but right now, with potted palms above them and Eric Murphy biting at his lips, Patrick doesn't really give a fuck.
It's his turn for a bad idea.
5.
greyandgrey: not really like a cult at all (drummer!love)"So, wait," Spencer says, standing next to the couch, watching Andy carefully. "Is this, like - is this some sort of cult?"
Andy shakes his head. "Gabe's not allowed, man," he says, and pulls on Spencer's arm until he's sitting down, close enough to feel the warmth of Andy's bare arm. It shouldn't be reassuring - bringing Gabe Saporta into a conversation generally isn't - but it makes Spencer laugh, helps him settle back into the corner of the couch and start breathing again.
"It's like - " Andy tries to explain - but it's early, and Spencer's tired, and mostly he just winds up watching the way Andy's hands move.
Fortunately, that's when Bob comes back in. He sets his mug of coffee on the table and flops down on the couch, resting his head on Andy's leg and smiling up at Spencer.
"Dude," he says, "haven't you noticed that everyone else we know is completely insane?"
Andy looks like he's going to argue it, but Bob pokes him in the side, and he sighs.
"Pretty much, really. We just - we got tired of hanging out with crazy people all the time." And that makes sense, really - knowing Pete and Gerard, Spencer can't really blame them - but -
Spencer frowns. "What about - " the sex, Bob on his knees sucking Andy's dick like there was nothing else he'd rather do, his mouth wet and red, Andy's back and arms and goddamn skin -
Andy smirks and leans in, catching Spencer around the back of his neck and holding him steady, kissing him soft and steady - trying not to scare Spencer off, keeping things low-key. It's nice, and Spencer appreciates the thought, but at the same time - at the same time, fuck that. He opens his mouth and leans forward, pushing his way into Andy's space. Andy grins back up at him, meets him kiss for kiss and bite for bite, and oh, yeah.
Spencer could do this forever, or at least until lunchtime, but suddenly there's a hand on the front of his jeans, warm solid pressure with just a little bit of squeeze. He pulls back, panting a little, and sees Bob grinning at him.
"Well, you know what they say about drummers," Bob says. "They're good with sticks."
...everyone else, I'll get back to you. I WILL.