moved.

Slide (original erotica)

2007-03-03T04:13:13Z

Title: Slide
Fandom: None (original erotic het fiction/character piece)
Rating: NC-17, for swearing and graphic m/f sexual situations.
Summary: Cameron and Sidney aren't perfect together, but they've worked up a fairly amusing routine. And the sex is good.
Notes: I know most of you guys are here for the bandslash and all, but I wrote this on a whim and figured I'd post it. Enjoy.

Cameron woke up before Sidney did, and he hesitated to open his eyes at first because the physical sensation of the weak early-morning sunlight melting across his bare skin where the thin sheets had slipped down his torso was much more pleasant than the inevitable jab of his lover's sharp voice jerking him from the lull of sleep. He soaked in it for a moment, swaying into the gentle rocking motion the silence provided him. In a few minutes, he'd start stirring a little and Sid would no doubt snap awake as she tended to do and start bustling around and pointing out the things he'd already fucked up that day despite it only being - he rolled his head on his pillow to check the digital clock beside the bed - 6:17 AM. But right now, things were quiet and the sun was yellowy and warm like the creamy inside of a pastry from down the street.

At 6:24 AM, Sid rolled over and shook him 'awake'.

"It's Saturday," he groaned when she did so, gently pushing her away and burying his head under one of their thick white pillows. If nothing else, it muffled her voice when she spoke.

"We have to get a present for Jill and Dave's housewarming party, remember?"

"Apartment. They got a fucking apartment together. Who celebrates that shit, anyway?" but he lifted the pillow, meeting her eye-roll and sardonic, lopsided smile. She was attractive, in a unique, 'quirky' sort of way - his mother said so, at least. Short, with curly, dark-reddish hair that she kept cut short and a soft build that was a shade too curvy but not quite enough for the sorority girls on her campus to write 'fatass' on her car with a bar of soap the way they had to that one poor girl a while back. Her nose was a little too upturned but her eyes were huge - clear and honest and the most outstanding seafoam-green color, framed all around with thick dark eyelashes like a doll's. Her mouth was thick, wide, slightly too much so for her face, and it gave her the look of someone with no pretense of shame in regards to her own sexual appetite. Darkish skin spattered with freckles as though some mad artist had long ago shaken a paintbrush at her naked body as she slept. She was all colors and shapes, artsy-looking black tattoos twisting across her back and upper arms in the shapes of planets and stars and flying saucers, tiny silver studs in her nose and lower lip.

"Come on," she said to him, and they got out of bed together, brushed their teeth side-by-side in the bathroom. She didn't seem to mind that his hair was entirely disheveled and that he was naked - not that she would mind that, considering that they'd fucked roughly six hours ago. But usually she'd pinch his ass and make some disparaging remark about Sally Struthers or something. She seemed aware that he could have turned the tables on her this morning if he'd wanted to however, as she was in nothing but her tiny green panties, her toenails painted to match. It was that realization - the toenails - that made him haul her off to the shower over one shoulder and fuck her wet against the wall as the water sluiced down their heated, slick skin.

She made choked, hitching "Uh, uh," sounds when he took her thighs into both hands, rough from those years of playing acoustic guitar in coffeehouses back in high school, and wrapped them around his waist. Her soft, slender arms slid around his neck and it was clumsy and they laughed together when his feet slipped on the wet tile and they nearly tumbled to the floor of the shower together in a heap of bruises. But then the rhythm caught, and she was wet and whimpering and gripping in convulsions around him, flexing and dragging her nails across the back of his neck. Her breasts pressed against his chest when she arched her back, a throaty moan spilling from those thick lips when he dipped his head to wrap his swollen lips around a stiff, pink nipple. The shower water in his mouth caused a slurping sound as he suckled at it, and she laughed breathlessly and they gasped and rocked together. Finally, she clenched up around him, shuddering and going still and quiet for a moment before finally collapsing limp against the wall. Cam took it as a green light to allow his own orgasm, spurting into her and riding it out until he felt his legs go wobbly and sank to the floor with her, panting.

They clutched each other, laughing and wet. Outside, cars were starting to honk, neighbors calling to each other from sidewalks in the Boston suburb.

"I'm still making you come with me to get a present," Sid reminded Cameron, and he tugged a lock of her soaked, limp hair.

"They're getting an apartment, for Chris'sake," he said.

---

They got Jill and Dave an African statue of a naked woman cradling her own breasts labeled Acceptance.

"It's bullshit." Sidney said.

"It's experimental." Cam argued.

"Oh, it's cliche. Blah blah, I am woman, these are my tits, let's all be proud of me for having them. Been done."

And Cam had smirked, and they'd bought the damn statue. Now, they were trying to figure out how the hell to wrap it. "We should put it in a box. There's no way we're going to get paper around this thing, at least not without them figuring out what it is. It's nearly as tall as you," Cam pointed out later that night, as they were standing in the living room staring at it.

"But how are we going to get it in the box? It's too heavy to lift up and put in there, unless maybe we laid it down on the floor and slid it in. But I'd be afraid of doing damage to the finish. It's just polished wood."

"...Shit."

"Okay, so here's the plan. We lube you up real good, shove it up your ass, and when we get to the party we surprise everyone by having you just bend over and shit this bitch right out. Happy housewarming!"

"It's an apartment."

They wrapped it.

End.

Prism (1/1)

2007-03-01T06:08:28Z

Title: Prism (1/1)
Pairing: Pete/Patrick (FOB)
Rating: PG-13, for swearing, m/m kissing and sexual imagery.
Summary: Pete and Patrick really have a bad habit of complicating things unnecessarily.
Disclaimer: This is a work of complete friction. I mean fiction.

Snap.

The sound Pete made when he jerked awake was enough to wake Patrick up too, and when he looked over at the bed next to his in their lush New York hotel room Pete's nose was bleeding. "Pete," he said, his voice thick with sleep. "You're bleeding." Really though, Pete could probably feel it even though the room was dark and his blood wasn't really red in this lack of light, more like black - but Patrick knew it was blood. What else could it have possibly been? And Pete raised a trembling hand to touch the wetness oozing across his upper lip. His fingers came away dark and slick, and Patrick could see his eyes go a little wider from where he was even though he didn't have his glasses on.

"Oh," Pete said. Then, "sorry," as though he had something to apologize for.

"No, it's. Here, clean that up," Patrick murmured in response, pushing the box of Kleenex across the nightstand toward him. Lights from cars were flashing from the street below and through the window, across the wall behind Pete's head like dreams. Quick, fleeting bursts of sharp illumination that hurt his eyes now that he was awake, yanked from the comfortable sway of sleep where he was safe from them. An illusion of course, he understood now - it was still dark out, still night. But he was awake, and the lights had been there all along. Just because he'd been asleep didn't mean they'd not been lancing across the walls like knives, and suddenly he understood Pete's world a little more. Pete almost never slept.

The realization was slipping through his groggy, sleep-hazy mind too quickly though, and he could feel it seeping through his fingers as quickly as he was coming. He wished he carried a notebook with him at all times now, like Pete, but his was tucked away inside his luggage. These were the kind of split-second late-night epiphanies that he suddenly understood were more important than anything else when it came to understanding things. Things like your best friends.

Pete was mopping up the blood, sniffling some of it back up into his nose. "No, blow it out," Patrick said a little fussily, waking up a little more. "That's not good for you, blow your nose." Pete did, obediently. Patrick got out of bed to get him a glass of water for some reason, which really had nothing to do with his nose but justified something in his mind. Their fingers brushed when he handed it to him a moment later, and Pete looked away from him.

"I'm sorry I woke you up," he said simply. "I think I'm going to go for a walk or something, I'm not getting any more sleep tonight."

"No, it's okay. Let's...I don't know, we can watch a movie or something."

"Can we not? Could you just lie with me?"

Patrick blinked at Pete, his arm still halfway in the 'handing him the glass' position. Pete still wouldn't look at him, but he was biting down on his lower lip with those oversized teeth, and for all the open sexuality he radiated all the time, he looked for all the world like a nervous teenager in that moment. Asking for something he didn't expect to be granted, like an extra hour on his curfew or a date to the prom with the hottest girl in school. Patrick was fairly sure that it was stupid of him - to think that he was worthy of such esteem, such concern. He could have had anything he wanted of him, after all. More often than not, Patrick was positive that Pete wasn't aware of the power he had over him. Of people in general, actually. Everyone wanted Pete's attention, to be validated by his approval. He was hated by so many because the fact that he wielded that kind of power with such a careless lack of awareness was resented, and rightfully so. At least, this was Patrick's theory. Sometimes, he couldn't help but be a little jealous of Pete himself, despite knowing that he'd never want to know that kind of pressure.

"Patrick?"

"Oh. Um, yeah. I mean, sure."

"You don't--"

But Patrick was already getting into bed with Pete to make up for his hesitation. Rushing, to apologize. Pete made a sound in the back of his throat when Patrick yanked up the covers and slid in beside him, but then things quieted down when they settled in and his heartbeat slowed again. They both grew used to the lights after a few minutes, and somehow Patrick knew that Pete had been thinking the same things about them that he had - that they were a violation somehow, but that it would have been wrong to close the curtains.

Pete rolled over, resting his head against Patrick's chest, tentatively. "Yeah?" he said quietly, and Patrick fought the urge to laugh.

"Since when are you shy, man? You all but hump my leg on stage all the time. Yeah," he said, sliding both arms around Pete's shoulders and pulling him close to ease the tension of the situation. It was inane of him, though. This wasn't the stage, and something had shifted between them. They could both feel it, but Pete was kind enough to not point out his stupid attempt to laugh off the obvious. Somewhere between the nosebleed and their mutual realization about the way things stayed the same whether you were awake or asleep - that the world remained static even if your eyes were closed - something had changed between them.

It made him feel so fragile, the sudden knowledge that the world kept spinning if he was awake or asleep, alive or dead. He imagined it was akin to the abrupt awareness of the horror of having one's existence reduced to two extremes - survival or death.

But then there was Pete. He was solid and real and not going anywhere no matter who was awake or asleep, and somehow Patrick had the notion that even in death he'd still be there. It was hyper-romantic of him, and more gay than he wanted to deal with right then, particularly considering the fact that they were currently cuddling in bed. But Pete had always been the constant in his life. Even when they were fighting, Pete was always there, always a part of him - there just wasn't Patrick without Pete, and vice versa he liked to think. 'When we're apart for too long, I feel like I'm missing a leg,' Pete had written in a letter to him once when they'd been separated for a month while doing some side projects, and Patrick had related to the feeling more than he'd been able to face at the time. Or hell, even now. But somewhere in the back of his mind, he'd understood.

"God, I'll never sleep," Pete was mumbling against his collarbone, and then he was out like a light.

Sharp.

Pete was swaying backstage, after everyone was gone, all by himself. His bass was on a chair behind him, and he had the most spacey, dreamy smile on his face. Patrick had to fight to kiss him like Rhett Butler, especially when he started humming softly to himself. For a few moments, he just leaned against the frame of the doorway that led to their dressing room and watched him, smiling faintly. And then he said, "Pete."

Pete opened his eyes, but didn't blush or grin an embarrassed grin. Instead, he held out both hands. "Dance with me."

"The fuck? Come on, we have to go. Everyone's gone."

"Patterns, patterns. Let's dance."

Patrick stared at him. Then, "Of course."

And Pete took both of his pale, soft hands into his own dark, spidery ones, and they danced. The music in their heads was enough to suffice, and somehow they were both aware that it was the same station playing. Patrick wasn't surprised when Pete started humming again - Perry Como's 'Papa Loves Mambo'. It was a silly song, the kind you might clean your house to or dance backstage with your best friend to, or hum as you threaded your fingers through said best friend's fine blonde hair and brushed your lips against the front of his throat - oh.

Patrick's pulse jumped against the tip of Pete's tongue, his breath hitching.

"Angh?" he asked him, and felt the curve of Pete's lips against his heated skin.

"It's just kissing," Pete told him. "It's just kissing Patrick, we're not hurting...it's just kissing, it's okay. It's okay."

And it was okay, pretty much. So Patrick let Pete back him against the wall of their dressing room, pressing him hard against it and holding his head straight by palming the sides of his neck. Those long, rough fingers curled around the back of his head and tilted it up, and Pete whispered hoarsely, "It's okay," one more time before leaning in and kissing him finally. It was clumsy, Patrick analyzed - Pete was fairly new at this despite his bravado. And then there was a tongue slipping into his mouth, over the rounded edges of his teeth and sliding over his tongue. It sent a shock down his spine, made him shiver against Pete's chest and wrap his fists in his shirt. They kissed and kissed and kissed with quiet, wet sounds filling the room, until a familiar hot, itchy stirring started to rise between his thighs and Patrick jerked away.

Pete was panting a little. "Whassa matter?" he asked breathlessly, his pupils slightly dilated. The he looked down and laughed, reaching for the zipper on Patrick's jeans. Patrick slapped his hand away, hard.

"No," he said sharply. Pete blinked at him.

"It's okay, Patrick. I can. It's okay."

"No. That's not okay." Patrick wasn't even sure why it wasn't. You're probably an idiot for letting this happen in the first place. You're probably an idiot for not letting him fuck you. Oh god, he won't close his mouth all the way.

"This doesn't have to be like...gay or anything, Patrick. We're just friends."

Patrick's laugh was high and mirthless, a little hysterical. "Pete, you're either the single most manipulative son of a bitch alive, or the stupidest asshole I've ever known. We just made out for..." he paused, raising his arm to check his watch. "For a good twenty minutes, and you just offered to jerk me off. But no, of course it doesn't have to be gay. Of course we're just buddies. Straight buddies do this all the time. Prick."

Pete stared, hurt creeping into those wide amber eyes. "...I'm trying to figure out when this shifted from us kissing to you being pissed off at me."

Patrick stared back for a moment, and then his shoulders slumped. The room was silent, before the air conditioner clicked on, making them both jump a little. "I'm not pissed off at you."

"Really?"

"...Okay, maybe I'm a little pissed off. But I don't think it's your fault you're an idiot."

"Gaw-lee, Pat. Thanks."

Patrick cringed, aware that being called 'Pat' was punishment for being a random asshole. "I guess I should go." Pete was so beautiful - all dark skin and coarse, jet-black hair and gold eyes. And here he was, short and pudgy and pale, with a bald spot that was already coming along nicely at the crown of his soft blond hair at the age of twenty-two, with pale blue eyes that he'd always regarded as bland and an ass that somehow ceased to be at all despite his ever-present weight problem. Really, he had no business being here, with Pete. "I'll bunk with Joe tonight."

"Don't bother," Pete said with a shrug, looking away from him. "I'll crash somewhere, you don't have to change rooms."

"No, it's..."

But Pete was already gone, slipping out of the room like a shadow. And then Patrick was alone, licking the lingering taste of him from the corners of his mouth and making plans to masturbate in the shower later.

Martyrs.

"So basically," Andy said to Patrick three weeks later, laughing at him despite the distress he was in at the moment, "Both you and Pete have been pining over each other but you're both convinced that you're unworthy of the other? So you just put each other through all this bullshit torment because of your own insecurity?"

They were on the tour bus, rumbling along. Patrick's fingers tightened into fists on his knees, and he looked at Andy hard. "Pete's not pining over me. Pete wanted to fuck me. It's me who's stupid, who fell in. Who wants to. Who, uh. Shut up?"

Andy's laughter swelled, bubbling up from his belly as opposed to his throat now. "You're both so stupid. Why do you think Pete goes through all those vapid starlet chicks like so many used Kleenex, huh? Lohan, Ashlee, Michelle, all of 'em? They don't mean anything to him, and the sex can't be all that great because I'm sure he's picturing you the whole time. He feels empty, man. God, this is so fucking cliche I feel like I'm in a Danielle Steele novel or something. I better not be the wise old dad who takes your hands and puts them together at someone's funeral at the end or whatever. Just...give him a blowjob and express your eternal devotion already so the rest of us don't have to watch you mope." Andy was wiping tears from the corners of his eyes now, shaking his head, and Patrick finally stood up.

"Oh, look. There's my ride, it looks like a huff. I think I'll leave in it," he snapped at Andy, turning on his heel and storming off the bus, only to slam into Pete on the way out.

"Hi," Pete said weakly.

"I'm not giving you a blowjob!"

Pete blinked. "...Yeah. 'Kay."

"I mean, uh. Shit, just get out of my way." Pete stepped aside, but Patrick didn't move. Finally, he sighed. "Listen, I'm sorry."

"It's okay. Whatever."

"No, I was an asshole."

"Yeah, but whatever."

"Andy thinks we're pining over each other."

"I don't know about you, but I am."

Pete's blunt confession, delivered like a casual fist to the face, left Patrick reeling, and Pete gave him an apologetic smile and shrug. "Sorry. I kind of love you. Guess I should have said it before I molested you and stuff."

"You didn't molest me," Patrick corrected immediately. "I mean, I wanted it. I mean...shit, you know what I mean. Can we talk?"

"Only if there'll be kissing after."

"Did you seriously just lay down an ultimatum on me?"

"All over your ass, pookie."

Patrick smiled, one hand still on the door of the bus. Somewhere in the distance a bird chirped, and the smell of the honey someone was putting on something inside the bus was correlative to the color of Pete's skin in the dusky late-afternoon light.

End.

There's Probably a Reason I Love You, I'll Get Back to You On That (1/1)

2007-02-07T20:31:26Z

Title: There's Probably a Reason I Love You, I'll Get Back to You On That
Fandom: FOB slash
Pairing: Pete/Patrick, mentions of Jon/Ryan (P!atD)
Rating: R, for swearing, mentions of m/m sex, and Pete's unbelievable immaturity.
Summary: Just a series of moments that lead to something pretty damn important.
Disclaimer: This is a work of complete friction. I mean fiction.

Rise.

Because Pete won't stop looking at him with those gold eyes like a hawk's and his lips slightly parted, Patrick gets up and leaves the studio.

He can feel - not see - those lips curling into a smirk, aimed directly at his back, and as soon as he gets outside he kicks the brick wall in front of him and swears. He doesn't smoke either, but then he wishes that he did because it's the perfect time to be taking short, angry little drags on a cigarette. After a few minutes, Joe comes outside to talk with him, and he knows that inside the building Pete is laughing inwardly. And it's like - sometimes he could hate Pete.

"Bullshit!" is the first word to burst from his mouth, jerking past his lips before Joe even says anything. He isn't sure if it's a reaction to Pete's cockiness or his own desperate attempt to convince himself that Pete was hate-able in any way, shape or form. Because in the end he's Pete, with his gold eyes and warm skin like coffee with too much milk in it. He's Pete with his big, loud laugh and oversized teeth and black tattoos curling across his skin like the ink is still fresh, liquid.

Joe is laughing at him, too.

"Dude, get back inside. It's fucking freezing out here. What are you doing?" Joe asks him, and Patrick opens his mouth to deliver what is no doubt a highly indignant response before he realizes that he has no idea what he's doing.

"I'm mad at Pete," he finally concludes, helplessly. Looking away from Joe in the hopes that he'd buy it.

"Why? What did he do?" Joe asks reasonably, craning his neck and leaning to one side, trying to look Patrick in the eye. Which Patrick did not allow.

"We need a reason to be mad at Pete now? He's Pete."

"Patrick, come on. This isn't like you." And fuck if Joe isn't right, and whatever Pete is laughing about, he's probably right too.

"It's bullshit!" Patrick finally says again, but goes limp and obedient when Joe gently takes his arm and leads him back inside.

Fingertips.

"I was minding my own business," Patrick says angrily to Pete a day later. He's stretched out on his stomach across a hotel-room bed, the comforter stiff and unfamiliar and smelling of a fabric softener that makes no sense to him. Pete is lying on his stomach as well, draped over Patrick's back as some inane romantic comedy played itself out predictably on the TV screen in front of them.

"I was minding my own business," Patrick tries again. "Just watching this shitty movie, perfectly fine with my existence. And then you just barge in like you live here..."

"You don't live here either, boo. Pass me those Starbursts," Pete says amiably, and Patrick hands him a handful of candy without even thinking about it. When he realizes what he'd done, his irritation rises even further.

"Goddamn it, that is not my point. What if I'd been getting out of the shower or something? You do this shit all the time. Like you're...like you have a right. I need my privacy, you know. Sometimes."

Pete rests his chin against the back of Patrick's neck, and he's pretty sure his anger had all been centered right there in his body and that Pete's chin is some kind of emotional healing salve or something, because in that moment it all melts away and he isn't pissed for no reason anymore.

"Shhh," Pete says. "Julia Roberts is about to find out that her secret admirer has been the man next door all along."

Patrick shuts up, and Pete skims his fingertips along the comforter in front of his face. His fingernails are blunt, with dried blood underneath the cuticles. Patrick closes his eyes, and misses Julia Roberts' sweeping, grand kiss with her leading man.

Input.

"Fuck Pete, seriously," The narrow-eyed girl says to Patrick later that week, at some party he was clearly obligated to go to, he was sure. There was no way he would have been there otherwise, though at the moment he can't remember who had told him he needed to be here. Somewhere across the room, Pete is surrounded by a crowd of admirers, and Patrick can hear them laughing appreciatively at some joke he'd just made, all in unison like one of those Gap commercials where all the creepy kids dressed alike and danced like robots.

"Excuse me?" he says to the girl, raising an eyebrow and hoping he looked as cool as Pete did when he did it.

"You know, like. Everyone thinks he's hot shit and all, but I've always liked you best." The girl - he thinks her name is Jenn or Jane - takes a step closer to him with a smile that's all teeth. But not like Pete's endearingly donkeyish grin, and Patrick nearly hisses at her. "Pete thinks he's so cool because all the fangirls think he's the hot one in the band, but everyone knows you're the real talent."

"Listen, that's my best friend you're talking about..." he starts, nervously because he's never good at things like this but it's Pete and he's not about to just stand there and let her shit-talk him.

Across the room, he can hear Joe saying, "You're so fucking lame, man," as he laughs at another of Pete's jokes. And Pete responding with, "Dude, don't make us fucking replace you with a guitar-playing robot, okay? I can make it happen."

"I've got to go," Patrick says to Jenn or Jane, turning away from her to join Pete's crowd right as Pete adds, "I will even have a Jewfro put on that thing, so help me God. Don't test me, man."

Plants.

"Eat this," Pete demands, pressing something small and soft and yellow against Patrick's lips when he stumbles into the little kitchen of the tour bus the next morning. It's probably unholy that Pete is awake this early, but Patrick opens his mouth anyway. The sweet taste surprises him, burns his tongue.

"The fuck was that?"

"Marigold petals." Pete smiles, hands him a flower. "You can eat them. Pretty to look at and they taste sweet - I thought of you."

Patrick tries to divert attention away from his sudden violent blushing by pointing out, "That was so fucking corny. Besides, how the hell would you know what I taste like?"

And now his endearingly goofy-looking teeth are visible because he's smiling even wider and leaning in, and Patrick can't breathe. Pete presses his lips against the side of Patrick's neck, a kiss like a marigold petal melting in his throat. It only lasts for an achingly sweet moment, warmth spreading out from that one spot like Pete's lips had spilled tingling liquid something all over his body, under the surface of his skin. When Pete pulls away, his eyes are half-lidded and his smile is lazy. "I was right," he says simply. "But then, I usually am."

"Bullshit," Patrick says.

Sleep.

They're in the studio again, and Pete is asleep this time. Ryan is sitting on a barstool that somehow found its way there, his long legs crossed like a girl's. Together, he and Patrick watch Pete's steady breathing. "He never sleeps like this," Patrick says. "Soundly, I mean."

"Nightmares, right?"

"Yeah. They get pretty bad sometimes." But now, Pete is stretched out across the couch, his legs draped over the arm at one end and his head propped up on a pillow, his chest rising and falling slowly.

"He's kind of beautiful like something that shouldn't be beautiful," Ryan says thoughtfully. "I mean, Pete's fucking amazing. But he's also Pete, and that alone should be enough to make all of us hate him. But instead he's just...beautiful."

"I can see why you're the deep one of your band, Ryan."

"Okay, okay. Fuck you, too."

Over the sound board, they share a smile. They've been talking quietly so not to rouse Pete, but now Ryan stands up and reaches for his coat. "I'm going to go, man. Jon's going to wonder where I am."

What's funny is that Brendon and Ryan are the assumed f'real realz gay couple around the FBR crew, something that has been carefully planned out by both boys. But behind the onstage groping, Ryan is so in love with Jon that watching them look into each other's eyes is enough to hurt Patrick's chest. They're so young and intensely devoted, violently protective of each other. He'd watched them kiss backstage after a show once, and had experienced Ryan's pleading moan as they went weak and limp in each other's arms with the force of what they felt for each other. There is an ache happening there, love so much it swells them both to bursting. And they just drink it down, every time.

"Tell him I said hi," Patrick says, and Ryan nods as he leaves the studio. Pete stirs in his sleep, and Patrick kneels beside him to touch his face with trembling fingers.

"Sleep again, Pete," he whispers, and Pete mumbles something and rolls over and sleeps again.

Keys, dreams.

Pete somehow manages to sit behind him while he's playing the piano about twelve hours later, after he's driven them both home to the apartment in Chicago that the band uses when they're recording there. And when he slips both arms around his waist from behind and slides his hands up his chest, nuzzling the back of his neck, Patrick can't keep the low moan that sounds like begging from spilling from his throat.

"Marigolds," Pete says, his lips moving against the peach-fuzzy skin, his rough fingers brushing over one of Patrick's nipples through his t-shirt and making him whimper through clenched teeth. "I love you a whole lot, 'Trick. You stayed with me while I slept last night."

"Nngh?" Patrick explains, his head tilting back against Pete's shoulder.

"Nngh," Pete agrees amiably, those fucking horse teeth nipping at his earlobe. "I'm pretty much gay for you, by the way."

"Really, because I heard you did this to Joe last week..." Patrick starts, and yelps despite himself when Pete laughs in his ear and reaches down to pinch his ass. He tries pressing his erection against him, but there's not really enough room on the slick, narrow piano bench. So Pete stands up, taking his hand.

"C'mon. We're gonna fuck," he says cheerfully, and Patrick pauses to raise an eyebrow at him.

"Oh, Pete. Speak your sweet nothings to me some more."

"Dude. We're not chicks."

And Pete is childishly demanding and maybe a little pouty, but he's also right. So Patrick follows him into his bedroom, watching him shed his clothing awfully gracefully for such a short, furious little guy. His skin is brown all over and very lightly freckled in the most random spots - a cluster of them sprinkled across his left hip, a Milky Way of freckles spattered over his right knee like someone had shaken a paintbrush at him. His thick, coarse hair isn't quite as meticulously styled as it usually is, and it makes Patrick feel a little better about his bald spot when he finally takes off his hat.

"Can we keep the lights on?" Pete asks, reaching for him.

"Fucking no?"

"Please?"

"Yes. Wait, shit!"

But it's too late because he's already crumbled for Pete, and it never takes any more than that look, and Patrick might have time to hate himself for it later but not right now because Pete is taking him into his arms and kissing the corner of his mouth so sweetly it burns like marigold petals.

Spray.

In the morning when Patrick stirs awake, the shower is already running. He's not about to do something cheesy like go join him or anything, even if there might be water running down slick-tan skin and Pete's hair plastered against his wet face as he soaps himself up with both hands or something. Besides, Pete is already emerging from the bathroom in a pillow of steam, toweling his hair dry. "Morning," he says, bouncing onto the bed in nothing but a towel, his skin still wet as he leans over and kisses Patrick's big toe. "I got us breakfast. Wanted to wait for you, to eat," he adds, pointing to the hot chocolate and pastries courtesy of Starbucks on the nightstand.

Patrick presses his fingers to his temples. "Wait, fuck. Is this like...a thing now? You didn't tell me my ass would be sore." He kind of wishes he could articulate his thoughts in order these days, but Pete's scrambled him like an egg. And now, he's offering him that chipmunk-cheeky grin.

"Of course it's a thing, Patrick. Don't be stupid, I love you. Let's be with each other. And that's what you get, for being on the bottom with a monster of cocks such as myself."

"Monster of..."

"You might even say I'm a cock star."

"Wait."

"I do it all for the cock value."

"Pete."

"Cock cock, anyone home?!"

"PETE!"

Pete kisses him, swirling his thick, wet tongue around inside his mouth and over his teeth. And when he pulls away he brushes his fingers tenderly over Patrick's cheek and whispers, "Cock it to me, cock it to me, cock it to me."

End.

| you are the dream |

2007-01-29T01:37:01Z

three16, GO. If you're a Fall Out Boy fan, or just a Pete fan, or someone who doesn't care much either way but has noticed how bleak his blog updates have been lately and want to be a really awesome person...GO GO GO.

Living is Just a Waste of Death, part IV

2007-01-05T21:24:19Z

Title: Living is Just a Waste of Death, part IV
Fandom: P!atd + FOB slash
Pairing/s: Brendon/Jon, a touch of Pete/Jon/Brendon if you squint.
Rating: R, for gore, swearing, disturbing imagery, character death, and slashy-ness.
Summary: This is the end, guys. The last chapter. Everything is explained, it all falls together, a surprise character shows up, and the decisions made and outcomes of them are bittersweet at best. But necessary, and the boys have accepted that happy endings aren't always so black-and-white. Or at least they're trying to. And yes, I know that technically Latin for 'sheath' is 'vagino'. But I just couldn't bring myself to give Brendon that title.
Notes: Earlier chapters: ONE | TWO | THREE. For my patd_100 Jon Walker claim, if they ever start accepting anyone's posts again...prompt #091 - epiphany. And don't forget, if you still want to download the soundtrack for this fic, it's in a .zip file over at my journal HERE. Thanks to musicsexual with all her help on this whole series!

Pete watched Jon while he drove. It was dark by the time they'd all showered and eaten and left the hotel, and his silhouette was outlined by the weak moonlight flashing across his face. Next to him in the passenger's seat, Brendon was dozing against his shoulder.

Give us Jonathan Walker, and you all live, the zombie had hissed into the phone at him. Clearly, they knew enough about all of them to know that it hadn't been Jon who had picked up the phone - these things could recognize their voices now, Pete thought. Jesus.

Fame had been fun in his previous life, but now it was only dangerous. They needed to fly under the radar, but it seemed like the zombies were trying to flush them out. Snipers along all the rooftops, little decaying children dragging their broken fingernails down the barricaded windows of the hotel last night, whispering "Peter. Brendon. Patrick. JON," over and over. And now, Jon was glancing back at him, over his shoulder.

"What's up, Pete? You've been quiet ever since we left the hotel."

Pete froze. He hadn't told anyone about what the zombie had said over the phone, and he still wasn't sure why. Some hopeless desire to protect them, he supposed. "Just tired, man," he finally answered Jon quietly, and Jon gave him that look that clearly said that he didn't believe him.

"I don't believe you," was what he said of course, in his classically Jon way - bluntly honest. Pete was about to respond, but they both caught sight of someone who was waving their arms frantically on the side of the road as they passed. Jon hit the gas, but Pete put a hand on his arm.

"If it were you," he said, leaning over to kiss the soft, warm lobe of Jon's ear for no reason that he could figure out.

"But it's not," Jon pointed out, stopping nevertheless. The person standing there was a young girl, only a little older than Lucy had been. Maybe around seventeen, with short jet-black hair and narrow gray-blue eyes. She had a sharp kind of prettiness to her, pale and angular with high cheekbones and an intelligent face like a savvy New York artist or something along those lines. Her hair was cut in a very stylish shag, which led them all to believe that in a previous life she'd been someone very cool. Now though, she just looked wide-eyed and a little desperate.

Jon aimed his gun at her, through the window. "Give me a reason not to kill you."

"I'm Natalie," she said a little breathlessly. "Check my heartbeat if you don't believe me." She stepped closer to the window, leaning down so that Jon could press his ear to her chest. Then she grinned and produced a stethoscope from under her shirt and handed it to him for a double-check. "Got these from the hospital a few blocks down. They work better." She was looking at Jon with something like awe, like he made her want to cry. As soon as he'd nodded to the others, including Patrick and Brendon who were now awake, she smiled again. "Get out of the car, gentlemen. Everything is about to change."

They all blinked at her.

Jon was the first to get out, and she reached up and touched his face with trembling hands. "It's true. What they said," she said quietly. "It really is you. I knew you'd be handsome, too - they said that had nothing to do with it, but I knew you would be." She giggled, and suddenly they all missed Lucy badly.

"What the hell are you talking about?" everyone was surprised when it was Patrick who snapped at her, and she smiled patiently at him.

"I can't explain it as well as the others can, but I know there's no way you guys will come with me if I don't try. Let me start with this: everything you all knew, your former lives - being rock stars and everything, that was all preordained. The four of you were brought together for a purpose. Well, the five of you, actually. Spencer was The Martyr. Have you guys ever heard of the archangel Michael?"

"From the bible," Brendon said with a shrug, having been the only one of them with any sort of religious background. "The Christian and Catholic ones."

"That's right," Natalie said simply. "And the archangel Michael, he had a sword. That was kind of his thing. But see, what the bible didn't tell you was that there were parts of Michael's story left out. The people who wrote that book didn't think mankind was ready to hear what was going to happen to them long, long into the future, and so they kind of just...omitted the zombies bit."

Patrick held up a hand. "Hold up a second. Are you trying to tell us that this plague of zombies was fortold in the bible?"

"Oh, yes. Now listen. The prophets who wrote the bible not only knew that someday the dead would rise again to destroy God's work - his humans - to appease the devil, but also that God would appoint a special human to act as the physical manifestation of Michael's holy sword on earth to strike them down. We've taken to calling him or her the Sancto Gladius - the Holy Sword. God's no fool though, and he knew that this person was going to need help. So it was arranged for the Sancto Gladius to live a life in which they ended up surrounded by a support group of friends and lovers who would help and watch out for them, each with very specific roles. There's the Ocrea - The Sheath." She paused and glanced at Brendon. "Most likely The Sword's lover. The Sheath is there to hold The Sword, to comfort and take care of them, to keep them from going too bloodthirsty or mad with suicidal bravery. They have perhaps the most important job. Then there's The Capulus." She looked up at Pete. "That has you written all over it."

"Jesus. What does The Capulus have to do?"

"They are The Hilt. It's their job to be a leader of sorts. The Sword is a soldier, a warrior. The Hilt has to be their General. He or she has to rein them in, provide a sense of structure and reality. Unlike The Sheath, you are not so much there to comfort, though you're certainly free to do that as well. But your job is stability and strength - keep his head straight, give him his orders, and make sure they're good ones. We need him, he's going to save us all."

"So, no pressure or anything then?"

Natalie smiled. "And you," she gestured to Patrick. "I imagine that you are The Pugio. The Dagger. You're the backup for The Capulus, his support system in case he needs you. If he fails or dies or performs poorly, you will be there to lift him up or take his place. Every General needs a right hand, after all. Your position may seem insignificant now, but consider how crucial you may become should something happen to him."

Patrick relaxed a little. "I don't want an important position anyway. I don't even want the one I have," he confessed.

Jon had remained quiet throughout Natalie's whole spiel. Now though, he spoke. "You're trying to tell me that I am the human manifestation the the archangel Michael's holy sword on earth, brought here by God to destroy the zombies that Satan wrought upon us? And that my entire life before all of this has been preordained to bring me to a point where I'm close with these four guys so that we can form some kind of holy army and take back the night?"

"Pretty much."

"...Oh. Of course, duh."

For a moment, they all just stood in a circle there, the darkness thick and oppressive all around them. Natalie touched Jon's arm. "We have to go. This area is mostly clear, but I'm supposed to take you back to the church for your briefing."

"And then what?" Pete asked, and Natalie shrugged.

"And then...and then it's up to you what happens. You're The Capulus, after all. The leader. We're just your army."

Pete swallowed, and together the four of them and Natalie got back into the car they'd hot-wired from the hotel the night before. It only took about fifteen minutes to get to the church Natalie had promised was a few blocks away, this enormous, looming Catholic church built of brick. The open-armed Jesus statue by the huge, heavy oak front doors looked ominous somehow, as if he would grab them on their way past as they entered, and Brendon shivered and moved closer to Jon. Waiting for them inside by the now-empty altar was an old, heavyset man, completely bald with gray eyes that looked as though he used to laugh a lot. When he looked Jon up and down however, they brimmed with tears.

"We've been waiting for you, son," he whispered thickly, lowering his head in a quick submissive gesture. Jon narrowed his own eyes at him.

"Awesome. Is there anything to eat around here? We've been driving for a while and Brendon - the pretty one - is hungry. I could hear his stomach growling on the way here." He gestured to Brendon, and the old man raised an eyebrow and looked at Natalie.

"The Sheath?"

"Is a boy, yeah," Natalie said with a grin. "Very millennium of them, isn't it? I guess there goes all those theories about God hating gays and whatnot."

"Is that a problem?" Pete asked a little sharply, stepping in front of Jon and Brendon a little, and the old man laughed out loud.

"Ah. The Hilt. Nice to meet you as well, future leader."

Patrick had been staying in the background for the most part, his eyes on the ground. "You already know what I am and shit, can we skip the pleasantries?" he asked wearily. "I'm so tired, I just want to sleep." Pete put an arm around his shoulders.

"Natalie, show them to their rooms. Bring them some food as well. Boys, my name is Robert. And I think it only fair to tell you before you go to bed that I think we have someone here that is going to be very glad to see all of you. You two in particular." He gestured to Pete and Patrick, both of whom raised their eyebrows and didn't feel so tired anymore.

"Who?" Pete asked, but just as the word left his mouth a young boy ushered a new person into the sermon area of the church. Joe Trohman stared at the four of them for a long moment, his shoulders slumped and his blue eyes huge.

"When they told me you guys were coming, I didn't believe them," he said hoarsely. "I thought they must have made a mistake. Oh, god."

Pete and Patrick were both frozen in place. Finally, Pete spoke. "We thought you were dead. We were so sure you were. Or worse."

"That was why I was in Jersey!" Patrick said to Pete, all of the emptiness in him suddenly replaced with a burst of energy. "I had the last police station left in Maryland track his cell phone for me before it was swarmed a day later, and they told me Joe was in Jersey! But I couldn't find him, and by the time you all found me I knew it had to be too late. I couldn't have asked you all to stay there to look for him, not with the zombies overrunning the whole state, and..." shame crept into his voice. "I was afraid to do it alone."

"Or smart," Jon said simply. "You wouldn't have lasted a day. Glad to see you alive, Joe. How the hell did you end up here?"

"Robert and Natalie and the others picked me up after the people I was traveling with were killed in a firefight with some zombies last week," Joe said. "I've been here at the church for about five days now." As soon as that was explained, there was nothing left to do but collapse into each other's arms - Pete, Patrick and Joe at least, Brendon and Jon respected the former bandmate bond and kept their distance until those three were done reuniting. Then it was time for food, and bed. Brendon was swaying on his feet he was so tired, and when they were shown the simple, curtained-off rooms in the basement of the church it didn't take any longer than five minutes for all of them to sink onto the rough cots and pass out for the next half-day.

When they all woke up the next afternoon, they were told that the church had a little over fifty survivors living in it, and that most of them had been there ever since the zombies had first risen. The prophecy about the Sancto Gladius and his or her fate as the world's savior from the 'last plague before the new world' as they called it had been known of for a while, by various underground cults and religious scholars who specialized in encryptions and the occult. They were all prepared to fight for Jon and Pete and Brendon and Patrick, their new leaders in the revolution for God's plan. It took a good couple of days for the enormity of what they were all facing to sink in.

"Guys," Pete said to Brendon and Jon one day while Patrick was sleeping, joining the two of them on their cot as he'd taken to doing. They settled into their regular position, Jon in between Brendon and Pete, both of whom wrapped their arms around him. "We're going to save the fucking world."

"Shh," Brendon said, shaking his head and closing his eyes. "Let's not talk about it. I can't think about the fact that we're like, the collective new Jesus or something. Jesuses? Can Jesus be a plural?"

Jon stayed silent, but a rare smile touched the corners of his lips, and he kissed Brendon's forehead. Pete stayed with them for a little while, and then left because earlier that day he'd noticed a big, leather-bound book that looked very old lying open on the pulpit in the church's sermon room and was curious about it. It was probably just another arcane religious text - they had a lot of those lying around here - but there was little else to do here. One of the men there had once been a martial arts instructor, and so he'd been teaching them all a little Tae Kwon Do, but he was sleeping at the moment. In the meantime, they were supposed to be formulating a plan for their first strike against the zombies. At least, he was. He was the General, after all. A chill ran through him as he approached the book.

A moment later, it got even worse.

And the Sancto Gladius will rise from the ashes of mankind in a blaze of blood and love, and they will begin our revolution, the translated prophecy scrawled in sort-of old ink across the dry pages read. They will be an inspiration to those left, and they will tear away the first layer of infection and filth that will corrupt the world. When they fall shortly after...

Pete froze. Shortly after. Fall?

When they fall shortly after, their example will invoke the final manifestation of our Holy Sword, the second coming of the Sancto Gladius. When The Capulus begins his or her first strike against the abominations and brings about the end of the first Sword, the second will rise a hero among the agony and loss of the Lord's mighty martyr...

Pete slammed the book shut, right as Robert entered the sermon room. It only took him a moment to figure out what had happened, and the look he gave Pete then was very sad.

"You were never supposed to read that," he said wearily, approaching him.

"How the hell could you not have told me that Jon is destined to die? After all he's fucking been through, all of us? He's just going to...die? Like a regular person?"

"Not at all, son. Please, sit down." Robert gestured to the front pew, and Pete sat because his stunned state had left him obedient.

"Jon is going to die a mighty hero, as the prophecy reads. He's going to save the world, Pete. He and all of us. But him especially, because his sacrifice will be one of the greatest. He will choose to give his life, to save us all. Because in a part of him that has long since been dormant, ever since his birth, he knows that the world needs us. That this is his fate."

"But it said that I'm going to be the one to make it happen," Pete whispered thickly, staring at the carpeted floor.

"Yes. Your first strike is going to be the first domino that will lead to Jon's death."

Spencer's words - "The first domino is falling! The tower is next!" right before he died. Pete had no more doubts about the fact that this had all been preordained.

"I don't think I can."

"Yes, you can. And you will. You must. What you cannot do, however, is tell Jon about any of this."

"Even if I did, he'd still choose to die if he had to. You don't know Jon, man."

Robert smiled. "No, but I know that he's not like the rest of us. We're all fighters you see, but Jon - Jon is a hero. And so, I believe you. But you still can't tell him."

"Do you know who the second Sword will be?" Pete asked suddenly, and the question seemed to surprise Robert. Then he smiled again.

"You know the answer to that."

"It's Joe, isn't it? That's why you guys went all the way to Jersey to find him. It wasn't a coincidence. You people have like, a fortune-teller or something working for you here, and they told you to find Joe Trohman because someday he was going to take Jon Walker's place as your savior."

"You're going to make a good leader when the time comes, Pete. I have faith in you." Robert rose to his feet, leaving Pete sitting there reeling with all his new knowledge.

"The zombies, they don't know about Joe. Only Jon. That's why you've been keeping Joe inside the church all the time. I bet you don't ever let him out for anything, do you?" Pete was rapidly putting the pieces together in his head. "You don't want them to find out about him, because then they'd target him the way they are Jon. I bet you haven't even told Joe about any of this prophecy shit. The more he knows, the less safe he is."

"He's also waking up right about now." Pete had no idea how Robert knew this, but he had a feeling he was going to find out soon. "Go be with him, he's missed you and Patrick terribly over the past week. He tries not to think too much about what's happened to...Andy, yes? But, um. Don't stop in on Brendon and Jon on your way, they're having sex."

Pete thought that maybe Brendon and Jon would want to know that Robert could tell when they were fucking. But he stood up anyway, and headed to Joe's 'room'.

"Hey!" Joe greeted him cheerfully as he emerged from the tiny bathroom they all shared, in the church's basement. There was no shower, but someone had dragged in a giant old-fashioned claw-foot bathtub at some point and they'd had a plumber who was staying there install it for them. They'd moved a little TV into the basement - for Joe probably, it made sense that they would have wanted to keep him entertained. People who weren't bored or restless didn't ask questions.

"Hey," Pete said cautiously. "Um, how are you?"

"As good as can be expected, I guess," Joe said with a grin. "Kind of hungry though, want to go eat?"

It was then that Natalie came rushing into the basement, breathless and flushed. "You guys!" She cried. "The zombies are attacking! They brought fucking guns and everything, they already shot through all the barriers over the windows!" She looked at Pete. "I know you're not ready, but we need you now. What do we do?"

If I do this, if I stage some kind of counterattack, it will be the first event to set off a chain reaction that will lead to Jon's death.

Jon and Brendon were right behind Natalie, their clothes and hair disheveled, looking post-sex sheepish. Pete looked into Jon's dark eyes, and it was there.

Jon knew.

Pete didn't know how, but in that moment he was painfully aware that Jon knew exactly what his fate was, and what was going to trigger it. Their eyes locked for a long moment, in which Brendon leaned against him a little. Pete looked over at Patrick, who was entering the basement as well, and then Joe, who looked terrified.

Jon nodded at him.

"We're all fighters you see, but Jon - Jon is a hero."

He'd made his decision, even though it hadn't really been a decision at all.

Pete took a deep breath.

"Okay. Here's what we're going to do," he said.

The End

| is that all you got? I'll take your best shot |

2007-01-03T17:54:16Z

Okay kids, the friends cut is over. I actually cut fewer people than I expected to, but if you're one of them, please remove me from your friends list as well. I don't expect most of the cut people will see this, since the ones I got rid of were mostly inactive journals anyway, but just in case.

That said: IF YOU HAVE ONLY FRIENDED ME SO YOU CAN READ MY FRIENDSLOCKED WAYCEST FICS, THEY ARE ALL UNLOCKED NOW. If you're not particularly interested in me for any other reason and just wanted access to the fics, feel free to remove me from your list as well. If you friended me for my fics and decided you liked me, feel free to keep me too! Oh, and everyone who recently asked to be friended has been, as well. And lastly, the person who tried to shit-talk me over at that hate meme thingie never did have the balls to come forward and say any of it to my face, but again: if you're on my friends list, remove yourself please. None of us want you here, thanks.

And? ogodthe, where have you gone?! This better have been a hack, as odd as that sounds. I don't want you deleting your journal over some bullshit, boo.

You know, this whole time I'd started to hate Audrey Kitching for how defensive and 'immature' she was being about the hate communities and how much shit people talk about her online. I was all, "Jesus, just shut up and deal. It's online bullshit, get over it." But I get it now - it sucks to feel like everyone is saying all this shit about you and there's little to nothing you can do to defend yourself, especially since when you try everyone calls you lame for it. And that girl deals with it all the time. Sure, she asks for some of it, but still. I can see how she's developed a defense mechanism of his hardass, bitchy attitude toward the internet drama.

Oh, and PS: musicsexual just might be my soulmate. THERE ARE NOW TWO PEOPLE LEFT IN THE WORLD WHO STILL PLAY HUNTER: THE RECKONING, THIRD EDITION. We're a gang, true story.

That's all for now.

| FINALLY |

2006-12-26T20:46:04Z

rydenfree, BITCHES. GO JOIN.

Living is Just a Waste of Death, part III

2006-12-22T15:53:00Z

Title: Living is Just a Waste of Death, part III
Fandom: P!atd + FOB slash
Pairing/s: Brendon/Jon, a touch of Pete/Patrick if you squint.
Rating: R, for gore, swearing, disturbing imagery and slashy-ness.
Summary: As the zombies somehow get smarter, the places left to run for the boys is rapidly narrowing. Jon teeters on the edge of heroism and insanity, and our heroes make a plucky young friend.
Notes: Earlier chapters: ONE | TWO. For my patd_100 Jon Walker claim, if they ever start accepting anyone's posts again...prompt #024 - choices. And don't forget, if you still want to download the soundtrack for this fic, it's in a .zip file over at my journal HERE. Oh, and I'll be leaving to visit family for the holidays for the next ten days, until Jan 2nd. So there probably won't be any new updates on this fic until then, unless I can find enough time to sit at the computer and write up the next chapter. Have a nice holiday, everyone!

It was the deafening bang that woke everyone up. The whole base was sleeping soundly, and so when the gunshot went off it was like a sonic blast. Pete almost fell out of bed from where he'd been snuggled up against Jon, Brendon on his other side with his arms wrapped around his lover. Brendon's eyes snapped open, and he sat bolt upright. The same thought all occurred to them at once, and Jon whispered "Let's go check on Spencer and Patrick, guys," his voice still thick and husky with sleep.

They made their way down the metal hallway, the floor icy under their bare feet, as bunk doors opened all around them and curious survivors stepped out, rubbing their eyes and asking questions. None of them answered any however, and it was with a trembling hand that Pete pushed open Spencer and Patrick's door. Patrick was hunched over Spencer's bed, throwing the sheets apart in a frantic search for him. "Spencer?! SPENCER!" he was crying out, his voice sounding as though he was near tears. When Pete's head started whipping around, he stood up and fixed them all with a panicked look. "I was fast asleep, I didn't even hear him get up...I'm so sorry guys, I'm so sorry..."

Jon went into the hallway, looking around, and caught sight of a bathroom door a few feet away. "I'm going to go check in there," he said to Brendon, who nodded and went to go comfort Patrick. A few moments later, Jon backed out of the bathroom and said, "...I found him, guys."

His voice sounded strange, unreadable. That alone was enough to bring everyone running, because strong, stoic Jon just didn't sound that shaken up. Ever. Brendon gasped softly upon reaching the bathroom first, stumbling back and putting a shaking hand over his eyes. "Oh, god," he whispered, and Patrick and Pete really didn't want to look after that. But of course, they did.

Spencer was splayed out across the cold tiled floor, a gun lying a few inches away from his limp hand and his head resting in a pool of thick, blackish blood. His clear blue eyes were wide open, a contented smile frozen onto his lifeless face. The hall and bathroom were silent, until Lindy came bustling up behind Jon and gasped. Brendon was rushing for one of the toilets, retching.

"Oh, god," Lindy whispered, much as Brendon had. "Oh, no. I'm so sorry, boys."

Jon took a step forward and picked up the gun that Spencer had shot himself with, opening the clip and checking to see if it was still loaded. Upon seeing that it was, he nodded grimly and aimed it at Spencer's bloody head. Pete rushed at him, grabbing his arm. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"I'm not going to take a chance on the hope that dying from a shot to the head is enough to keep you from turning into one of those things," Jon said easily, so easily it was eerie. "I'm going to paint the walls with his brains, and you know he'd thank me for it, Pete. You know he would."

Pete opened his mouth, about to say something, but then Spencer twitched. And hacked. Then fell still and silent again.

They all stared.

"...Shit," Lindy said quietly. Then, louder, "Someone go find Dr. Leiber, damnit! This boy isn't dead!"

A moment later, Dr. Leiber was rushing into the bathroom with his black medical kit, and Jon finally lowered the gun. "Someone help me lift him onto this stretcher. Very carefully," the tall, slender, balding man said nervously. "He's not dead, but he will be very soon if I can't perform a miracle." Pete helped him lift Spencer onto the makeshift military stretcher that he had, and a moment later they were wheeling him off to the infirmary for some...Jesus, emergency spontaneous brain surgery, he thought weakly. He turned away as Dr. Leiber started cleaning off his scalpels and shaved off Spencer's hair very carefully.

Lindy followed Brendon, Jon and Patrick, chewing on her lower lip. When the immense crash from the front gates outside game though, she laughed out loud. Slowly, they all turned to look at her. She was backing up, out of the infirmary, a sick smile spreading over her lips that suddenly looked paler than anyone had noticed before. "They're coming. Kill me, but it's too late for you meatsacks anyway," she hissed viciously, and no one was surprised when Jon's hand shot out, his 9MM in hand, and fired off a shot that splattered her brains all over the metal wall behind her.

"I aim to please," he said with a shrug, his voice nonchalant, but Brendon could see the fear in his eyes.

"Bitch sold us out," Pete whispered, his voice awed. "She must have only been dead for a day or two. How long have you guys been at this base?" he directed the question to the pale, shaking Dr. Leiber, who shook his head.

"O-only about three days."

"Shit. Lindy must have died of a heart attack or something, I couldn't see any damage on her."

"How about we stop theorizing about this shit and figure out what to do about the fucking zombie army that's breaking into the base, huh?" Jon broke in, checking the clip in his gun. "I'm half-empty."

"T-the gun room is on the second level," a terrified-looking young girl of about thirteen whispered to all of them, staring at the decimated final corpse of Lindy on the floor. Jon whirled around and shot her a look.

"Who are you?"

"Lucy." She pointed to Lindy. "She was my mom."

Brendon looked like he was about to cry again, but Jon aimed his gun at her. "How about that, huh? Did your mom make you just like her after she started rotting, Lucy-girl?"

"No!" Brown eyes huge, Lucy backed away from Jon, shaking all over. "I swear, I thought she was alive! She never said...I mean, it's stupid to think that she would have, but...I'm not a zombie, I swear. Have the doc look at me, if you want."

"For god's sake, put the gun down, Jon," Pete said, leaning down and beckoning to Lucy. He pressed his ear to her chest and heard a clear heartbeat, and stood up. "Her heart is beating. Her heart is beating, Jon."

Jon lowered his gun, and they all turned together at the sound of another crash. "Shit," Jon swore softly. "All right, we need to make a plan or something. I know I'm not going to just fucking stand here waiting for those things to come cannibal-rape me or what the fuck ever. You." He gestured with his gun in the direction of Dr. Leiber, which made the older man flinch visibly. "You keep operating on Spencer."

Pete opened his mouth. "Jon," he said quietly. "With Lindy gone and one of us being a child...and Spencer being indisposed, there are only twelve of us left to fight. And it sounds like there could be dozens of those things breaking in. Maybe hundreds. Maybe we should just run."

"Hey." Lucy broke in, pouting in a gesture that was oddly normal. "I could fight. Just gimmie a gun."

Jon gave her a knowing look. "Not today, kid." He paused then, looking right into Pete's eyes. And later, Pete would know that he'd seen exactly what Jon knew then that he had to do. Brendon could feel it too, and he took a step forward and put a hand against Jon's arm. Jon looked down at him, and then leaned over to kiss the top of his head. "You're right," he answered Pete finally. "But the zombies are more than likely to have the base surrounded. There's no way Dr. Leiber could finish operating on Spencer with enough time left over for all of you to escape...not without some sort of buffer between you and the zombies." He turned, taking Brendon's upper arms into both hands. "Brendon. Please don't give up. No matter where I am, I love you."

Brendon's eyes went wide, but before he could say anything, Jon was letting go of him and booting open the door to the infirmary, slamming it shut behind him as he entered the hallway and throwing an open-palmed hand down on the SECURE button next to it that locked the door for good. There was another exit in the back of the room, and a window they could escape out of once Spencer could be moved, and no other way for the zombies to get in other than the one Jon had just eliminated. It was like fate - the second he did this, hundreds of zombies poured into the metal hallway. The stench was overpowering, and Jon grabbed the black-and-chrome 39MM AK-47 that was mounted on the wall, hopefully not just for decoration. He checked the clip as they neared, and then watched as the horde paused in front of him. Soft hunks of rotting flesh were falling loosely to the floor, slick with pus and intestinal fluid suddenly. For a moment, Jon and the zombies just watched each other.

Jon released the charging handle on the gun, his index finger slowly pushing the firing setting to 'automatic'. The click was as loud as if he'd actually shot the gun already in the silent hallway.

And then he said "'Sup, zombies?"

He was still shooting when they swarmed him, laughing insanely. They didn't give him a chance to save his last round for himself though, and Brendon could feel every lashing of pain in his body when he was finally buried under the writhing, maggoty horde of rot.

++++

In the infirmary, no one could stop Brendon's screaming. He was clawing wildly at the solid metal door, shrieking and sobbing as if he was losing his mind. "JON! JON!" he wailed, finally collapsing against the door in a weeping, drained heap of raw agony. Dr. Leiber was struggling to concentrate, carefully working with the few tools they'd been able to find. Pete and Lucy went to try and comfort Brendon, and the rest of the survivors huddled in a corner, whispering and awed by the immensity of Brendon's pain. Pete knelt down next to Brendon, feeling the anguish rising off his skin as clearly as the passion he'd felt that night they'd all lain tangled up in each other, in their bed. There was no doubt in his mind that Jon and Brendon were soulmates anymore, even though he'd never really believed in that kind of thing. The moment Jon had rushed out of the infirmary, Pete had felt an enormous chunk of Brendon going with him, being pulled out as though Jon had reached into his chest with his fist. What was sobbing on the floor was only half of Brendon, maybe less.

He was the one person Pete wouldn't have faulted for suicide, in that moment. He couldn't even begin to imagine what Brendon must have been suffering. Lucy whimpered softly, her dark brown curls limp and sweaty around her pale, young face. Reaching out, she touched Brendon's shoulder. "He was...he was very brave," she whispered helplessly, clearly swallowing tears. "Braver than I've ever seen anyone be. He saved all of us."

Brendon didn't respond. His eyes were clouding over, taking on this eerily dead look, almost like one of the zombies. Pete still wasn't quite processing that Jon was dead. Jon...their violent, tender Jon. Jon, who had driven the car for him even when he was tired himself, who had turned his gun on a little girl just to protect the rest of them. Jon, whose mad laughter had been audible even through the door, as the undead had overtaken he and his suicide mission. Jon, who was only twenty-one and whose back had arched for him in bed. Pete didn't even realize he was crying too, until he was. Oddly enough, Brendon wasn't anymore. He was slumped limply against the door, his eyes wide. And then.

Machine-gun fire from outside. Another burst of crazed laughing, and a very familiar voice. "What is up, cocksuckers? You like that?! I THOUGHT YOU WOULD!"

Brendon blinked, suddenly coming to life again. "Jon?" he whispered, and the hope in his voice broke Pete's heart. If Jon was still moving and talking out there, he was more than likely a zombie himself. But then...why would he be shooting at them? Some sort of trick? There was no way Jon could have survived that swarm, with only the gun that had been mounted on the wall outside. Was there? How many clips had been in that gun? And just how much of a badass was Jon Walker? Despite himself, Pete felt a wild surge of hope.

Dr. Leiber had turned his head, his eyes huge. "Holy god," he whispered, pausing in his operation. "Is that boy still alive out there?"

"Shut up," Pete hissed at him, pressing his ear to the cold metal door. None of them noticed Lucy picking up Jon's Browning 9MM pistol from the floor and slipping out the rear exit, not even the remaining survivors. Some had fallen asleep, some were crying quietly. Pete and Brendon knelt there until their legs were sore, then numb. Then, about an hour later, the door slid open.

Lucy was standing there, soaked in blood. She had one of Jon's arms slung over her slender shoulders, and was bracing him up. Jon was finally unconscious, a long, deep gash running from behind his right ear and down the side of his neck, all the way down to his chest. His hair was matted in blood and filth, and it looked like he had a serious head wound. His nose was clearly broken, and if the sickening crunch when Lucy moved forward was any indication, some ribs were too. He was covered in contusions and gashes, bleeding heavily from his chest and stomach where the zombies had tried to claw through his flesh and pull out his intestines. Both eyes had been pummeled black by rotting fists, and from the way his left leg was twisted oddly it looked like he'd at least sprained it. But he was alive.

Dr. Leiber stared in awe. "That boy..." he started weakly, "...By all rights and means, he should be very much dead right now."

Brendon had collapsed again, weeping all but hysterically, and Pete helped Lucy lay Jon down on a spare stretcher from the wall. Lucy herself was fairly fucked up, her face and arms bleeding, half of her long, pretty hair ripped from her scalp. But she smiled at Pete through bloody teeth, one of which was chipped, broken at the front of her mouth. It made her look kind of like an elf or something, Pete thought. "The hall's clear," she said. Pete closed his eyes.

"Do you have any idea how fucking stupid what you just did was?"

"Mmhm," Lucy nodded, undisturbed. "But Jon can't be the only stupid one around here. Besides, what the hell else were we supposed to do? Just let him die out there alone? If he had to die, I figured it could at least be with someone. Not you or Brendon, he wouldn't have wanted that. But heroes should never die alone, I read that in a book somewhere."

Brendon was going for a first-aid kit, undressing Jon very carefully and cleaning his wounds. While crying.

"How did you two manage to clear the hall, with two guns?"

"There were only about a hundred zombies, I think. Jon had an AK...I think that's what it's called. I read the name on it once when I was passing it in the hall. AK-57 or something."

"You mean an AK-47?"

"Sure, why not?" Lucy continued. "Anyway, it had a big clip and he'd already taken out almost half of 'em, if you can believe it. Your friend, or whatever he is, is really tough. When I went out there, he was punching one, if you can believe it. Like, killing it by punching it's head in. Didn't want to waste ammo, I guess. I don't know how to shoot or anything, but I've seen it on TV...just pull the trigger, right? So I started shooting at any of 'em who got close enough." Her voice was so childish, soft and young, and what she was saying was entirely disturbing to hear spoken like that. Pete reached out, running a hand over her ruined hair.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "But that was insane. No more of that shit, Lucy-girl."

"I make no promises, and I tell no lies," she grinned bloodily at him again, and he went to get her some water. "We can't stay here much longer though," she added once she'd finished drinking it from the paper cup. "Jon and I cleared the hall, but more are coming. Once they realize that their friends didn't kill us in here, they'll send in the fucking calvary."

"Watch your mouth," Pete admonished her, knowing she was right. "How old are you, anyway?"

"Turned thirteen three months ago."

"Jesus."

"Has nothing to do with anything anymore," Lucy said bitterly, and Pete shut up. Dr. Leiber finally stepped back from Spencer.

"I've done all I can," he announced. "The rest is in God's hands. If he makes it through the night, he'll live."

The whole time, throughout everything, Patrick had been curled up in a corner with his knees pulled up to his chest. Pete had approached him twice, and both times he'd whispered that he just needed to be alone. Understanding that he still felt guilty for not having woken up when Spencer left their room, Pete had done so. But now, he went and sat next to him as Dr. Leiber checked Lucy and Jon over.

"I don't want to talk," Patrick whispered to him, leaning against him. "Please just tell me that Spencer is going to be okay."

"Dr. Leiber says that if he lives through the night, he'll be fine." Pete put an arm around Patrick's shoulders, and felt him start to cry. Soon, they all slept, drained. Very few of them dreamt of anything.

++++

When Pete woke up the next morning, he had an insane cramp in his thigh. But the hallway was empty, from what he could hear. He glanced over at the stretcher Spencer was still lying on, and experienced an immense rush of relief when he saw that his chest was rising and falling in what seemed to be sleep. A few feet away, Brendon and Lucy had curled up against Jon on his cot, one on either side. Even battered and unconscious, Jon still seemed to provide everyone with a sense of security, and Pete had to struggle with his own sudden desire to try and join them. Next to him, Patrick stirred. They'd both just crashed on the floor, wrapped up in each other. Oddly enough, Jon was the first to speak.

"What time is it?" he whispered, startling both Pete and Patrick. "Does either of you have a working watch?" his voice was hoarse, as though he'd been screaming for too long or had been punched in the throat or something. He looked even worse now, if that was possible - one eye was completely swollen shut and his face was literally just this purplish, pulpy mess of cuts and bruises. Leaning over the edge of the cot carefully as not to disturb Lucy and Brendon, he spat out a loose chunk of tooth.

Patrick glanced down at his wrist. "My watch stopped at 12:17 PM," he said apologetically, not having realized this before. Lucy mumbled something in her sleep and clutched Jon a little tighter, and Pete nearly cried to see how Jon cringed in pain at the pressure on his broken ribs but didn't say anything or push her away. He would have made a good father, he thought. He and Patrick struggled to their feet and tiptoed around the cold infirmary, waking everyone up. Dr. Leiber informed them that the base had three vans left - enough for all fourteen of them to escape in. They agreed to split up into two groups of six and one of four, with Jon, Pete, Patrick, Lucy, Brendon and an older woman named Mary in one van. Spencer would ride in another with Dr. Leiber so that he could keep him stabilized, and so on. As soon as the plans were made, they all gathered up as many spare clothes and nonperishable food as they could from the mess hall and made their way off the base.

They got about ten minutes down the Maryland street in a line of three vans, before the zombie snipers shot out the tires of the one Spencer and Dr. Leiber were in.

"Zombie snipers? What the fuck?!" Pete swore violently, nearly swerving off the road as his head shot up to see the undead creatures lined up across the roof of the base, waving rotting hands cheerfully at them and aiming their sniper rifles. Apparently Lindy had been smuggling them weapons for a while, because they were all well-armed. "Shit!"

Jon groaned when Pete swerved the van, his already-injured head smacking against the window. "Lucy-girl. Let me see that pistol of mine that you took. I'm going to teach you how to shoot it."

Lucy handed it to him eagerly, and watched him as they sat in the backseat together and he showed her the basics of aiming and shooting. "Just point it where I tell you, and pull the trigger when I say so." Pete stopped the van as soon as Spencer and Dr. Leiber's shuddered to a halt in the middle of the street with all the tires blown out.

"Pete," Brendon said suddenly. "This is a military vehicle, right? Check the glove compartment, I bet there are binoculars or something in there. You can at least see what they're doing up there."

Brendon was right, and Pete pulled them from the compartment a moment later and focused them on one of the roofs. The zombies were lined across every one, from the base to every building on the residential streets - basically, they were fucking surrounded. And yet, the entire street was very quiet and very still. Not even the birds were cawing. The sunlight was sharp and bright. And then Pete saw. "Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me."

"What?" Brendon sat up a little, from where he'd been twisted around in the front seat watching Jon teach Lucy how to shoot. Patrick had his face pressed against the window in the back, and Pete handed Brendon the binoculars. Brendon took them, and a moment later he whispered "Oh, fuck me."

"Do I even want to ask?" Jon's voice was still raspy.

"That one that just shot out Leiber's tires? Is making himself a nice sturdy-looking Molotov up there."

"A cocktail?"

"Natch."

"Who the fuck is this dude, fuckin' zombie McGuyver?"

"Jon, we have to bail."

"Why? They'll just shoot out our tires and swarm us if we try. Besides, we can't leave Spencer behind." None of them had bothered to wake up Mary, who was sleeping on a heap of shirts behind Jon and Lucy's seat. For a long moment, there was a pause.

Pete said, "I think we're fucked, guys."

"Oh, hell no." Brendon turned his head to shoot him a glare. "The hell I am. I did not get attacked by my ex-bandmate-turned zombie, escape from Jersey alive, which is a miracle in and of itself, get my ass dragged to a fucking military base and listen to the love of my life be a goddamn idiot..." he glared at Jon too. "...To give up here on a fucking road, just because these things have us outnumbered. I am filthy and tired and thirsty and my hair must look like shit right now, but you're a goddamn fool if you think I plan to die today, Pete Wentz."

Jon smiled at him wearily. "That's my baby."

"LOOK!" Lucy screamed, pointing out the window. The zombie with the Molotov was raising his grayish arm, and then he chucked the cocktail directly at Dr. Leiber's van.

Jon, Pete, Brendon and Lucy all made wild grabs for the doors to try and do something, but Patrick cried out, "NO, you guys! Those things all have guns up there, they'll fucking kill you!"

"They're going to kill--" Pete's words were drowned out by the immense BOOM that shook the street underneath them. When the smoke cleared, all that was left of the van was a smoking mess of hot, twisted metal and blood smeared across the street. Shards of glass glinted in the bright sun like diamonds. Apparently the zombie had known just where to throw - he'd hit the gas tank of the van on the first try. The remnants of someone's arm were scattered across the pavement, it wasn't until Pete recognized the blue shirtsleeve that he realize that it was Spencer's. A sickened lurch in his stomach almost made him throw up. After all they'd been through trying to keep him alive...Spencer was gone.

This was where Jon's penchant for bravado came in. He was so scared he felt like he might cry, but instead he reached behind where Mary had woken up and was looking around with bleary terror. Smiling grimly as his fingers closed around the sleek black Glock 18 that was there, he lifted it with an injured hand. "Let's get out of the car, guys."

"Let's not." Brendon's voice surprised everyone, especially since he was pushing Pete out of the way to climb into the driver's seat. "No more suicide missions for you, baby," he added sternly, glaring over his shoulder at Jon. "As soon as we're all safe again, you and I are going to have a little talk about this apparent death wish of yours."

"Hey, I--" Jon started to say, but a split-second later a pair of mottled arms burst through the back window and grabbed Lucy. They dragged the screaming thirteen-year-old out into the street, the zombie that had nabbed her grabbing her by the face for a sickening kiss as another staggered up behind her and punched a blackish fist through her back. Lucy's shrieking finally died off as the zombie latched onto her tongue with it's teeth and pulled back, chewing greedily on the thick, wet flesh. Brendon, Mary, Jon, Pete and Patrick all watched, frozen with horror from the car as they ambled away and she lay there, bleeding and very still in the street. A moment later, she rose again.

Struggling to her feet with a gaping wound in her back and a ragged strip of flesh where her tongue should have been, Lucy smiled at all of them. Jon aimed his gun, and Pete almost whimpered when he remembered what she'd said to him in the infirmary.

Heroes should never die alone.

There was no one else in the street with her.

Jon pulled the trigger.

++++

With some insanely risky driving, Brendon managed to avoid the hail of bullets as they sped down the street a few minutes later. The other van wasn't so lucky - it's tires were shot out and it was swarmed by zombies descending from the rooftops about fifteen minutes in. Mary took a bullet to the head through the window right before they were clear of the line of undead snipers, and Jon opened the back door and kicked her body out. He perched himself there, shooting at any zombies who shot or got too close as Brendon whipped the van recklessly down the residential streets. By the time their gas gave out, they'd made it clear of them it seemed. The van however, was in bad shape - all of the windows shattered, gas on E, one of the tires reduced to ragged strips from gunfire. On top of all that, it was dark now.

They ended up crashing at another hotel - barricading all of the windows with some sheet metal that Jon found in the boiler room of the place, pushing the heavy dresser against the door so that if anything tried to break in, they'd hear it. They were down to Jon, Brendon, Patrick and Pete now - four, when they'd started out with fourteen. But it felt good to rest, Pete thought as they took turns in the shower and he crawled into bed with Patrick with his hair still damp. Brendon was turning on the television in the corner, blinking and startled when he actually got a broadcast.

"Stay in your homes ladies and gentleman, do NOT go outside. I repeat, it is NOT safe to go outside at this current time. The mutants are rapidly reproducing and should be considered both sentient and dangerous..." it was some news report, an old one that was being played on a loop apparently.

"Where is this being broadcast from?" Brendon wondered aloud. "Someone's got to be playing this tape at a station somewhere."

Patrick rolled over, already having crashed the second he'd gotten into bed. Pete put a protective hand against the curve of his hip, visible through the blanket. "Let's just go to sleep, Brendon. We can figure it out in the morning, but right now I'm crashing."

Brendon nodded, turning off the TV as Jon came out of the bathroom, toweling his damp hair dry. He was only in his sweatpants, and both Pete and Brendon nearly whimpered at the deep bruises and lacerations across his chest and stomach - it was amazing that he was able to shower himself off, at all. Technically, he probably should have still been unconscious. Brendon pulled back the covers for him, helping him into bed and fighting back the quiver of his lower lip. "My battle-scarred baby," he said quietly, leaning over to kiss a blackish bruise on Jon's shoulder very tenderly. Jon winced, but smiled.

"I know, I'm hella ugly right now."

"You're beautiful. But so help me god, if you ever pull any shit like that again, I will tear you apart, lover." Brendon kissed the tip of Jon's broken nose, as if he could heal it like that. Jon grinned, rolling over to rest his head on Brendon's skinny chest. Usually they slept the other way around, with Brendon curled up in Jon's arms. Pete reached out to turn off the light.

"Where are we going to go tomorrow, Pete? How much longer can we run like this?" Brendon whispered to him in the dark. The entire room was throbbing with an ache for Spencer. None of them had talked about it yet.

"I don't know, Brendon. I'll think of something."

Their sleep was fitful, and interrupted in the middle of the night by the phone ringing. Snapping awake, Pete was the first to grab it. "...Hello?"

"Giiiiiiiive usssssss...."

Pete closed his eyes. "Jesus. Please tell me the zombies aren't calling us. I'm not having phone sex with this one, I don't fucking care." He could hear some shuffling around on the other end as Brendon and Patrick woke up. When another voice came, it sounded like it belonged to one with less-decayed vocal cords.

"Give us Jonathan Walker."

"Sure. Want some wine to go with him? I hear he goes great with Merlot," Pete said, fighting back the surge of incredible fear rising in his chest.

"Give us Jonathan Walker, and you all live."

"What's it saying, Pete?" Brendon hissed at him, and he shushed him. But it was too late, the phone clicked dead. Pete glanced over at Jon, still sleeping and probably in incredible pain. He hung up the phone, and Brendon gave him an expectant look.

"Didn't say anything. Just some moaning and mumbling and shit. Probably just trying to scare us," Pete said, not sure why he was lying. Brendon relaxed, snuggling back down under the covers with Jon. Pete however, got no sleep for the rest of the night.

To be continued!

random Jon/Zacky ficlet, because they're totally breaking my heart over here.

2006-12-20T05:59:50Z

Title: Focus
Fandom: P!atD + A7X slash
Pairing: Jon/Zacky
Rating: R, for sexual references, swearing and angst.
Summary: it's not about whether or not you can, it about whether or not you will.
Notes: For ogodthe. Even if we never get to play them off each other again lady, it's been amazing. Those two were just breakin' my heart, so I had to give them an at least mildly happy ending here.

"Can't do this anymore," Zacky's voice is stilted and flat, his words jerking themselves out of his throat like someone dropping a handful of little rocks. "You're fucking histrionic, Jon. You're self-absorbed as hell - there's always some drama with you. Everything always has to be about you and your shit. Even when you're apologizing for something, it's always about poor Jon, the fucking victim."

Jon is sitting on the couch across the room from where he is standing, his knees drawn up to his chest, watching him silently. Finally, "I'm sorry you feel that way, lover. I love you, I never wanted it to get this bad between us."

"Maybe you should have fucking tried, then," Zacky snaps in a hot, sharp jolt of anger. Jon makes him so angry. There's someone in there that he loves, he thinks. Maybe. But that person has been drowned in self-pity and clinginess. Jon has become someone who strikes him as pathetic, and the door doesn't slam on his way out. There's just the hiss of air escaping an enclosed space as it shuts, and Jon closes his eyes and smiles.

He sleeps in the bathtub that night, his broad fist clutching a warm bottle of Jack that doesn't have a drop missing.

+++

Jon is an alcoholic. That's what the people at his AA meetings tell him, they tell him that he has no control over his illness and that he needs to give himself over to a 'higher power' and accept his lack of responsibility for himself. Jon doesn't believe in a higher power though - he's always been a fairly devout atheist, and so this strikes him as bullshit. He said so at one of his meetings, he said that people should always be expected to take responsibility for themselves, and felt like a hypocrite even though he glared around them room when he was shushed.

He's been sober for almost three months, though. That's good, he thinks.

He doesn't see Zacky for three full days after their fight, or hear from him. This makes him cry a lot, especially at night when he sleeps in his bathtub because his sheets still smell like Zacky and he can't bring himself to wash them. He always felt guilty for crying in front of Zacky - he felt guilty for guilt-tripping him. It's almost funny, and probably would have been more so if he could just stop fucking crying into the pillow that doesn't quite cushion his head from the tap jutting out from the wall of his bath.

Zacky hits things. He slams into his apartment that night, which is almost empty because more than half his shit is moved into Jon's place because he'd been supposed to move in there soon. Instead, he spends the night smacking around every door that dares to swing without his touch, slamming windows open and shut and not getting any sleep at all on the flat, bare mattress that's all that's left of his bed. The frame is in Jon's living room.

+++

A week. Ryan comes over to Jon's place to try and comfort him by sitting next to him on the couch and letting his slender hand slide into Jon's lap, spidery fingers tracing his cock through the rough denim of his jeans. He whispers into Jon's ear that it's all right, that he loves him even though he's so very flawed because he himself is too, and that it's just a fuck and it will make him feel better. And Jon believes him, right up until Ryan licks around the shell of his ear with a wet, sharp tongue and there's no lip rings in his pouty lower lip.

He pushes Ryan away, babbles something. Ryan smiles and reaches for him again, cocksure that he can make Jon all better, pressing his sweet young face against Jon's thick left thigh and turning it up to face him. "I'll swallow," he offers sweetly, licking his lips, and Jon starts to cry again.

"It's all my fault," he tells Ryan, and Ryan sighs heavily and holds him, gives up.

+++

Zacky tries, too. He tries to fuck four different groupies and two different dudes on separate occasions and one of them tells him that he knew it wasn't going to go down anyway because he could tell just by looking at him at the club that he was taken. "Whether you know it or not," the cute, obviously-queer kid says to him, laughing a little. "I'll bet you two are having a fight, aren't you? But you're in love, honey. You're taken."

Zacky has his pants off at that point, and he gestures to his sort-of erection, incredulous. "Yeah," the prettyboy tells him. "That belongs to someone else, I knew it right away. I was stupid for trying, you're just so hot." And then he touches Zacky's cheek and says "Call him or something, honey. You're dying, I can taste it in your mouth." And then he's gone.

+++

It's well past midnight when Zacky uses the key that Jon gave him a long time ago, slipping it into the keyhole as quietly as he can manage and tiptoes into Jon's apartment. The bed frame is still there, all of Zacky's shit packed back up into boxes with his name on them. It breaks his heart a little. Jon still packed up his shit. Histrionic and self-absorbed and wildly mood-swingy - he fucking packed up his shit for him.

Godfuckingdamnit. Fag McAss had known his shit, the other night.

But this time it's over for good, they've fought countless times before and 'broke up' on an even more regular basis than that. Their relationship had deteriorated into maybe three or four happy days of togetherness, followed by entire weeks of constant fighting and drama. He couldn't take it anymore, it was draining them both. Turning them into assholes. They were bad for each other. Hundreds of reasons for Zacky to turn the hell around and walk out of here.

It's really not necessary to list them all in his head though, when he pushes open the door to Jon's bedroom and finds him asleep in his bed (finally), snoring softly and moaning a little in his sleep. He's shirtless, in his fucking boxers with the ducks on them. He still smells like coffee, Zacky can pick it up on the air from here. He doesn't even realize he's standing over the bed until he is.

Jon sighs a little when he sits next to him and touches his face. He goes very still when he leans over and presses a kiss to his forehead, as if he recognizes the feel of those lip rings against his skin. Zacky pulls up the comforter, because Jon has goosebumps and he really should start sleeping in pajamas. And he's broken, this kid, his own bullshit and life and odds have cracked him right down the middle and really he's not doing shit to fix things but maybe he is or maybe he can't, maybe he needs help. Looking down at him, Zacky feels kind of stupid. Of course Jon needs help. Jon needs him. He needs Zacky more than Zacky needs him, and he really believes this until Jon sniffles a little in his sleep and rolls over, pressing instinctively against the warmth of his hip. He even kind of believes it then, but then Jon whimpers softly, moans something very quietly. And his hand gropes at the sheets next to Zacky, because even in his sleep he knows the difference between him and some random intruder in his bedroom.

Maybe the need is mutual, kind of.

What the fuck else would he be doing here?

Jon opens his eyes a little when Zacky gets up and heads for the dresser by the window. "Bottom drawer," he mumbles, his voice sleepy and needy. Zacky closes his eyes, because even though Jon had packed up his shit he'd kept some of his clothes.

So the need is pretty much definitely mutual, then.

It kind of sucks to need someone like Jon - an addict, a drama whore. But in the end not really, because Zacky's sure as hell flawed too, because he wasn't strong or smart enough to realize how bad he had it until the very moment Jon sniffled sleepily at him. And yeah, nail on head, Fag McAss: Zacky Baker is taken.

"Love you, baby." Jon's voice is so quiet that Zacky almost doesn't hear it when he slides into bed next to him, pulling him against his chest. But then he does, and he kisses Jon's forehead again.

"Need you," he says.

In the morning, they talk.

END

the 'Living is Just a Waste of Death' soundtrack!

2006-12-18T21:36:58Z

Okay, I've been getting so into the current fic that I'm writing, the Living is Just a Waste of Death series (the first two parts of which can be found here and here), that I compiled a soundtrack for it. I uploaded it to sendspace for you guys in a .zip file for downloading purposes, and the tracklisting is under the cut below. I definitely suggest listening to it while you're reading the fic if you'd like, all of the music was chosen very deliberately. Enjoy!

DOWNLOAD THE 'LIVING IS JUST A WASTE OF DEATH' SOUNDTRACK HERE.

General Themes:

Rob Zombie // "Call of the Zombie"
Rob Zombie // "Meet the Creeper"
The Horrorpops // "Walk Like a Zombie"
Fall Out Boy // "Sugar, We're Goin' Down Swinging"
Marilyn Manson // "Use Your Fist and Not Your Mouth"
POD // "Alive"
AFI // "God Called in Sick Today"
System of a Down // "Revenga"
Birdbrain // "Youth of America"

Jon's Themes:

Drowning Pool // "Step Up"
Marilyn Manson // "The Fight Song"
Repeat Offenders // "Amphetamine"
Hole // "Violet"

Pete's Themes:

Bif Naked // "Leader"
Silverchair // "The World Upon Your Shoulders"
Eve 6 // "Here's to the Night"

Brendon's Themes:

Jack Off Jill // "Fear of Dying"
Linkin Park // "In the End"
Enigma // "The Gravity of Love"

Spencer's Themes:

Dir En Grey // "ZAN"
Evanescence // "Going Under"
My Chemical Romance // "The Ghost of You"

Living is Just a Waste of Death, part II

2006-12-18T18:54:01Z

Title: Living is Just a Waste of Death, part II (part I can be found HERE)
Fandom: FOB + P!atD RPS
Pairing/s: Brendon/Jon, Brendon/Jon/Pete
Rating: NC-17 for swearing, violence, gore, disturbing imagery and m/m/m sex.
Disclaimer: This is a work of complete friction. I mean fiction.
Summary: Like the zombies whose bodies have only recently died, security is an illusion in this new nightmare world. Just when the boys think they're safe, things aren't as they seem. Sanity is deteriorating, and there are less and less places to run.
Notes: For my patd_100 Jon Walker claim, prompt #089 - found. If you're looking for my table, it's in my memories.

When Pete woke up that morning, Brendon was curled around him like a giant cat. On his left side, Jon had one arm thrown over his waist and was snoring softly - there were fucking zombies staggering around outside and he was in this house that they'd barricaded so carefully wrapped up in these two boys and feeling warmer and safer than he ever had. Even before the zombies. He could hear one of them dragging decaying nails across the boards they's nailed over the window by the bed though, and so he carefully slid out of bed and tiptoed toward the bathroom for his shower. He left Brendon and Jon sleeping as peacefully as he could have expected them to, and Jon reached out instinctively for Brendon in his sleep once Pete's body was out of the way, which broke his heart a little.

When he went downstairs, Spencer was licking guns.

"Spence?" he said slowly, upon reaching the foot of the stairs and finding the former drummer boy slowly dragging his tongue along the cold, ridged edge of one of the Glocks' barrels. He had his eyes closed, and was humming softly to himself. He seemed to enjoy it. "What are you doing, kiddo?"

Spencer opened his eyes, and smiled. "Trying to figure out which one of these will be the one to kill me," he said calmly. "I can tell if I taste it. None yet, though."

"You know," Pete started helplessly, as a means of bringing some kind of sanity to the situation. "It's far more likely that one of the things out there will be what kills you, as opposed to one of those guns."

Spencer gave him a dark look. "Not if I can help it."

Pete shut up.

When he went into the kitchen, he found his sneakers crunching in the dry cereal that had been scattered all over the floor, as if the family who had lived here had been making breakfast when the zombies had come for them. There were even spoons on the table that he couldn't bring himself to move, and he ate two slices of dry toast over the sink. Spencer was losing his mind, clearly. Jon seemed to be doing okay, though he was rapidly beginning to display a violent, almost sadistic streak when it came to the zombies - a certain lack of regard for the fact that once upon a time, these things had been human. Pete had caught him cornering one in the backyard the day before, on their second day in the house, pinning it to the side of the house by shooting it everywhere but the head. He'd blown off it's arms with the one M-16 he'd managed to fit into the trunk, and Pete had watched him smile a smile so cold it had chilled him as the zombie had shrieked in agony. "Bet you wish you'd stayed dead now, huh motherfucker?" he remembered Jon saying softly to the dead thing, before ramming the barrel of his gun right down its throat and squeezing the trigger.

There was a brutality in Jon, a cruelty that no one had ever seen before in good old mellow Jwalk. Pete was still trying to decide if it was going to be an advantage, or something that would get out of hand eventually. And Brendon - Brendon was adjusting remarkably well, actually. He wasn't falling apart like Spencer or gaining a vicious streak like Jon. He was shaky and terrified like any sane person would have been, but he was holding it together. He'd protect them, all of them, Pete had decided. Even though there was no label anymore, no bands, no fame or money or music or anything...they were still his proteges, still his friends and students. He had to take care of them.

"Pete?" It was Brendon. He was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, watching him wash his hands. He wore the same boxers he'd gone to sleep with he and Jon in last night, and suddenly he looked very young, standing there. He had one hand on the frame of the doorway and still looked tired. "Why is Spencer licking the guns in the living room?"

It was the one thing he couldn't save Spencer from - himself. The horrors inside his own mind, in his nightmares. He lowered his head a little. "I don't know, Brendon."

Brendon stepped forward, approached him until a slender hand was resting against his upper arm. "It's not your fault, Pete. Spencer can't help crumbling, and you can't do anything to stop it. People aren't meant to mentally withstand something like this. It's a fucking miracle that you, Jon and I are all...well, 'fine' doesn't seem to be the word. But you know what I mean."

"Three days since these things first showed up," Pete said quietly. "Where's the fucking army? Where's the president? Why hasn't anyone quarantined the U.S. or anything yet?"

"I don't know, Pete."

"We can't stay here for much longer, it's already been three days."

"I know. They know we're here, I keep waking up in the middle of the night to hear them clawing at the boards over the windows. Plus, our food is running out."

"But they're multiplying out there, killing more people so that...whatever is reanimating them can have another body. We're probably facing a lot more now than we were three days ago."

"I know."

"Where's Jon?"

"He's in the shower." Brendon's hair was already damp, it was obvious that he'd already taken his.

"Want something to eat?"

"I'm not hungry."

"You should eat. I think we should leave today."

With a shrug, Brendon sat down at the kitchen table and tried to work his way around an apple. Being surrounded by so much rotting meat, even though it was human, had made him more of a vegetarian than ever. Jon came downstairs a few minutes later and entered the kitchen, his eyes wide. Pete held up a hand. "Please don't ask about Spencer. We don't know. He's just losing it."

Jon nodded, understanding. When he sat down at the table next to Brendon, Brendon took his hand and held it while he ate. It seemed a natural thing for them, and none of them mentioned anything about the kissing they'd all indulged in last night. Finally, Jon spoke. "We can't stay here any longer."

"I know," Pete said simply. "We need to pack up our shit and get the hell out of dodge. They're already clawing at the windows, who knows what's next? The only thing is, I still haven't been able to reach Patrick. I keep getting that fucking message on his voicemail, and I've been leaving him like fifty messages a day. But Jersey's a huge state, and I wouldn't even know where to start looking for him..."

"Fuck it," Jon's voice was harsh. "We need to get the hell out of Jersey, Pete. We've been sitting ducks, just waiting around here for Patrick to find us somehow. This was a pipe dream, and we've all indulged you long enough. Patrick is dead. If he's lucky. If he's not? Then he's one of those things out there, and you bet your ass I'll blow his fucking head off just as soon as I would yours if you were."

Brendon's eyes went huge. "Jon..." he whispered, his voice shocked and horrified, and Pete was hauling Jon up by the collar of his shirt before he even knew what he was doing. He shook him violently, tears dripping down his face hot and wet without him even realizing what they were.

"Fuck you, Jon! Fuck YOU! What if it was your Brendon out there all alone, huh? Wouldn't you wait forever for him?"

Jon, despite the bloody nose that had started to spurt from Pete's shaking, started to laugh. "But it's not Brendon out there," he pointed out. "This world has become one of cold truths and harsh realities Pete, and it's the ones who are willing to do what they have to and ignore the feelings they don't want to, who will survive. You can stay here as long as you fucking want and wait for Patrick to come staggering up that street to chew on your flesh, but I'm taking Brendon and we're getting the hell out of here."

Pete ignored the fact that leaving had been his suggestion in the first place, and glared Jon down. "Just you wait," he hissed bitterly. "Eventually, Karma's going to bite you in the ass, Walker. You'd better hope I'm around to save Brendon for you when you can't." He let go of Jon's shirt and Brendon rushed to the sink to grab a dishcloth to mop up his bloody nose. Jon grabbed the cloth from him and walked out of the kitchen however, away from them both. Brendon dropped his arms in defeat, giving Pete an apologetic look.

"He didn't mean it, Pete. It's the stress."

"Don't apologize for him," Pete snapped. "I don't want to hear it. If he wants to apologize for being an asshole, then maybe I'll listen then."

And with that, he stomped upstairs to go pack his things.

++++

They were on the road by mid-afternoon. Brendon drove while Spencer frustratedly gave up on licking guns in the back, and slept again. They were all getting worried about how much he'd been sleeping - it was like he was spending all his time either babbling nonsensically and licking shit, or sleeping. But it kept him quiet and out of the way, and the harsh reality was that it was easier on them this way. Jon looked over the map, and Pete glared at him from where he was sitting next to Spencer's limp body in the backseat. Jon couldn't see of course, as he was sitting up front, but Pete liked to think that he felt it or something. And then he realized how childish that was. But didn't care much.

They drove around Jersey all day, only pausing to fill up the gas tank once and for lunch. The state seemed empty for the most part, save for the few zombies they caught straggling in the streets. Jon made sure to lean out the open window and pick off each and every one of them - Pete had to begrudgingly admit that they were lucky to have him. He was the only one of them who knew anything about firing a gun, and it seemed that he had a real natural skill for it. He never took any more than two shots to take each zombie down, provided they were close enough. He preferred the 9MM Browning pistol that he'd first picked up, and kept it under the passenger's seat in the car now. When dusk finally fell, Brendon turned to Pete with real sorrow in his big, liquid-dark eyes. "Pete, love. I don't think we're going to find Patrick."

"No shit," Jon muttered, and Brendon shushed him.

Pete slumped in his seat. "I know," he said weakly, defeated, feeling like he wanted to cry. But goddamnit, zombies taking over the world hadn't broken him. This sure as hell wasn't going to. "I guess we should decide whether we want to head north for New York or south for Maryland now."

"I say Maryland," Jon said. "New York is too big a city, way too many bodies for those things to reanimate. Plus, they're multiplying every day. The place is probably fucking crawling with them by now, at least in Maryland we'll have a shot."

Pete wanted to argue with him, but goddamn if he wasn't right.

It was then that Patrick came hurtling out of nowhere and collapsed sobbing across the hood of their car.

Brendon slammed on the brakes with a yelp, and Jon immediately reached under his seat for his gun. Pete was already out of the car, the rush in his stomach at seeing Patrick again like that first swallow of icy water after crawling through a sweltering desert. "Patrick?" he whispered, wondering if this was all a daydream. Behind him, Jon was pushing him out of the way and aiming his pistol directly at Patrick's head.

"Hey, Patrick," he said calmly, and Pete reached for his arm.

"Don't point a fucking gun at him!"

Without hesitating, Jon turned the gun on Pete, resting the cold barrel gently against his forehead. "Take two steps back, Pete," he said quietly, looking directly into Pete's eyes. "Take two steps back and do not touch me again. I love you, man. Please don't make me kill you."

Brendon had frozen, was staring at the two of them in horror, and Spencer was still sleeping in the car. Pete didn't move. "You wouldn't," he challenged softly, and Jon cocked the gun. Pete could hear the bullet loading into place as clearly as if Jon had fired it.

"Please don't test that theory, Pete."

Pete took two steps back, and Jon turned the gun back to a stunned-looking Patrick. "Hello, Patrick," he continued as if nothing had happened. "I hope you don't take offense to my doing this, though to be honest I could care less even if you do. You can understand my problem here - I'm sure you've figured out by now that those things that have been hunting us for the past several days are just as capable of speech as you and I are. Until their vocal cords start to rot at least, I'd assume. Therefore, it's very difficult to gauge who is human and who just died very recently."

"Jon," Patrick said in a hushed, terrified whisper, because Jon's gun was still loaded and cocked and pointed right at his head. "Jon, it's me."

"Ah, but see...I can't trust that, Patrick. And me? I only have two goals in life left now: to stay alive, and to protect Brendon. The first one is mainly for the sake of the second one, since it would be hard to protect him if I'm dead. But my point is, I can't afford to go trusting people left and right just because they're wearing my friends' faces."

"The first domino is falling! The tower is next!" Spencer called cheerfully from the car, rolling down the window to shout it at them.

To their left, a badly-rotting zombie lurched it's way toward them from out of a gas station store, skin falling off in damp, fleshy chunks with every step. A thick, glistening intestinal rope dragged behind it from the gaping wound in it's lower stomach, getting caked with dirt. Without hesitating or even flinching, Jon moved his arm so quickly they barely saw it and nailed the thing, blowing the top of it's head off. It slumped to the ground with thick, wet brain matter pulsing wetly for a few more weak spurts of blood that oozed over the broken edges of the skull, and then it didn't move anymore. Jon cocked his gun again and returned his aim to Patrick.

"Theoretically, I could just blow your brains out just to be safe," he said thoughtfully. "But if you really are Patrick, I guess that would be pretty monstrous of me, huh?"

Pete stepped forward again. "This has gone on far enough, Jon. Give me that fucking gun. It's easy enough to tell if Patrick is still alive - we check for a heartbeat. You said these things must live inside the brain, right?"

"But say we get close enough to check, and he rips our throats out. Who's going to protect Brendon and Spencer then?" Jon argued, and Pete paused.

"I'll do it," he finally said, looking into Patrick's wide eyes. "I have to trust that it's really you, 'Trick. If it's not...well, I'd rather die than watch Jon kill you, anyway."

He didn't waste any time, and walked the rest of the way until he was all but in Patrick's arms. Jon kept his gun trained on both of them, and Brendon was maybe crying a little behind him, he couldn't tell. Patrick let Pete pull up his t-shirt, and he pressed his ear to a bare, warm chest that he remembered so well. There was a clear heartbeat, pumping with such loud fear that there was no denying it.

"Verdict?" Jon called out.

"He's alive," Pete whispered, tears dripping down his face now, as he threw his arms around a still-stunned, weak Patrick. "Oh god, he's alive. I was so scared Patrick, you don't even know...I don't know what I would have done if I'd lost you."

Jon uncocked the gun while Pete and Patrick reunited, and Brendon reached out to touch his arm. "Would you really have...would you really have shot Pete?" he asked him quietly.

"Bet your ass," Jon responded in a blunt, flat voice. "I can't have anyone getting in my way, lover. The only thing that matters now is survival."

"What about me? What if you had to kill me?"

Jon gave Brendon a tender look that suddenly looked out of place on him, reaching out to stroke his cheek. "I could never do that, baby. You know that. I'd turn this gun on myself first. I love you."

"I love you too, Jon."

"I'm sorry if I scared you."

"It's all right."

"Come on, kids," Jon raised his voice suddenly, addressing Pete and Patrick. "We're heading for Maryland, and I want to get on the road before it gets dark. Those things are more active at night."

"What's in Maryland?" Patrick asked, still being squeezed in Pete's arms.

"Hopefully less of whatever's in New York."

As they piled into the car, having to squeeze in even more tightly to make room for Patrick, he reached out and touched Jon's arm. "I understand," he said quietly. "I don't blame you. I'd do the same thing if I were you and Brendon was Pete."

Jon glanced over at him, smiling faintly. "Thanks, Patrick. I'm sorry I had to do it, though." There was a moment of mutual understanding between them, and then Pete started the car. They were on their way to Maryland, and they reached it well after midnight.

++++

"Holy shit," Jon said softly, about ten minutes after driving past the 'WELCOME TO MARYLAND' sign. He'd turned on the radio out of sheer curiosity, some wild hope, and...there were voices. Human voices. Reaching over the gear shift, he gently shook Pete awake. "Pete, wake up. Listen to this."

Pete stirred, opening his eyes tiredly. "The hell? What's going on?"

"Listen." Jon turned up the radio.

"If anyone out there can hear this, COME TO MARYLAND! We have a bunker here, an old abandoned military base that we found way out of the city, just outside of Salisbury. We have a few weapons, some food, and plenty of clothes and places for you sleep. It's not a safe zone, but it's the best we have..." fuzz interrupted the broadcast, and the woman's voice faded away. Pete's eyes widened as he looked at Jon, and together they nodded.

"I guess we're going to Salisbury, then."

They made it just after lunchtime, the car almost on E as they shuddered their way into the lot of the military base. They were greeted by a group of about fifteen smiling faces, eager to welcome them into their 'family'. Jon watched them warily and didn't really return any hugs, but the rest of them were deeply grateful. They ate an early dinner with the woman from the radio broadcast, whose name turned out to be Lindy. She was a short, round, middle-aged woman with curly brown hair and old-fashioned glasses, the kind of woman who was hard to dislike. The base was enormous, all cement and steel and barb wire, and according to Lindy the zombies didn't know they were in there yet. Once they were finished eating, she took them to Dr. Leiber, who they'd been lucky enough to rescue on one of their search outings for survivors. He took care of all the medical issues there.

"Where did you boys come from?" he asked in a slow Virginia drawl as he checked them over. "I don't hear an accent on'ya. 'Cept for you," he gestured to Jon. "You sound like a city boy."

"Spencer and I are from Las Vegas, and Jon, Pete and Patrick are from Chicago," Brendon explained. "But we were all in Pennsylvania when the zombies started attacking."

The doctor whistled, a low, impressed sound. "Shee-yit. Y'all traveled across two states on foot and in a car with those things on every side? I'm going to suggest that we put a gun in your hands, y'all got to be some badass kids."

"No, just Jon," Pete finally spoke up, gesturing to him. "The rest of us have all fallen apart at one point or another, but Jon's really been holding it together. He's harsh, but he's a lifesaver."

It was a kind of peace offering, a subtle means of saying 'okay, I get it now', and Jon smiled faintly at Pete. His eyes spoke his apology, and Pete nodded simply. The doctor spoke a moment later. "Well either way, you kids are tough as nails to have made it this far. I bet you're all tired as hell, let's get you to your rooms."

There were enough bedrooms for all of them to have one of their own, but Brendon and Jon sheepishly explained to Lindy that they didn't mind sharing a bed, until she finally got it and blushed profusely. No one wanted to leave Spencer alone either, so they all pushed one of the heavy military beds into Pete and Patrick's room so that someone could keep an eye on him. He'd been very quiet ever since they'd arrived at the base. Later that night, after they'd all showered and undressed, Pete slipped into Brendon and Jon's room. Patrick and Spencer were already fast asleep.

Brendon and Jon weren't, they were sitting up in bed talking. Brendon had his arms around Jon, was cradling his head tenderly against his bare chest, and when Pete pushed the door open he was literally floored to see that Jon was crying. Choked whimpers and wet sniffles and tears wetting Brendon's skin, and Pete suddenly realized that over the past several days he'd come to regard Jon as superhuman or something. Incapable of crying. He hadn't been fair to him, really. Brendon looked up when he entered, then put one finger against his lips and shook his head, glancing down at Jon. So Pete slid into bed with them and spooned against Jon, wrapping both arms around his waist. Jon didn't seem surprised, and continued to cry quietly against Brendon, all but clinging to him.

Together, Pete and Brendon held him, comforted him, for a long time. "Our brave warrior," Brendon said lovingly at one point, stroking Jon's fine brown hair. "We'd be lost without you, love." Pete was suddenly and acutely aware of the fact that Jon was only twenty-one years old - he was just a kid. All of a sudden, he kind of wanted to cry for all Jon had been forced to become.

So he kissed the rounded curve of Jon's shoulder instead, letting his fingers stroke down the soft, warm flesh of his slightly-round belly. He looked to Brendon for permission first, and when he nodded silently he let his fingers slip lower and gently touched Jon's cock. Jon sighed through his nose, opened his damp eyes and looked at Brendon, startled. Brendon smiled adoringly at him, but it was tinged with this immense sadness as he leaned in and took Jon's face into both hands for a long, sweet kiss. "Let him, baby," he said quietly, once they pulled apart. "Let us."

Jon relaxed in their arms, his entire body slumping like it hadn't since the zombies had come. He'd even been sleeping with a tension in him, an alertness. Pete let his fingers comb through the sparse hair on Jon's chest, a little fascinated with it, his sharp teeth nibbling lightly at his warm neck as he slipped his hand lower again and this time took hold of Jon's rising erection. Brendon slid him a small bottle of hand lotion that he'd taken from the house in New Jersey, out of some desperate hope against hope most likely. Then he went back to kissing Jon, their tongues sliding against each other and their mouths open and wet, panting. It was a fucking sexy thing to watch - these two young, hungry boys in love, aching and sad and still wanting. Pete slicked Jon's cock up with the lotion and went to work.

He watched them kiss, watched them wrap their arms around each other while he spooned against Jon's ass and jerked his stiff cock, feeling the precome leaking out over his fingers steadily with each thick pulse of blood. His cock felt hot and alive in his hand, and he liked it more than he would have thought. Jon arched his back and hissed through gritted teeth when he dragged his nails up the vein on the underside, a low moan spilling from his throat. Brendon watched, pulling away from their kiss to nod approvingly. "He likes that," he said to Pete with a smile. "You should see what happens when I do it with my teeth."

Pete shivered at the mental image, entirely turned on. Jon went back to sucking on Brendon's thick lips again, and every time they moved their heads he caught flashes of their wet, pink tongues moving in and out of each other's open mouths. Suddenly Jon tensed up all over, his cock swelling in Pete's hand. His breath hitched in his throat, and then a string of profuse swearing spilled from his lips as his cock spurted helplessly against Pete's palm. It dripped from his fingers, and he lifted his hand to take a taste. His eyes sank closed when he did - he hadn't expected it, but everything about Jon was fucking exquisite. Brendon smiled knowingly at him, before kissing the tip of Jon's nose. "Still mine," he said, with a slight pout. Jon smiled back, and the love between them was so intense that Pete could feel it rising off their skin like heat from a radiator.

"All yours, lover," Jon agreed. He reached between Brendon's thighs, but Brendon gently pushed his hand away.

"Not tonight, baby. Tonight was about you." Jon blinked at him, and then pouted. But Pete agreed despite his erection - it would go away in a little bit, and he kind of felt like just snuggling to sleep with these two beautiful boys. There were monsters outside, and hell on earth. But somehow, in here things could still be this beautiful. It was reassuring, that something like Jon and Brendon's relationship could still exist among all the horror they'd seen. They curled up together, damp and happy and safe.

In the bathroom down the hall, Spencer was laughing quietly to himself as he braced the barrel of the gun against his temple and cocked it.

He'd been tasting them for days, but he'd finally found it.

To be continued!

Living is Just a Waste of Death, part I

2006-12-17T19:25:41Z

Title: Living is Just a Waste of Death, part I
Fandom: FOB + P!atD RPS
Pairing/s: Brendon/Jon, Brendon/Jon/Pete
Rating: Hard R, for swearing, violence, gore, disturbing imagery and slash.
Disclaimer: This is a work of complete friction. I mean fiction.
Summary: Seriously, you guys. This is some crazy shit. Zombies. I'm not even kidding. No, really. Also, badass!Jon and Pete, numb!Spencer and Brendon, and, um. ZOMBIES. Oh, and hints of a threesome on the horizon.
Notes: For my patd_100 Jon Walker claim, prompt #22 - death.

It was the middle of the night when Andy came knocking on Pete's hotel-room door. Pete awoke to the sound of his oddly-hoarse bandmate's voice calling out his name, over the sound of a fist demanding entrance. "Pete. Peeeeeete."

"...Andy?" Pete blinked, sitting up halfway and blinking at the clock beside his bed, which informed him that it was about half past midnight. "The hell?" Slowly, he rose to his feet and stumbled to the door, the strangest tension building in his chest. When he opened the door, he was reminded of why he always trusted those 'this isn't good' feelings of his.

Andy was indeed standing there, only it wasn't...Andy. Not in any form Pete knew him, at least. His skin was a sickly pallor, his eyes rolled back in his head and blood congealing thickly around the jagged shard of glass protruding from the open wound in his chest. Pus oozed out around the edges, and one of his arms was bent at the wrong angle, dangling unnaturally at his side. When he smiled, two of his teeth were missing and his gums were stained wet and red. "Hi, Pete," he rasped, and Pete blinked at him. Somewhere behind him, the air conditioner in the hotel room clicked on.

"Andy...you're a zombie."

"Took Dirty a lot longer to figure it out, but you were always the smart one in the group," Andy said with a decaying grin, taking a step forward. Pete stepped back.

"Um. This is going to be a pretty funny nightmare to tell you about when I wake up, man."

"I'll bet." It was then that Andy lunged at him, and Pete stumbled backward. Groping blindly for the first blunt object he could grab as Andy landed on top of him, his fingers wrapped themselves around the telephone that had fallen off the nightstand in the struggle. With a high-pitched cry, he raised his arm and smashed it into Andy's skull, over and over again until his jaw stopped snapping and his eyes stopped rolling around wildly in his head. The thing that had been Andy collapsed on top of him, blackish blood oozing from the gaping wound Pete had created, brain tissue leaking out from the softened bone that had been cracked by the impact of the hard plastic phone receiver. It slowly soaked into the rug as Pete pushed Andy's corpse (his second corpse) off of him with a disgusted grunt and dialed Patrick on a blood-soaked telephone, his fingers shaking and his head buzzing.

++++

Brendon picked up the phone next to he and Jon's bed in the same hotel that Pete was in roughly fifteen minutes later, rolling over and answering it with a sleepy grunt. "Whozzis?"

"Brendon!" Pete's voice was panicked, no pun intended, and Brendon woke up immediately because Pete almost never sounded that terrified. About anything. "Brendon, Andy was a zombie and I can't reach Patrick or Joe or fucking anybody and you're the first person I got through to and I'm really getting fucking scared and room service won't pick up and I locked all the doors and windows and shit, and I fucking bashed ZOMBIE-ANDY'S HEAD IN WITH A FUCKING PHONE..."

Brendon blinked. "Um?"

Next to him, Jon stirred in his sleep. "What's going on, baby?" he mumbled, opening one eye, and Brendon patted his stomach soothingly.

"Nothing, love. Pete's just going crazy, go back to sleep."

"'Kay," Jon closed his eyes again.

"BRENDON! I am being fucking serious here!" Pete sounded near tears. "I just killed my band's drummer! And I think he was already dead!"

"Pete," Brendon tried, "Listen to yourself. You probably just had a bad dream, just get back into bed and try to get some sleep. Think about it rationally - you probably can't reach Patrick or Joe because they're asleep. And I'm sure Andy is fine, turn on the lights in your room. I bet you just beat the hell out of a chair or something with that phone of yours."

"Don't fucking patronize me, Brendon." Pete's voice turned dark. "I know what I saw, and I know what I did. You guys are in danger."

"No one is in any..." Brendon paused, because there was a sudden scratching at the door. "Hold on, Pete."

"Someone's scritch, scritch scritching at the door, aren't they?" Pete demanded. "That's what Andy did."

"Hold on, Pete." Brendon rose to get the door, and Jon continued sleeping beside him.

"Don't get it, Brendon!" Pete shouted, but there was no answer, and it was in that moment that Pete knew what he had to do. Ripping the phone out of the wall (because hell, it had proven to be an affective weapon the first time), he made his way to the door of his hotel room and cautiously kicked it open. Sticking his head out into the empty hall, he looked around. "Hey. Any...any zombies out here?"

++++

"Hello?" Brendon said bemusedly, opening the door to he and Jon's room as he pulled his bathrobe around him. The woman standing there was in her mid-thirties and looked normal enough, save for the yellowish tint to the whites of her eyes and the grayish pallor of her skin. She swayed slightly, standing there and smiling at him with loose-looking teeth.

"Room service," she said in a thick voice, and Brendon stared.

"Excuse me? It's almost one in the morning..."

"Back up off him, you CUNT!" Pete exploded from behind her as though he'd been hiding under the rug or something, bashing her over the head with a telephone that looked as though it had been torn out of the wall, until she crumpled to his feet with a massive bleeding dent in her skull. Brendon looked the whole scene up and down, his eyes wide, and Pete tried to explain. "They seem to be able to talk and attack and everything, but they're not too smart. They pretty much just stand there and let you hit them."

Brendon turned and walked back into the room. "I'm going to make some tea. Would anyone like some tea?"

Pete closed the door behind them as he entered the room. Jon was sitting cross-legged on the bed in his boxers, apparently having watched the whole thing from there. "I want some tea," he said simply, and Pete fought the strangest urge to laugh madly.

"Let's all have some fucking tea!" he said, grabbing the first t-shirt he found lying over a chair and wiping off the bloody phone with it. Brendon hummed quietly to himself as he stuck three cups of warm water into the little microwave and grabbed three teabags from the minibar. Jon picked at his fingernails. The room was quiet for a few minutes. Finally, Pete spoke again. "Hey, guys. There are zombies outside, probably."

"Probably," Jon agreed. "I want to call Spencer and Ryan."

"I don't." Brendon's voice was suddenly clipped, and he didn't seem to care that he'd just slopped hot water all over his hand as he dipped teabags. "What if they're...what if it's too late?"

"But what if it isn't?" Pete pointed out. "I still want to try for Patrick and Joe."

"They're all down the hall, right? Across the hall from each other?" Jon said reasonably. "It would only take a minute to run down there and check. Is there anything in here we can use for weapons, just in case? Pete's got his phone."

"I'm not going going to hurt them. No matter what they've become," Brendon insisted stubbornly. Jon watched him from where he was sitting, and oddly enough he was smiling slightly, his eyes unfocused and glassy. Outside, there were still car lights flashing in from the window and across the wall, though if these things could walk and talk, who was to say they couldn't drive too? For a moment, no one knew what to say. And then something slammed into the door.

"For fuck's sake you guys, let me in!"

"Spencer," Jon whispered, all but falling off the bed in his mad rush to get to the door and throw it open. There was no doubt in any of their minds that Spencer was still alive - the panic in his voice had been human. Plus, the zombies seemed to prefer either scratching creepily or knocking politely on doors, anyway. As soon as he stumbled into the room, Spencer collapsed into Jon's arms whimpering. His legs went weak under him, and he clutched at Jon's biceps in an attempt to keep himself upright, but Jon was already picking him up in a fireman's carry and carrying him over to the bed. He laid him down carefully, Spencer's arm was bleeding, but it didn't seem profuse enough to need stitches. Otherwise, he seemed as fine as a person could be expected to be in the situation.

"Spence..." Pete whispered, approaching the bed because Spencer only seemed able to stare up at the ceiling with huge, blank eyes. "Spencer, what happened?"

There was a long silence, in which Jon took Spencer's hand and gave it a squeeze. This seemed to rouse him slightly, and he managed to focus his eyes on Pete. "Ten or so," he said quietly, his voice a hollow echo of what it had once been. "About ten of them swarmed my hotel room. I was sleeping, and I woke up as they were all reaching...standing over my bed and reaching for me with those mottled arms. A chunk of..." he swallowed hard. "A chunk of this rotting flesh, it fell onto my face. It felt slimy, and it wriggled. Ryan...Ryan was with them."

Pete closed his eyes. Brendon whimpered softly. Jon shook his head.

"No. Not Ryan. We're going to go find him, and save him. You made a mistake, Spencer, you weren't all the way awake." He spoke this as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and Spencer remained quiet and watched him deny, giving him a sympathetic look before closing his eyes.

"I'm going to go to sleep now, guys. Good night."

Somewhere in the corner of the room, Brendon had curled up into the fetal position on the floor and was whimpering softly, clutching his head. "This isn't happening. Wake me up when the pancakes are done. There's no such fucking thing as zombies."

"Listen to me!" Pete spoke loudly and forcefully enough to make everyone in the room look up at him, even Brendon. "We are not going to fucking fall apart in here and just sit around waiting for those things to come eat us or kill us or what the fuck ever. I know I'm not, at least." He snatched up his telephone once more, marching toward the door. "They already know we're in this room, we don't have much time. Jon, you pack up all the food in here that will last in my car. Brendon and Spencer, gather up everything in this room that might service as a weapon until we can get to a gun store or something. Sharp sticks, blunt objects, I don't care." He looked around at all the blank, stunned, wet-eyed faces staring back at him and snapped, "Fucking now!"

They burst into action. Together, Spencer and Brendon snapped off the bedposts of the bed to make sharp, jagged wooden stakes that were half as tall as they were. Jon emptied the minibar and tucked everything into Brendon's overnight bag, stuffing all the extra clothes he could into his own. "No more than two bags," Pete said to him as he was doing so. "We need to travel light."

While they were doing this, Pete dialed Joe and Patrick's rooms. There was no answer, and so Pete tried Patrick's cell phone one last time. Nothing again, but. His voicemail message had been changed.

"Pete! Oh god, Pete, Andy...if this is you, fucking anyone! They came for us in the hotel, fucking zombies...I got out, I'm okay. I'm heading for New Jersey. Oh god oh god...someone please come find me, I'm alone..."

They were in Pennsylvania. Hellertown, to be exact. New Jersey was at least two hours away. Why Jersey, 'Trick? Pete wondered helplessly, sitting down on the edge of the bed, clutching his Sidekick while the three boys bustled around. What didn't you have time to tell me? What's in Jersey?

"I think we're all ready, Pete." It was Jon talking, he was standing in front of him like a soldier with a sharpened stake in hand (Spencer had used a pair of hair-trimming scissors from Brendon's grooming kit to sharpen them even further), and both duffel bags over his broad shoulders. He seemed to have recovered fairly well, at least better than Brendon and Spencer had. They'd done as Pete had asked them to, but with a blank, plodding kind of emptiness that he was sure he was going to have to shake them out of eventually. There were enough zombies outside, the last fucking thing he needed to be dealing with was two more in here.

"Good," Pete said simply, standing up and looking everything over. "Now we need to make it out to my car. It's in the parking complex, on the D-level...I'm trying to figure out which is safer, the stairs or the elevator. I'm thinking the elevator. Too easy to get chased or trapped on the stairs."

Brendon and Spencer remained silent, staring at their feet. But Jon pointed out, "But those things might have taken control of the elevator, or hell. Even the entire hotel's power system. They can obviously talk and reason things out, enough to knock on doors and try to trick us into thinking that they're room service at least. Who's to say they're not smart enough to work out how to disable a circuit breaker?"

Jon had a point, and Pete gave him an impressed look. "But if they're so smart though, why do they just stand there and let you hit them in the head once you get that first shot in?"

"Maybe it's the first shot that immobilizes them?" Jon suggested with a shrug. "If they can talk, then whatever is reanimating them must live inside their brains as opposed to their hearts or bloodstreams or whatever. There's no other way they'd be capable of speech and logic the way they are, so it makes sense that a blow to head would be the only thing that could freeze or damage them. Kind of like a stake to the heart with a vampire, because the heart is source of what reanimates them - human blood. It's something in the brains of these things that's keeping them 'alive'."

"Shit, kid," Pete said, giving Jon a once-over. "You're smarter than even I gave you credit for."

"I just watch a lot of horror movies. Ironic, no?" Jon shook his head, almost smiling. "But as far as the current debate goes, my vote is with the stairs. I don't trust these things to be stupid enough to not have disabled the hotel's power yet, especially since it looks like they've been taking it over floor by floor."

"Okay. I think you're right, actually." Pete stood up, gesturing to Brendon and Spencer. "Do you think those two are going to slow us down? You and I could always get to the car and park it out by the curb so that all we'll have to do is run through the lobby and grab them, and then run back out again. But that would mean leaving them here alone while we got the car."

"I don't think we can risk that," Jon said, taking a step closer to Brendon. "Call me biased because Brendon's my baby, but neither of them seems to be in any condition to fight off anything that broke its way into this room right now. They're both skinny enough, if they slow us down too much we can both carry one."

Brendon leaned against the wall, staring quietly off into space. Spencer was sitting on the bed and not blinking much. Somewhere between gathering up weapons and talking about how to get out of there, both boys had shut down. It had been so quiet and abrupt, but at least they were staying out of the way. Jon approached Brendon carefully, taking both of his hands into his own. "Hey, lover," he said tenderly. "We have to go now, okay? Are you still with me?"

Pete put an arm around Spencer's shoulders. "Come on Spence, Jon and I are going to take you somewhere safe. I promise we won't let anything hurt you." Slowly, they guided the two boys out of the hotel room together. It was almost creepy how obediently Spencer and Brendon went with them - like they'd been sedated or something. Pete would have expected them to put up more of a terrified fight at leaving the relative safety of the room, and he could tell by Jon's surprised look that he felt the same way. The hallway was empty but dark - all the lights had been shut off, and Pete let go of Spencer to hold his telephone more securely. The red plastic receiver was cracked now, but for some reason he'd grown to trust it. It had saved his life twice now, after all.

Just yesterday, you were a rock star, he thought suddenly with an insane urge to laugh out loud. They made it all the way to the doorway that led to the stairs' entrance with no incident, and then the voice came.

"This could be so much easier for you all."

They all froze. Because every one of them knew that voice. Brendon seemed to snap awake, shaking his arm loose from where Jon had been holding it and looking around frantically. "R-Ryan?"

But the thing that emerged from the shadows and staggered into their line of vision wasn't Ryan. It wore his skin - his sallow, swollen skin, slick with death, but it wasn't him. Thick, oily-looking yellowish discharge oozed from the corners of his rotting lips, and there was a glistening, gaping wound in his lower stomach. Slick, gray-blue ropes of intestine could be seen coiled loosely there, shifting wetly around with every step he took. His eyes had clouded over completely, to a milky solidity that made him look blind. But when he looked into Pete's eyes, he knew without a doubt that he could see.

"They came for me a few hours ago," he rasped, laughing with a wet, sucking sound. "Gutted me with their bare hands, made me free. I could do the same for you - we're going to win, anyway. There's no point, guys. Let me help you." He reached out for Brendon with both skeletal hands, and Jon stepped in front of him as he recoiled in horror, whimpering softly. Pete lifted his telephone threateningly, but couldn't find it within himself to kill 'Ryan' with as little hesitation as he had the others. It was then that Ryan lunged, shoving a shocked Jon aside with more strength than should have been possible for his decaying body and grabbed Brendon, clawing wildly at his face. Brendon screamed as 'Ryan' gouged five deep gashes just under his right eye with his blackened fingernails, and Jon snapped back into himself.

"Fuck you!" he shrieked, and surprised the hell out of them all by wasting not a second more in yanking Ryan off of Brendon by the back of his shirt and burying one of the stakes into the back of his head. He slammed it in so hard that it came back out through his forehead, chunky gray brain tissue spurting out with it, the wood soaked in blackish blood. Ryan crumpled to his knees with his milky eyes wide in an expression of shock, and collapsed onto his side. Jon put one foot against the side of his head and braced himself, pulling the stake out with a wet sucking sound and looking down at the gaping hole in 'Ryan's' head, still leaking blood and brain goo all over the expensive carpet.

"He would have wanted you to, if he'd been in there somewhere," Pete reassured Jon quietly a moment later, reaching out to pat him on the shoulder. "You didn't kill Ryan - you killed the thing that had stolen his body."

Jon paused, glanced over at Brendon's bleeding face, and then stomped on Ryan's head so hard that it split like a melon under his flip-flop and left a thick neck-stump attached to his shoulders and little else. Spitting into the gore, he said, "Awesome. We gonna stand around here and take a piss or what?"

They made their way up the first flight of stairs. It was four floors until they got to Pete's car, and he was a little surprised to find that they made it with no incident. Loading everything into the backseat of his car, Pete took the wheel while Spencer curled up and moaned softly on top of the duffel bags in the back. Jon took the passenger seat next to Pete, and Brendon all but sat in his lap. Jon stroked his dark hair and murmured softly to him, while Pete turned on the radio to see if there were any emergency broadcasts. There were.

"Oh god, we're in Fulton, someone PLEASE COME HELP US!" the voice on station 48.5 FM erupted into screaming. There was a tearing sound, and then the sound of someone grabbing the microphone again. The same woman's voice. "My family and I, we got here so we could broadcast for help, but they've found us! Please, someone...AAAAAAGGGGHHHH!"

The broadcast went dead. But then, a moment later, another voice.

"Hello, meatsacks. Run, run! These bodies of yours are fun to play with."

Then it went dead for good.

Pete turned off the radio.

"Where are we going?" Jon asked about an hour later, after Spencer and Brendon had both fallen asleep. He'd been quiet for the most part, staring out the window while Pete watched the gas gauge get closer to E.

"Jersey."

"What the hell is in Jersey?"

"I don't know. But just before he bolted, Patrick changed his cell's voicemail message to tell anyone who called him that he'd escaped the zombies and was heading for Jersey."

The highway was empty, a long stretch of quiet darkness surrounded by trees. If he rolled down the window a crack, he could hear the rustling all around them that indicated that more than wind was stirring those trees. Shuddering, he rolled it back up.

"Do you even know where in Jersey Patrick is? And what about Joe?"

"I don't know, Jon. I'm just going on what I have right now."

Jon fell silent for a moment. And then, "We're about to stall," gesturing to the gas gauge.

"I know. The road signs said that there's a gas station about five minutes up."

"You do realize that the zombies probably have those places staked out, right?"

"Sure do, guy who just stomped his former bandmate's head like he was crushing a fucking box for the trash man."

Jon shut up, and soon they reached the gas station. Before Pete got out, Jon grabbed his arm. "Two things. One, I'm going with you. Two, If that map in your glove compartment is right, there's a firearms dealer about a half-hour out of our way." They looked into each other's eyes for a long moment, and then Pete leaned over the gear shift and took Jon's chin between his thumb and forefinger.

He whispered, "Thank you for holding it together with me. I don't think I could have done this without you," before pressing his lips to his in a slow, chaste kiss. In his lap, slumped halfway to the floor of the car, Brendon stirred. Jon pulled away, blinking, and then shook his head.

"What the hell else are we supposed to do? If I let myself fall apart like these two...not that I can blame them, but still...we'd be fucked."

"You knew I needed you. And you stepped up. If we live through this, I'm buying you a sundae."

They smiled sadly at each other, and unbuckled their seatbelts.

Jon kept watch while Pete filled the tank, but surprisingly enough there were no zombies to be found. Pete supposed that they were either supremely lucky, or that they just hadn't gotten this far yet. Maybe that was why Patrick had gone so far as to head for Jersey - maybe he'd known that the zombies traveled slowly and figured that being a couple of hours ahead would buy him some time to think or find a safe zone, Pete mused. It only took a couple of minutes to fill up the car, and soon he and Jon were back in it and speeding down the highway again. Brendon had woken up while he'd been doing so, and they pulled over by a diner so he could stretch his cramped legs. Jon took the wheel for Pete then, and Brendon crawled into the back to sleep with Spencer where there was more room. Pete tried to sleep too, but his rest was fitful and dreamless.

++++

They made it to the 'WELCOME TO NEW JERSEY' sign right as dawn broke the next morning, Jon still driving. Pete was surprised to open the trunk when they got out to stretch to find it crammed full of guns, ammo, and more food. Clearly, Jon had stopped at that firearms store, and a grocery store too apparently, all by himself. He looked up at Jon, who was arching his back in the pale dawn light, and he shrugged. "I didn't want to wake anyone up. I made sure to lock all the doors, I was only in each place for a couple of minutes."

Brendon walked up behind Jon and silently put his arms around him from behind. Pete kind of wanted to do the same. Even Spencer seemed better in the morning, complaining that he was hungry. Jon had gotten all sorts of things - bottles and cans of water and soda, chips and bread and a few packs of lunchmeat and dried fruit and nuts and muffins and cereal and cookies. They ate breakfast and looked over the guns, Brendon shuddering when Jon tried to hand him one. "No thanks, love. I think I'll stick to the big sticks, phallic as they may be. I hate guns."

"Lemme see one," Spencer said, sitting on the hood of Pete's car and reaching for a revolver. It was dangerous to just be sitting around in the daylight like this, they all knew. But the zombies seemed to be at least slightly more active at night - they hadn't seen one yet, and Jon claimed that he hadn't noticed any stirring in the woods since dawn had broken. "Does anyone even know how to shoot one of these?" Spencer asked reasonably, lifting the gun as if he was surprised by its weight.

"I do," Jon spoke up. "Kind of. My dad used to take me to the firing range when I was younger. I know the basics at least, I can show you guys." He looked over the guns for a moment, and finally picked up a solid-looking, chrome Browning 9MM pistol. "I'll call her Shirley. Now watch."

Looking across the street at the clothing store a bloated, balding zombie had just stumbled out of, he raised the gun with both hands and aimed carefully. "That's right you fucking bitch...just line your fat ass right up," he murmured softly, before squeezing the trigger and firing. He nailed her right between the eyes to everyone's surprise, including Jon's. She collapsed to the pavement with a wet smacking sound, and Jon looked down at the gun in his hand. "This is a good gun, wow. I think I'll keep this one."

For the rest of the morning, he taught them what little he knew of shooting, aiming and how to fire and such. It wasn't much, but even Brendon agreed to lessons just in case, and when they were done they all felt a little safer. They packed everything back into the car again, and Pete tried Patrick's cell phone once more. He got the same message.

"Pete," Jon said slowly as soon as they were on the road again. "Have you considered that maybe Patrick is...maybe he's one of them? And that this is a trap of some kind?"

"No," Pete said sharply. "And I don't intend to."

That ended that conversation.

The whole city was quiet and empty, it was eerie as hell. They drove around until they found a small abandoned house that seemed to be zombie-free, and Pete parked the car in the garage. "We can't stay here for long," he explained to the others. "I have a feeling that the zombies can sense where the living humans are or something. But it's a place to crash while I try to figure out how to get to Patrick at least." They all took turns in the shower, and Brendon and Jon collapsed into bed together soon after. The walls of the main bedroom were lined with pictures of a family that was probably undead now, dead if they were lucky, and Brendon shivered and turned their faces away so that they were facing the wall before he climbed into bed with Jon. Spencer insisted on sleeping in the closet for some reason, and so Pete decided to bunk with Brendon and Jon.

The bed was big and their young bodies were warm, and for a few seconds the three of them felt safe. Brendon cuddled as close to Jon as he could get, Pete on Jon's other side spooning against him. Despite themselves, they exchanged a series of long, deep kisses before falling asleep. Because it was all there was left, really. Except for Spencer, hunched over and snoring in the closet.

To be continued!

for my patd_100 Jon Walker claim.

2006-12-02T20:48:37Z

Title: Up, Up, All the Way Up
Fandom: Panic! at the Disco/Fall Out Boy RPS.
Pairing: Jon/Pete, mostly.
Rating: NC-17, for m/m sex, swearing, and some underage naughtiness.
Summary: In which Jon is charming, Pete is helpless, and Jwalk has a lot of sex. The story of an optimist's youth.
Disclaimer: This is a work of complete friction. I mean fiction.
Notes: For my patd_100 Jon Walker table - prompt #010 - years.

The night air was thick and heavy-warm around Jon Walker when he laughed madly and spun around in circles at the age of fifteen, his arms swinging out to either side of him until the inky sky and burning stars were swirling and blending together in his heavenbound stare, melting against his eyes and sinking into his skin in a blinding drench of shimmering intangible baptismal.

"I love you, Mom." He'd whispered the words against his mother's faded potato-brown hair that was so like his own just four hours ago, kissing her temple tenderly with his heavy blue duffel bag rough and stuffed and slung over one shoulder. She'd been fast asleep, of course. Sane people usually were, at three in the morning. But at his words, she'd stirred, blinked sleepily up at him, and his heart had broken just a little but not enough to keep him there.

"Where are you going, baby?" she'd asked him in a voice hoarse with sleep, and he smiled and ran a hand over the thinning hair.

"Away, Mom. I'll write as soon as I can, I promise."

She'd opened her mouth to say something else, but Jon was long gone, slipping away into the cool night like that proverbial thief from the bible. Only he was leaving to cause damage and indulge in self-destruction, not coming. The difference was that it was all internal, with him. He'd miss his mother, hell yes. But there would be letters, and he couldn't be there anymore. It wasn't bitterness or unhappiness that had led him to this point - just waking up in the middle of the night floored with the sudden realization that there was simply nothing left for him at home anymore. His hands had tightened in his sheets when it had slammed into him, and he'd trembled a little all over. And then he'd started packing.

He had seventy-two dollars in his pocket and the keys to his father's beat-up Ford Escort, the backseat of which he loaded up with his bass, an acoustic guitar, a violin, a cello, and books and sheet music up to the windows. The fan belt squealed indignantly when he peeled out of the driveway of his parents' house, pushing a Pantera cassette into the tape deck. He drove and drove and drove until the gas drained out just after the Indiana state limits, and parked by a rotting wood fence around a huge wet field of nothing but dying grass. Getting out of the car, he'd spun around in circles as his shoes were soaked through to his socks with cold dew, laughing madly up at the breast-heavy moon dripping her milk into the sky.

He slept outside that night, collapsing into the damp faded grass and curling up amidst the scent of raw earth, waking up with the sniffles and pushing his car to the nearest gas station to fill it up. "I'm a photographer," he explained to the gas station attendant early that morning, pointing to the heavy, old-fashioned camera in the backseat. "I take pictures. Want any pictures taken?"

He received no answer other than a grunt, as his tank was reluctantly filled. "I also play bass. And a lot of other shit," he offered the grizzled, malnourished old man through the grimy window of his car. "If there are any bands around here looking for new members."

The man sighed, mucus and leftover cigarette smoke rattling and gurgling in his throat. "Jesus kid, how old are you?"

"Fifteen," Jon said cheerfully, because he was done lying to people, especially himself.

"Jesus," the man said, handing him his change and waving him away. So Jon drove some more, the thumping, aggressive metal he'd left in the tape player shaking the doors of that old car. He stopped at the first apartment building he found, a worn-down cement building with a barb-wire fence around the tiny parking lot and a giant rat that approached him like it was the landlord when he parked by the curb. The air smelled like friend food and cigarette smoke, and he breathed in deep and smiled. Yes, hello.

"Hey. HEY!" He was a little breathless by the time he climbed the stairs, following the arrows of construction paper taped to the walls that directed him to the landlord's office on the top floor. He pounded on the door with a loose fist. "Hey, I need to live here!"

Finally, the door opened, and he was confronted with a woman in her supposed-forties with painfully bleached hair and smeared lipstick. She wore a t-shirt shamelessly, not bothering to hide the track marks that lined the insides of her arms like the stems of roses. Her cornflower-blue eyes were dull and weary, and she regarded him warily. "You lookin' for a room?"

"I'm Jon." He extended a hand to her, smiling brightly.

"How old are you, kid?" Her hand was so soft it felt like it might fall apart in his grip, melt away into soggy, soft clumps of flesh and leave him shaking nothing but wet bone. Her nails were like violet talons.

"Fifteen."

"Sorry Jon, I've got nothing for you. Runaway, right?"

"Oh no, I told my mom I was going. Kissed her and everything."

She stared at him for a moment, confused. "Uh, sure. But you're still too young. Make sure you lie to the next one you ask."

"Don't want to lie anymore. Listen...what's your name?"

"Cheryl."

"Listen Cheryl, I'm fifteen and really pretty talented. I don't have much money right now but I know I could make a lot given a week or two, I promise you'll get your rent and more. My parents aren't going to be sending out any police looking for me, you don't have to worry about that. And someday when the whole world knows my name, I'll make sure to thank you for having taken a chance on me way back when. Don't you want to be that lady in my autobiography, the one who gets asked in ten years if Jon Walker really lived in your apartment complex back when he was a kid? Come on, you know you do. It'll be cool." He winked at her, and the amused smile that spread across her thick lips made them both laugh a little.

"Listen to you. Cocky as hell, I like it. But there's so many better places you could be than this, Mr. Future Star."

"Yeah? Prove it."

They stared at each other for a moment, and then she shrugged. "What the hell. But if the cops come around looking for you, I'll turn you in so fast your head will spin. I don't need any trouble."

"Thanks, Cheryl." The smile he gave her had melted his mother on more than one occasion. "Where's my master suite?"

She turned to grab his key from a line on the wall behind her, and together they left her office.

+++

He lived there in Indiana, taking pictures for the local newspaper and teaching piano at the YMCA, for eight months. He and Cheryl had sex at least three times a week - she was thirty-four and divorced with no children, aching and laughing sadly when he told her she was beautiful, and on his sixteenth birthday she bought him Hostess cupcakes with ninety-nine-cent candles in them. They drank enough Boone's Farm Apple Wine that night to believe that they were in love, and she was so lonely and he was so optimistic that she wept for days after the morning he came to her and told her that he had to move on.

"I'm sorry, lover," he said gently to her, taking both of her hands into her own as he watched her face crumble. "I just...I've done all I can do here. I saved up enough money to hit the road again, and there are lots of local bands looking for bass techs. That's part of why I left home in the first place, to throw myself into the music scene. It just wasn't happening back home."

"I've been an idiot. I mean, this is illegal. I'm a pedophile, anyway," she'd said weakly. "We're both lucky you're going." But she was crying, and he was reaching out to hold her.

"No, you're not a pedophile. You're a woman who recently lost the husband you'd been with for ten years, and you did make me happy, Cheryl. You still do. I just can't be here anymore, and we both know that you can't come with me."

She cried and swore and pushed at his chest with both hands until he left, kissing her forehead and moving out before nightfall. It wasn't like he had much in his apartment, anyway. He hadn't planned on staying there long, and he'd spent a lot of nights sleeping in her bed anyway. He met Don, the lead singer of the thrash-metal band that he ended up bass teching for over the next three months, early the next morning.

"Hey!" he said to the bearded, heavily tattooed man, popping up from behind an amp on the stage where Bloodsoaked was performing that night, where he'd been reading a book and eaten a stolen apple from their pitiful catering table. He'd been there for hours, just waiting.

"Holy fucking shit!" Don, despite his muscles, clamped a hand over his chest and stared at Jon with wide, rheumy eyes. "You scared the shit out of me, you little bastard."

"Sorry. I'm Jon," Jon extended a hand, smiling brightly at him. He was met with a blank stare.

"...The fuck? What the hell is that supposed to mean to me? Get off our fuckin' stage, kid."

"No, listen. I was at your show here last night, and you guys sucked."

"What?"

"Your bass was all out of whack, not tuned properly or anything. But luckily for you guys, that's what I do. I'm a bass tech, and I can fix shit for you guys so that you stop sucking."

Don stared. For about five minutes. And then he laughed so loudly that it echoed across the stage, slapping a knee exposed by torn jeans. He laughed until tears came to his eyes, and then he clapped Jon on the back. "Holy shit. Listen to you, I love it. I guess we could use a tech, but we can't pay you."

"That's okay. I'll feed myself. Just looking for exposure."

"Then you're in luck."

For three months, sixteen-year-old Jon Walker bass teched for Bloodsoaked, and ate by doing odd jobs at the towns they stopped off in, tucking snacks from parties into his messenger bag and such. He and Don had sex at least three times a week, and he tried to write Cheryl once or twice. But she never wrote back. When the band's tour was over, he introduced himself to some friends of Don's, and then some friends of Don's friends, and it was gritty and sexy and drug-drenched and he had a lot of sex.

+++

He was seventeen when he met William Beckett, who was entirely charmed by him from the first moment Jon flashed him that optimistic grin that still managed to remain so toothy and cheery despite how jaded the poor kid had to be at this point. He'd been keeping in touch with his parents over the past two years, never telling them exactly where he was but making sure they knew that he was okay.

"You're so skinny," was the first thing he said to William, who had narrowed his eyes at him. "I mean, God. Don't you make enough money to eat yet? I still have this potbelly..." he rubbed his slightly-round stomach affectionately. "...And I've been teching for little to no money for the past two years for local metal bands."

"Are you for real?" William had demanded, and Jon had smiled faintly.

"I get that a lot."

He was officially on TAI's payroll two hours later, working as a film and photography tech for their TAI TV project. He met Pete Wentz seven months later just before his eighteenth birthday, and fell in love.

Pete kissed him for the first time after his eighteenth birthday party. They were both so drunk that their skin felt slick and hot and tangy against each others' fingers when they stumbled into Pete's hotel room, kissing and laughing and running their hands through each other's hair. Everything about Jon was so fine, Pete thought. He had the warmest, sleepiest dark eyes in the world and a drowsy, soothing voice that made him seem older than he was. And okay, maybe Pete was kind of six years older than him or whatever, but apparently Jon liked that. His hair was soft like the down that slipped out of your pillow sometimes, his laugh big and loud and genuine. His body was soft and warm and solid all over, broad-shouldered and strong and young.

His tongue was in Jon's mouth, and Jon was sucking on it and rubbing one of those big, callused hands against his crotch, palming his erection through his jeans and smiling against his lips when it kicked and leaked against the fabric at his touch. He broke the kiss and latched onto Pete's long, elegant neck with his lips, sucking a hickey to the surface of the dark skin with a wetness and an intent that made it clear that neither of them was quite as drunk as they claimed to be. He paused so Pete could step out of his jeans, stopping him when he reached for the zipper on Jon's.

Without a word, he sank to his knees and leaned forward to mouth Pete's cock wetly through the dry fabric of his boxers, moving it around in his mouth and letting his eyes sink closed. Pete groaned, putting one hand on the back of Jon's head to finger that soft brown hair as Jon tugged his boxers down with one hand. "You have such a nice cock," he said a little witlessly, and the door to his hotel room wasn't even shut all the way. Or locked, or anything, and Pete couldn't bring himself to care much as Jon wrapped those quirky lips around the head of his cock and suckled like he was nursing a milkshake, which he liked to do almost more than anything else.

He was just this beautiful, eager young thing, on his knees. Jon bobbed his head back and forth, clutching at Pete's bare golden-brown thighs with thick-wristed hands, sucking wetly and using his tongue sloppily on the underside, tonguing the thick vein there until Pete was clutching at that hair a little harder. His breath hitched in his throat and Jon's fingers combed through the fine dusting of black hair on his thighs when he came hard into the kid's waiting mouth. Jon swallowed fairly easily, even darting his pink tongue out to catch the trickle that was running down from his lower lip. The moment he stood up, he was laughing and tackling Pete, tearing off his own clothes and pushing him to the bed. He was on top for the rest of the night, finally coaxing Pete to straddle his thighs and ride him until he spurted hot and strong into his ass. They slept like babies, wrapped up naked and damp in each other.

+++

"Be with me forever," Pete demanded two years later, after jerking off frantically onto Jon's friendly face. Jon had just dropped to his knees and let him when he'd asked, looking up at him with an expectant smile as he'd fisted his slick cock until he'd grunted and spilled all over Jon's face. There was cum slicking his smiling lips now, dripping down his cheek as he licked it away.

"'Kay," Jon agreed amiably, standing up and taking the washcloth that Pete offered him.

"For real?"

"Yeah. Love you."

"And did you love all the others?"

"Mmhm. But I love you the best."

Pete was so Jon's bitch. "I'd give you anything you wanted, anything in the world, if you asked me right now."

Jon paused, considering. "Can we go for milkshakes?"

"Hell, yes."

And Pete was furious and out of control, sometimes an asshole and sarcastic and funny and an attention whore and outgoing and aching and beautiful. And Jon was kind and funny and warm and optimistic and a little bit wicked, and everyone trusted them with each other's hearts. By the time he was twenty, Jon was playing bass for Panic! at the Disco, Pete's protege band. Everyone he worked with was a little bit in love with him, but no one dared because he and Pete looked at each other sometimes with such complete and total adoration, such worship. Pete mellowed out whenever Jon touched his arm and said "Pete" so gently the way he did, no matter how angry he was. And when Jon's heart broke, when he cried a little over something, Pete could always make him stop by kissing his earlobe and whispering "Jon" a little helplessly into his ear.

Mom, Jon wrote to his mother the day he'd promised to be with Pete forever, I'm coming to visit, and I'm bringing someone.

{notice, alert, it's a code red}

2006-11-21T15:10:29Z

Posting this public so anyone who friends me over the next few days can see. I'll be in Ohio until Sunday as of 5:00 today, so if you friend me and I don't friend you back until then, that's why. For those who already are on my flist, I'll see you all soon.

♥

{a public affair...I HATE MYSELF FOR THAT TITLE}

2006-11-07T23:13:17Z

Keeping this one public so my lovely counselor Debbie can see it. I gave her the URL to my LJ today so she can read some of my writing - welcome to my journal! There is madness to be found here, but we hope you enjoy your stay. You know, like what they say when you first enter the Bates Motel? F-list, welcome Debbie to our little circle of DOOM.

And yes, that would be my beloved Pete Wentz in my friends-only banner! (I've been gushing to Debbie about him lately y'all, forgive my fangirlism over the man. I love he and his asshole skillz.)

for my patd_100 Jon Walker claim.

2006-10-09T07:11:57Z

Title: Pretty One
Pairing: Jon/Spencer
Prompt: #097 - want.
Rating: PG-13, for boykissing.
Word count: 136
Summary: Spencer is the pretty one, when it matters.
Disclaimer: This is a work of complete friction. I mean fiction.

"I'm not - I'm not the pretty one," Spencer whispered huskily against Jon's lips that night when he slipped into his bunk on the tour bus. Jon woke up somewhere around the moment when Spencer threw one thigh over his legs and straddled his hips, leaning over to breathe against his face. "I'm not charismatic like Brendon or pretty like Ryan, but Jon. I can swear to you that no one will ever love you like I do."

Jon's dark eyes went wide, though Spencer could only barely see it in the darkness of the bunk. He'd been careful about closing the curtain behind him when he'd finally gathered up the balls to do this.

"Spencer," he said, but then he didn't say anything else and it was endearing as all hell. So Spencer kissed him.

Title: Perhaps Not Such a Quickie
Pairing: Jon/Spencer
Prompt: #004 - firsts.
Rating: NC-17, for m/m sex, and swearing.
Word count: 268
Summary: They might make this a regular thing.
Disclaimer: This is a work of complete friction. I mean fiction.

"Oh, fuck!"

Jon really hadn't expected this at all. He'd joined this band because Brendon had pouted at him and offered him iced tea if he said yes, pretty much. But now he had Spencer pinned to a wall with his back pressed against it and his pretty legs wrapped around his own thick waist. Poor Spence kept banging his head against the wall, arching his spine and rocking his hips to meet every one of Jon's thrusts. He hissed through gritted teeth when Jon lifted one hand from his ass to grip his swollen, dripping cock in one broad, rough hand, fisting it hard. He felt so fucking full, like Jon's cock inside of him had plugged up some gaping void that he hadn't even known about before.

Jon grunted, waiting for Spencer to spurt violently between their stomachs before letting go inside of the condom he was wearing, slick and hot with lube and thrusting. And then his hands relaxed against Spencer's numb thighs, letting him slide to the floor. And really, it was breathtaking and hilarious the way Jon tossed the condom into the wastebasket and then scooped him up into his arms, carrying him back to their bed. Spencer glared because he was most definitely not the bitch here, but he couldn't help but nuzzle his throat a little anyway when he dropped him into bed.

"You were amazing," Jon murmured sleepily, spooning up against him and wrapping both arms around his waist. "I'm glad we did this."

Spencer didn't say anything, but pushed back a little further. Because. Jon was warm, was all.

Title: Pretty Damn Oblivious
Pairing: Jon/Spencer, Brendon/Jon/Ryan/Spencer implied.
Prompt: #098 - orgy.
Rating: R, for swearing and implications of m/m/m/m sex.
Word count: 192
Summary: Sometimes Jon needs to not think so much.
Disclaimer: This is a work of complete friction. I mean fiction.

Oh, but he was lovely.

Jon watched Spencer toying with his drumsticks, idly twirling them between nimble fingers during practice, slamming them against the surface of his drums in concert. He watched him when he brushed his soft, fine brown hair in the mornings, and he watched him when he talked on his cell phone at lunch. He watched him say goodnight to everyone before heading into his hotel room, and later he watched him from his own hotel-room doorway when he slipped into Brendon's room.

Ryan came to him that night, knocking hard on his door and waking Jon up. When he finally stumbled over to open it for him, Ryan said sharply, "Spencer and Brendon are fucking in Brendon's room."

"I know," Jon said tiredly, aching.

"And I was having a great time in the middle of it. But then they sent me to get your blind ass, and it's fucking cold in here, please tell me you don't have the goddamn AC on. Jesus, just come with me already," Ryan shot right back at him, glaring. Jon blinked.

"Nngh?"

Ryan rolled his eyes and took Jon's hand. "Let's go."

Don't forget kids, my table is HERE if you want to read some of the older fics on it!

{God is having a nightmare}

2006-09-30T07:06:50Z

Pulse and return,
this is not real.
This life, this heat,
that bloody-nosed whore on the corner,
that store you go to,
every Saturday.

Is not real.
God is having a nightmare.
This world was not supposed to be.
The slide of your lip ring,
your mother's voice.

God's nightmare is our reality.
Laid God out, put God to sleep.
Trapped because of It's own power.

Speeding down rain-slick city streets,
suddenly so aware it stings.
Can't save anyone though,
when you know you know and then
you get to watch everyone else
exist, drown and die
inside God's nightmare.

Crack
crack
crack
split
spiderweb

Spread, spiderweb,
spread out across this dream.
Break us free, kill us all.
Only way out of God's nightmare.

#073 for patd_100

2006-09-21T22:11:07Z

Title: The Joys and Trials of Twelve Limbs in Bed
Fandom: Panic! at the Disco RPS
Pairing/s: Brendon/Ryan/Jon
Rating: NC-17, for threesome m/m/m sex, and swearing.
Summary: Jon doesn't realize it, but he is adored.
Notes: Shameless PWP. Written for my patd_100 table claim of Jon Walker, prompt #073 - threesome.
Disclaimer: This is a work of complete friction. I mean fiction.

The thing was, both Ryan and Brendon learned what it was to want Jon, at the same time.

His beauty, his incredible, blinding beauty - it wasn't something that slammed into you all at once. Not like with Pete, whose dark skin and amber-gold eyes and dazzling smile knocked you flat on your back upon impact. No, Jon was a different kind of beautiful, Brendon decided as he waited for Ryan's plane to arrive. The airport was bustling with people coming and going, the sky so harsh-bright blue through the giant windows that passed for walls that it made him squint and reach for his sunglasses. Which, in retrospect, he probably would have done anyway because a few people were starting to recognize him.

"It's like...he kind of creeps up on you, gets under your skin. Like, he's pretty - I don't know, average-looking at first, right? Not particularly hot or ugly, just...Jon," he said to Ryan as he was driving him back to their hotel room a half-hour later. Ryan nodded silently, as was his habit, which Brendon took as an okay to continue.

"But then you slowly start to realize that he's got the biggest, warmest brown eyes ever. And they always look kind of sleepy or sad, no matter how he's feeling - he's got those natural bags under them that make him look..."

"Young. Vulnerable," Ryan said, and Brendon nodded fervently.

"Exactly. And those round cheeks and quirky sort of grin, like he's laughing at some secret joke all the time."

"I like how he almost always has one eyebrow raised just a little, as if he's just sort of observing the world around him and coming to all these amazing conclusions that he'll never share with anyone," Ryan said thoughtfully. "And? He has such soft, soft hair. You like to touch it a lot."

"I do," Brendon said, only now realizing how many pictures there were out there in which he was palming the back of Jon's head or stroking his hair or something. "Fuck. I want him, Ryan. He's so sweet and talented and flawed and has those eyes. I want him bad."

Ryan nodded. "I do, too."

"Think we could have him? Think he'd go for it?"

"I don't know. He seems fairly heterosexual to me."

"So did I, at first," Brendon teased, reaching across the shift to poke Ryan's cheek, and he smiled faintly.

"This is true."

"Let's try. God, I can't get him out of my head. He was coming down with a cold last night, and I went to check on him in his hotel room - he was all wrapped up in a blanket with a mug of tea, all sniffly and pink-nosed and miserable-looking on the bed. I just wanted to throw him down and kiss the hell out of him, even if I ended up catching it. You need to watch him play the piano sometime. He doesn't have the fingers for it, but. He closes his eyes and sways back and forth a little...."

"He always smells like coffee, and sugar. It's cute. And kind of sexy. I agree, let's at least try."

"Mmm."

+++++++

So it was later that night that they approached him.

"Jon?" Brendon said, flopping down next to him on the couch where he'd been reading, in his hotel room. Jon glanced up at him, giving both he and Ryan that disarmingly sweet smile.

"Brendon?" he said simply, quirking an eyebrow in that way that Ryan found so unbelievably attractive. He too, joined them on the couch, tucking his legs underneath him and watching the proceedings.

"Jon, we love you. A lot," Brendon started, and was pleased and incredibly charmed to see a faint blush rising in Jon's child-soft cheeks.

"I love you guys, too."

"We want you," Ryan broke in bluntly, reaching out to run a long, elegant finger down the side of Jon's neck, and he blinked.

"To do what?"

Brendon almost laughed. He was so...endearing sometimes. "Well, I wanted to tell you a little differently..." he shot Ryan a look, who shrugged. "But, yeah. We want you. In our bed. With us."

"Having sex, preferably. Spooning after. Maybe a shower, if all three of us can fit in there at once," Ryan added, as straightforward as ever.

Jon closed his eyes. "Very funny, guys."

"You know about our relationship," Ryan responded quietly, leaning in to rest his head against Jon's broad shoulder. One of the things that they both liked best about him was that there was nothing fragile or girlish about him - Jon was solid and warm, with broad shoulders and wide, callused hands and a soft, round little potbelly. His voice was low and warm and masculine, and yet. He was just so cute sometimes.

"I do!" Jon said, his voice rising a little and his eyes widening. "That's why I'm...I mean, aren't you guys all gay together and shit? In a committed relationship, I mean?"

"Yes. And we want you to be a part of that," Brendon said, feeling his previously almost-curious want start to build into a need, at the sight of Jon's warm neck so close to his face. The scent of his skin was driving him insane.

Ryan nuzzled Jon's ear rather tenderly, taking a quick nip at his earlobe. "You don't have to decide anything right now. We'll love you and be your friends no matter what happens."

"Yeah, no pressure," Brendon added, despite the ache that was throbbing between his legs already. There was just something about this kid that got to him, nailed him right between the eyes.

Jon's eyes were still closed. "I've never been with even one guy before, much less two."

"We'll walk you through it," Ryan promised. "You'll like it."

A shiver went through Brendon then, at the idea that they were going to be Jon's first, the first ones to teach him how to take his pleasure in another man's body. Bodies.

Ryan smiled adoringly at him, over Jon's head. "Brendon has it bad for you, J. I think he's a little bit in love. You're all he can talk about lately, it would make me jealous if I didn't want you so badly myself."

Brendon couldn't say anything. But he nodded.

Jon unconsciously sighed softly, tilting his head a little to give Ryan freer access to his neck as he nibbled gently on the warm skin there, without even realizing it. Ryan moaned against his neck, looking over at Brendon again.

"Holy shit Brendon, you have to taste his skin. It's amazing."

Brendon closed his eyes, too. "If I do, there's no turning back. I'll never be satisfied with just a taste."

Jon almost whimpered when he opened his mouth to speak, feeling himself melt under Ryan's lips and teeth and tongue. "S'okay. Do it."

The moment was heavy-thick with tension, and it was clear that Jon had made his decision. Brendon wasn't sure if it was because he really wanted this, or because Ryan's mouth had clouded his mind, but that point he was too far gone to worry about it much. So he leaned in, latching his mouth onto the junction of Jon's shoulder and neck, pulling aside the collar of his t-shirt to do so. And fuck, Ryan had been right. The taste of Jon's skin, as warm and salty-sweet as those hot peanuts that came in the bag with jellybeans, he could feel a sudden heat rushing through his veins as it filled his mouth. His skin was so rich he could almost feel the taste running down the back of his throat. He moaned desperately, and Ryan paused in where he'd been giving Jon an enthusiastic hickey to shoot him an understanding look.

"Fucking good, yeah?" Ryan said with a grin before addressing Jon. "Seriously J, you have no idea how hot you are. You're like...exquisite. Like hot chocolate on a cold day."

Jon blushed furiously at the compliment, about to say something, but Brendon was dizzy with want at the scent and taste of his skin and couldn't wait any more. He sat back a little, his dark eyes a little wild. He gently pulled Jon's simple black t-shirt over his head, tossing it to the floor impatiently, and both he and Ryan took the opportunity to admire him.

Jon wasn't bony like the majority of their friends, but soft and warm and comforting all over, his skin vanilla-colored, his body soft and a little pudgy, endearing as all hell and sexy to boot. He wouldn't have looked as good if he were scrawny, they both decided. Jon's body was stocky and made for cuddling, not scene jeans.

Jon blushed some more, looking down. "I hope you guys weren't expecting, like. Hotness, all this time."

"Are you kidding?" Ryan breathed, brushing his knuckles against Jon's lower stomach with a look of reverence. "You're fucking beautiful, J."

Brendon couldn't speak. His heart was in his throat, and it was really kind of scary because almost no one had this effect on him. He was the charismatic one, the suave one, the frontman. And yet, seeing Jon shirtless left him gaping and breathless like a teenage girl.

"Are we...are we going to do this here?" Jon asked helplessly, glancing back toward the bed, and Ryan smiled and stood up, offering him his hand.

"No. Come with us."

So Jon followed them, Brendon at his back with one hand absently stroking the dip just above his ass, because he couldn't stop touching him, Ryan holding his hand and guiding him to the bed. As soon as they got there, Jon laid down quietly on his back, looking up at them.

"I'm nervous," he said, looking away, and Ryan put a slender hand against his lower stomach.

"Shh. We're going to take care of you," he said, nodding approvingly as Brendon knelt beside the bed to unzip his jeans, letting him kick them off. He ran a hand over his erection, marveling at how it kicked and leaked under his touch, nearly crying with all his need. It was eating away at his insides.

"Fuck. Ryan, I hope you've got the lube."

"Of course," Ryan said with a dazzling smile, pulling the small red bottle from his pocket and tossing it to Brendon, who caught it gratefully. Jon watched him curiously as he uncapped it, gently spreading his knees apart and bending them with gentle hands. He was pliant, willing, and so fucking sexy that Brendon thought he was going to die.

He keened and arched his back when he felt the first of Brendon's fingers slip inside of him, a sharp stab of pain heightening the intense pleasure of it, and fell back. His eyes sank closed as he relaxed, Ryan's gentle stroking of his lower belly with both hands having a lot to do with that. He leaned down to whisper into Jon's ear, "He's going to take you Jon, and he's going to be so gentle with you, and you're going to love every goddamn second of it. And while he's doing that, I'm going to take your cock into my mouth..."

Jon tipped his head back and wailed at the ceiling suddenly, both at the feel of another of Brendon's fingers sliding slickly into him and Ryan's words, breathed hotly into his ear.

"Oh, fuck. I want--" Brendon started, and Ryan nodded at him, so he knelt between Jon's legs and positioned himself while Ryan moved over to straddle Jon's waist with his head right above his straining, twitching cock. Jon groaned, letting his hips rock with every movement Brendon made, moving smoothly in sync with him when he slid inside.

And oh. The searing, intense, blinding heat. Ryan had been right - Jon was fucking exquisite.

It wasn't a shriek or a moan or a wail that spilled from Jon's lips then, it was a sigh. A soft, contented sigh that surprised Brendon - it was as if Jon had been waiting for this, all his life. It was like he'd just come home to his own bed after a long, hard road traveled. It was the sound of someone who felt comfortable with himself for the first time.

Ryan smiled from where he was sitting on Jon's stomach with his ass facing him, running his hands down Jon's bare stomach. He watched his thighs shift as they were draped over Brendon's shoulders, and bent over to wrap soft, pliant lips around the head of his cock. A spurt of precome burst into his mouth, and he smiled around him as he swirled his wet, hot, expert tongue around him.

It was around that point that Jon realized two things; one, there was no way he was going to last very long with Brendon slamming into him hard enough to make him feel like he couldn't breathe and Ryan nursing his dick like a particularly thick milkshake. Two, he was fairly sure he was going to be craving this again very soon.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, fuckfuckfuck..." Brendon hissed out through gritted teeth, swearing and fucking into Jon like he would die if he didn't. Jon laid there and took it, because in the wake of Brendon's incredible hunger he felt helpless and sexy and necessary. And he liked it.

Ryan, meanwhile, was using his tongue on the underside of his cock, licking wetly up its length as if the taste was as good for him as the sensation was for Jon. He was all but deepthroating him, and Jon's eyes rolled back in his head as he reached out to tap his back.

"Ryan...fuck. Gonna come."

"Mmm," Ryan purred around him, and the vibration, along with the feel of Brendon tensing up, swearing, and then erupting in a wet rush inside him was enough to send him hurtling over the edge. He let out a high-pitched cry like a dying animal, and came so hard he thought he might pass out or have an out-of-body experience or spontaneously combust or something. Ryan swallowed like a whore, and he found he liked that too. And then he sat up, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and smiling tiredly at Brendon, who was carefully pulling out.

The feel of wetness running down the insides of his sore, stretched thighs, his heated, sweaty skin cooling, his breathing returning to normal...Jon decided he could get used to this post-coital drowsy comfort. He'd never felt like this with any of the girls he'd fucked, like some precious thing to be held later. Of course, that didn't mean he wanted to be...Brendon and Ryan's girlfriend or something. Fucktoy. Whatever.

"If we do this again, I don't want it to be all about me," he said a little defensively as Ryan climbed off of him and sat on the edge of the bed so that Brendon could suck him off. Apparently giving Jon a blowjob had aroused him quite a bit - his cock was swollen and leaking already.

Ryan glanced back at him as he curled up in the bed, watching Brendon work. "We wanted to please you, J. You deserve it. But yeah, next time we can--angh! Fuck!"

Brendon sat back on his heels, grinning triumphantly and letting his throat muscles work Ryan's orgasm down. "I can make him come like a shotgun blast."

"I see this," Jon said, reaching for him with a new kind of longing settling into his chest. Brendon and Ryan joined him at the same time, each one of them taking a side and snuggling up. Never in his life had Jon felt so...adored, as four arms wrapped around him and two heads nestled against his chest.

"We love you so much, J," Ryan said tenderly, kissing his cheek as Brendon gave his earlobe a sleepy, loving nibble.

"I love you guys, too. I can't believe what we just did, though."

"If you don't want to do it again, that's all right," Brendon murmured soothingly into his ear, and Jon could tell he was drifting off.

"I didn't say that."

Beside him, Ryan smiled against his skin. "Shh. Sleep now."

And so they did.

END

{things I know so far}

2006-09-19T00:15:44Z

Avoid,
A VOID.

The desire for
a solitary state of being
is not a crime
or a flaw.

Cut your fucking teeth
on the vicious fucking heat
of a bloody-nosed slut
who doesn't even realize
that she's already a lost cause.

THIS SILENCE?
is not pregnant.
It's in labor.

I am your nightmare,
and you are my sweating victim.
Sweat with the fear
that I give you,
as if you were getting the best fuck
of your life.

This thing that I know is,
BEING INSANE VALIDATES YOUR DEPTH TO OTHERS.
Be as shallow and vapid as the next,
but if you're a basket case people will listen to you.
Does crazy come with an otherwise-unattainable insight?
This thing, I do not know.

When the poetry is quick, bursting,
it's bullet poetry.
Firing out like a gunshot.
And when it's good?
It's bullet poetry electric.
Shot me dead.

Yeah yeah yeah, fuck you too.

{bullet poetry electric}

2006-09-12T03:02:37Z

Sing strong,
drink in all that bullet poetry electric.
Rush, duck, into this fuck.
You're a pretty thing
wrapped in all that glitter,
you know how sharp your eyes are.

And I'm reading a book
on the last train home.
The rain-bright streets
slicking the city pavement with dark rainbows.
Cars rushing past while a a pretty girl
gets fucked in a hotel room over our heads.

Her life is exotic,
different from one like a girl
who's maybe not so pretty.
But she rushed, she rushed,
into that fuck.
And now she's paying that price.
Girl, you're gonna carry that weight.

Honey-warm and razor-sharp,
lovely fucking armchair of a girl.

Rain-slick streets like dark rainbows
illuminate the black,
but for a girl who is only now realizing
that it's too late,
the bullet poetry electric burns her tongue.

Shock that slut,
the pretty girl lost this game.

Jon Walker table for patd_100

2006-09-08T18:02:33Z

So, I absolutely and completely have fallen in love with Jon Walker. ALL of my fic bunnies lately have involved him in some way or another, and so I've decided to put the inspiration to use by claiming him for a table over at patd_100.

</td>

001.	Beginnings.	002.	Middles.	003.	Ends.	004.	Firsts.	005.	Lasts.
006.	Hours.	007.	Days.	008.	Weeks.	009.	Months.	010.	Years.
011.	Friends.	012.	Enemies.	013.	Lovers.	014.	Strangers.	015.	Classmates.
016.	Family.	017.	Parents.	018.	Children.	019.	Him.	020.	Her.
021.	Birth.	022.	Death.	023.	Life.	024.	Choices.	025.	Accident.
026.	Smell.	027.	Sound.	028.	Touch.	029.	Taste.	030.	Sight.
031.	Sunrise.	032.	Sunset.	033.	Too Much.	034.	Not Enough.	035.	Mask.
036.	Breakfast.	037.	Lunch.	038.	Dinner.	039.	Food.	040.	Drink.
041.	Rain.	042.	Snow.	043.	Lightning.	044.	Thunder.	045.	Storm.
046.	Winter.	047.	Summer.	048.	Spring.	049.	Fall.	050.	Vacation.
051.	Humor.	052.	Angst.	053.	Fluff.	054.	And.	055.	If.
056.	Birthday.	057.	Christmas.	058.	Thanksgiving.	059.	Halloween.	060.	New Year.
061.	Broken.	062.	Shattered.	063.	Hurt.	064.	Agony.	065.	Healing.
066.	Anger.	067.	Love.	068.	Loss.	069.	Jealousy.	070.	Denial.
071.	Sex.	072.	Kink.	073.	Threesome.	074.	Seduction.	075.	Party.
076.	Secrets.	077.	Betrayal.	078.	Discovery.	079.	Confession.	080.	Redemption.
081.	School.	082.	Work.	083.	Home.	084.	High.	085.	Low.
086.	Circle.	087.	Heart.	088.	Lost.	089.	Found.	090.	Missing.
091.	Epiphany.	092.	Dream.	093.	Break-up.	094.	Make-up.	095.	Lies.
096.	Guilt.	097.	Want.	098.	Orgy.	099.	Writer‘s Choice.	100.	Writer‘s Choice.

I've already got a few in there as you can see, but I'm definitely going to be filling this one up fast.

Deja Vu All Over Again

2006-09-07T17:20:58Z

Title: Deja Vu All Over Again, part I
Fandom: Panic!at the Disco RPS
Pairing: Brendon/Jon
Rating: NC-17, for swearing and m/m sex.
Summary: Brendon's decisions affect the band as a whole, and after a series of twists and turns he's starting to wonder if he's been the selfish one all along.
Disclaimer: This is a work of complete fiction.

It was late, nearly closing time, when Brendon came into the Starbucks just outside of Vegas. He hadn't felt much of a need to call ahead and check if Jon was there - he and Jon had known each other since before forever, and he knew that he would be. He'd be there because he needed him right then.

Sure enough, he was wiping down a table when he pushed open the glass door, the warm scent of raw coffee hitting him right away. Burning sugar and coffee beans - that was what Jon smelled like. Brendon had spent a fairly unsettling amount of time considering Jon's scent, something he had yet to really allow himself to think about.

As soon as he felt the new presence in the room, Jon glanced up. A grin spread across his round, good-natured face as soon as he recognized Brendon, his soft, sandy-brown hair tousled from a day's work and his cheeks a little flushed from cleaning up. He looked healthy and alive, with his warm dark eyes and soft-looking, round stomach that was outlined by the snug black t-shirt he wore. He looked so...comfortable. Like one could just curl up against him and sleep away everything.

"Brendon, hey!" he said cheerfully, putting down the cloth he'd been cleaning the tables with and approaching his friend. It had been a while since they'd seen each other - Panic! at the Disco had taken off in ways that neither of them had expected, and Jon couldn't blame Brendon for looking as tired as he did right then. But there was something else in it, too - Jon was perceptive and sensitive enough to figure that out right away. There was a weariness to Brendon, not just the tiredness that came with touring. He looked burned out, aching. He looked like someone who had just been forced to do something they really hadn't wanted to, and it had drained him.

"Hi, Jon," Brendon said, his voice hoarse from all the crying he hadn't been doing but needed to, as he sank down heavily into one of the chairs around the tables. Without hesitation, Jon sat down next to him, putting an arm around his shoulders.

"What's wrong?" Jon asked quietly, glancing around to make sure the coffeeshop was empty. He'd been left to close that night, but this seemed like one of those things he should double-check for.

Brendon was silent for a moment. And then, "I kicked Brent out of the band."

Jon blinked at him. "Come again?"

"He just...he wasn't doing anything, Jon! Did you know, that on the album, I was the one who played the fucking bass for pretty much every song? I don't even know how to play bass, Jon! I had to learn, because he was either too lazy or too busy fucking groupies and milking his newfound fame! He wasn't getting along with any of us, he and I were getting into really vicious fights like every week, even Ryan had gotten to the point where he couldn't deal with him anymore. He wasn't showing up for rehearsals. I'm the frontman for the band, it's my responsibility to take care of shit like that. I...I didn't have any choice," Brendon said, his voice dropping to a whisper before he leaned over and dropped his head onto Jon's shoulder.

"Hey, come on," Jon said helplessly, gently patting the back of his head. "It sounds to me like you did the right thing, Brendon."

"He was one of my best friends," Brendon said, startled at how the tears were starting to build up behind his eyes now. "I can't believe I did what I did. But I had to. Am I an asshole, Jon?"

"Not at all," Jon said vehemently, feeling a sudden surge of anger toward Brent for forcing Brendon to do what he had done.

"He's so mad at me," Brendon whispered, pressing his face against the warm black fabric of Jon's shirt. "I'm an idiot, Jon. I should have asked you to be our bassist from the very beginning. It's just that Brent approached me first, and he and I were so tight..."

"Hey," Jon said, cutting him off and ducking his head so he could look Brendon in the eye. "Don't make excuses for that, you don't have to. It's your band, you were under no obligation to ask anyone to be your bassist. You chose who you felt was right at the time, no big deal."

"I chose wrong," Brendon said, looking him in the eye, and Jon was surprised to see the wetness dripping down his cheeks. Brendon had never, ever been a crier. "Be our bassist, Jon?"

Jon paused, looking around the dimly-lit Starbucks. "Hell, yes."

A faint smile broke through Brendon's tears then, his dark eyes lighting up a little. "Really?"

"Of course."

Brendon wiped his tears away, blushing a little and shaking his head at himself. "Fuck, I'm sorry. Look at me."

"Don't be sorry."

+++++++

It was six months later that Brendon found himself in bed with Jon, curled up against his warm softness the way he'd always wanted to be, rain slashing coldly against the windows of their shared hotel room. Jon was asleep, lying on his side and snoring softly. Brendon found he loved those little flaws of his - the way he snored, the way his soft, round cheeks were always pillow-lined when he woke up. The way he just let his hair fall where it would, as opposed to spending hours with a flatiron the way he and Ryan and Spencer would. He loved his sweet, honest, vaguely awkward nature, the way he understood things that no one else did, the way he quietly observed everything around him and knew more about people than they were aware of.

He watched his face now, ran his fingertips down the smooth, rounded curve of his shoulder. His skin was sleep-warm, and he stirred a little before opening his eyes.

"Hey."

"Morning, button," Brendon said adoringly, the nickname so ridiculous that they both laughed a little.

"Button? Fuck you, man. Is it morning?"

"Just barely," Brendon said, glancing out the window. The sky was still dark, but that could have been because of the rain. Jon yawned.

"What are we doing today?"

"Not much. Want to take a shower with me?"

"Have you just been waiting for me to wake up so you could ask me that?"

"Yes," Brendon said nakedly, and Jon smiled, touching his face.

"Idiot. And yes."

In the shower, they laughed and kissed and washed each other's hair, their wet skin touching when Brendon wrapped his arms around Jon's neck and drew him close, kissing him long and deep. His mouth was swollen and wet from the shower, and when he slipped his tongue into his mouth he felt like melting down the drain with it. Jon moaned softly into his mouth, putting both bass-callused hands against his hips and pulling him flush against him, their hips and erections pressing together. Brendon groaned heavily when he felt the stiff cock pressing into his thigh, arching against it as the sharp pleasure shot through him, crackling under his skin. His own cock kicked and swelled helplessly, and he sighed when Jon leaned in to fasten his lips to the junction of his neck and shoulder, sucking sweetly.

Tilting his head to one side to give Jon more room to nibble, he leaned back slightly so that he was standing directly under the spray. "I love you."

"Mmm. Love you, too," Jon murmured against his skin, sucking a deep hickey just above his collarbone. It stung a little, but when he pulled away he saw that he'd left his mark on Brendon, and they were both pleased. "You taste good. Clean."

"Maybe because we're in the shower, dumbass," Brendon said, laughing and then moaning when Jon slid a hand down his wet stomach, taking his aching cock into his hand and tugging gently. He was always like this, so tender and passionate at the same time, almost as if he was in awe of him. He looked down to watch Brendon's erection jerk and pulse against his palm like a living thing, fascinated. The open wonder on his sweet face was enough to make Brendon want to cradle him close against his chest and never let go. His precome slicked Jon's rough fingers with the shower water, and Brendon couldn't help but wrap a hand in his wet brown hair as Jon sank to his knees.

Brendon was the only person he'd ever done this with, and he was still slightly clumsy at giving blowjobs, but his earnestness more than made up for that. Brendon hissed through gritted teeth when he licked the head of his cock experimentally, his curious tongue tasting it, taking a moment to savor.

"Fuck. That feels good, Jon," he said quietly, leaning his head against the wall of the shower.

"I'll bet," Jon said with a grin, looking up to wink at Brendon before leaning forward with his hands on Brendon's hips and wrapping his wet lips around the head of his cock, nursing and suckling as eagerly as he would with those coffee milkshakes he liked so much. His head bobbed back and forth, his hot mouth applying suction perfectly.

"Ungh! Fuck, you've gotten better at this," Brendon grunted as Jon's tongue ran languidly up the underside of his cock, swirling around the dripping head before taking it in again and sucking firmly. Jon smiled around him, sucking with serious intent now, as Brendon's fist tightened in his hair. "God...oh, my god..."

His entire body tensed up, his whimpers and moans getting more strangled as he went stiff all of a sudden and made a choked sound and came sharply into Jon's mouth. He spurted in short, strong jerks against his tongue, his come sliding down Jon's working throat as he swallowed with little trouble.

He even licked his lips as he pulled away from Brendon's softening cock, his jaw sore and his lips swollen. He closed his eyes for a moment.

"Did you like that? Did I do okay?"

"Clearly, I did. And clearly you did," Brendon said with a loving look in Jon's direction, extending a hand to him to help him stand up. "Come on, let's get the hell out of this shower so we can fuck."

Nodding, Jon reached over to turn off the water. They brushed their teeth and toweled off together, and later they had room-service breakfast, feeding each other sliced fruit and eating cereal together. They sat up in bed and cuddled in sweatpants and socks, running fingers over each other's skin and kissing until Ryan knocked on the door. Jon got up to answer it.

"You guys aren't dressed yet?" he asked, blinking at Jon in his pajamas, and Jon gestured to the sated-looking Brendon on the bed behind him.

"We got a little tied up in the shower," he said with a wink, and Ryan blushed.

"Um, okay...but Spencer and I were going to go out for lunch?"

"Sure, we can come. Just give us a few minutes to get dressed," Jon said, opening the door further to let Ryan in. It was at that exact moment that their hotel-room phone rang. Brendon picked it up.

Jon's eyes narrowed as he heard Brendon say "What?!", his fingers tightening around the phone so tightly that his knuckles went white. A cold swoop of fear filled his stomach. he had the sudden feeling that he and Brendon's comfortable little existence was about to be turned upside down. Brendon hung up the phone, sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.

"...Brendon?" Ryan asked nervously, and Jon approached him.

"What's wrong, kid?"

"It was Pete," Brendon said quietly, not looking up at either of them. "He called to say that Brent's had some friends working on our road crew since before I kicked him out, and that they've told him about you and I, Jon. He's going to sell it to the papers. By tomorrow night, it's going to be all over the world that you and I are involved in a sordid gay love affair."

His voice was flat and dead, defeated. It scared Jon - Brendon was invincible, as tough as they came. Ryan looked as if he felt the same way.

"Well, who cares? The fangirls will eat it up," he said tersely, and Jon nodded.

"Yeah, they love that shit."

"Or, you know. They'll all lose interest in us because you and I are no longer available, and since only Ryan and Spencer's fans will continue to support us, our fanbase will be cut in half and the band will slip into obscurity. Because of us. Because of me," Brendon whispered to the floor. "Once again, I've made a decision that could potentially destroy this band. God, I'm so fucking selfish. I should never have let myself fall for you, Jon. If it wasn't for you, I could have been straight."

Jon felt the words stab him in the chest as surely as if Brendon had taken out a knife and done it himself. He actually took a step back, blinking with the sudden hurt.

"...What?" he whispered, and Ryan looked scared, looking back and forth between them.

"Brendon, this isn't your fault. Brent's being an asshole, it's not like you could help who you fell in love with. Don't say things like that, you're hurting Jon," he said softly, approaching Brendon and putting a hand on his shoulder. "We're going to be okay. We can make this better."

Brendon stood up, looking away from them and shrugging off Ryan's hand. "I need to go."

"Where?" Jon asked, still reeling from the sudden realization that Brendon now thought that their relationship was a mistake, a selfish move on his part. Something that was holding them back.

But Brendon was gone, rushing out of the hotel room and slamming the door behind him. Stunned, Jon dropped to sit on the edge of the bed he and Brendon had been sharing not half an hour before.

"What are we going to do?" he asked Ryan, who sat down next to him and put a scrawny arm around his shoulders much like he had done for Brendon in an almost-closed Starbucks six months before.

Ryan didn't say anything.

Simplistic (And There's Cake, Too!)

2006-08-26T14:58:43Z

Title: Simplistic (And There's Cake, Too!)
Fandom: MCR RPS
Pairing: Ray/Gerard, mentions of Frank/Mikey
Rating: NC-17, for m/m sex, swearing, and enough fluff to rot your teeth.
Summary: It's cold outside, and Gerard and Ray are all alone, so Ray bakes a cake. And then there's sex.
Notes: I haven't written pure fluff in a long time, but this one is about as cuddly as I get. Total PWP too, you know I love you kids.
Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one, and make no money from this. This is a work of fiction.

Ray was baking a cake.

The sweet, heavy scent of it hit Gerard the second he pushed open the door to the huge penthouse apartment he shared with the other four guys in the band, and he breathed in deeply. It was an incredibly comforting thing to come home to, considering that the air outside was bitter-cold and his skin was bone-chilled from it. It was going to snow tonight - hard. He was a little worried about Mikey, Bob and Frank, who were at an airport right now hoping that their flight to San Francisco wouldn't be canceled, but here at home in New York there was just he and Ray and the scent of cake batter and whipped frosting, and he couldn't be too concerned at the moment.

The air inside the apartment was warm, and his lungs ached to breathe it in after the hurt-cold freeze outside. He shrugged off his thick black coat and tossed it to the sleep-soft black sofa in the living room as he crossed it on his way to the kitchen. And sure enough.

"Holy shit, I wasn't wrong. You really are baking," Gerard said delightedly, upon finding Ray standing there stirring a bowl of thick vanilla frosting. Ray grinned up at him, his two slightly-crooked front teeth suddenly disarmingly adorable. His thick, wild brown hair was as untamed as ever, just the way Gerard liked it. Ray never looked like Ray when his hair wasn't in its natural state. Besides, it was so soft and cuddly-looking, framing his round, friendly face with the warm, dark eyes so perfectly.

"Been at this shit all afternoon," he said cheerfully, holding up the frosting-covered spoon for Gerard to taste. "Try this. Too sweet?"

Sticking his tongue out cautiously - because he'd been privy to Mikey's attempts at cooking before - Gerard took a taste. He was pleasantly surprised to find that it was delicious - a rich, almost alcoholic sort of sweet vanilla taste, almost as if Ray had used rum or straight-up undiluted vanilla in the recipe.

"It's perfect," he said, feeling a sudden and unexpected swell of affection in his chest for Ray. He was so sweet, so warm and friendly and approachable. Always mellow, never one to lose his temper like Mikey or get lazy sometimes like Frank, strong and kind and pretty much the glue that held the band together sometimes. He was the object of everyone's harmless crush, the one everyone just kind of wanted to snuggle and go to the prom with.

"Great!" Ray said happily. "I figured since it was just you and I here tonight, I'd make something special. Plus, it's crazy-cold outside and a nice warm slice of cake and hot chocolate is always best for that."

"Can we watch TV with our socks on?" Gerard asked, and the smile Ray gave him made his heart a little melty.

"Of course, what kind of cold-day cake would this be if we didn't?"

Gerard ran to get his favorite blanket from the coat closet.

Just as Ray was finishing frosting the cake - a giant, chocolate glory that was still fall-apart-warm when they ate it - the snow started to fall outside in thick flakes. Mikey called a few minutes later when they were starting on their second slices.

"Flight got canceled, the boys and I are going to get a hotel room. I just didn't want you to worry," he shouted over the crackling of his cell phone. The reception in the airport was terrible, but Gerard understood enough.

"Thanks kiddo, stay warm."

He heard Frank grabbing the phone, and smiled because he could see him wrapping a protective arm around Mikey's slender waist in his mind's eye. "Don't worry, I won't let this guy get too cold!" he shouted, and Gerard vaguely heard Bob in the background saying, 'could you two please not be making out in the middle of a crowded airport? There are chicks here. Chicks I might not want thinking I'm gay.'

Gerard laughed, holding up the phone so Ray could shout, "See you guys in a few days!" before the reception fritzed out entirely and he had to hang up. They curled back up on the couch together, tucked safely under the thick brown blanket from the closet while the snow piled up outside. Gerard sighed a little, putting down his plate and feeling Ray slip an arm around his shoulders as he leaned against him, feeling so drowsy and comfortable that he was pretty sure he never wanted to move. Ray was so solid and warm to lean against, his eyes were slipping shut.

And then Ray was kissing him, pulling him against his broad chest with big, rough hands. Gerard made a startled noise in the back of his throat, and then he was kissing back. The night had turned into something dreamy, and he wrapped his arms around Ray's neck and slid his hands into all that thick, soft hair. Ray pulled him closer until he was sitting in his lap, straddling those muscular thighs and moaning at the feel of strong, callused hands sliding up his back underneath his t-shirt. They kissed and kissed and kissed, Ray's soft, generous mouth moving against his with soft, wet sounds. He sucked on his tongue and moaned into his mouth, and Gerard couldn't help but run his hands up that strong chest.

"What are we doing?" Ray gasped out a moment later as Gerard stood up, taking his hand into his own. He felt crazy, reckless, breathless with this. It wasn't anything insanely deep, he just suddenly wanted Ray very much.

"Don't know. Come to bed with me?" Gerard said, smiling down at him, and Ray bit his lower lip for a moment before smiling and nodding. They rushed to his bedroom, tearing off their clothes as they went. By the time they got there, they'd left a trail of t-shirts and jeans and socks and boxers in the hall, and were laughing when they left the door open.

"God, you're so fucking beautiful," Gerard breathed, taking a moment to drink in Ray's long, rope-tight body. The windows were open, but they were on the fourteenth floor. Besides, he liked the sight of the thick white snow falling through the inky-black night sky outside. He knew that if he touched the glass, it would be cold.

Ray's cock was a glorious thing. It was big, something Gerard had suspected previously from stealing glances at the bulge in his tight jeans onstage before. But now that he was seeing it live and in person, he realized that it was even more perfect than he'd imagined. Long and thick and perfectly shaped, it fucking made his mouth water. He sighed a little, reaching out to cup it in his hand, smiling when Ray hissed. It pulsed against his palm like a living thing, and he gave it an experimental tug. His fingers brushed over the swollen head, and Ray groaned and bucked into his touch.

"Fuck, Gee."

"That's what I was hoping for," Gerard said a little breathlessly, leaning in for another kiss. Ray's long, rough fingers stroked his soft, pale belly, and he had to fight back the swelling of self-consciousness. He could stand to lose a few pounds he knew, could get a tan, maybe...

"You're beautiful," Ray said tenderly, and somehow Gerard wasn't surprised to hear exactly what he'd needed to. Ray gripped his stiff, dripping cock in one hand, the guitar-shaped calluses making his stroke even better as he slid his fist up and down once, twice. Gerard's head tipped back with how good it felt, the pleasure zinging up his spine and making his blood hot. Together, they fell back onto the bed.

The fine, light brown hair dusting Ray's strong thighs and lower stomach made him want to nuzzle him, and so Gerard took a moment to press his face against Ray's chest. He mouthed his nipple wetly, something that made Ray groan and thread his long fingers in his hair. Gerard straddled his hips, leaving the light on, because as much as he wanted to hide his pudginess, he wanted to be able to look at Ray even more. His head was rolling back and forth on the pillow, his thick, bushy hair cushioning it and sticking to his baby-round cheeks. His dark eyes were clenched shut, his big hands braced on Gerard's hips, and he was the most blindingly beautiful thing he'd ever seen all of a sudden.

Their cocks pressed together when he leaned over, and they both gritted their teeth at the contact. A wet trail of precome was spread across Ray's stomach, and he looked a little confused when Gerard slid down to position his face between his legs. He'd been expecting a blowjob, but Gerard instead lifted Ray's legs and laid them over his shoulders so that his calves were draped down his back. He let out a cry though, when Gerard pushed his face closer and gently tongued his opening, flicking his tongue out and slurping wetly at his balls.

"Fuck, Gee!" Ray cried out, his voice sounding a little hysterical, and so Gerard pointed to the nightstand next to his head.

"Lotion in there. Use it when I jerk off," he managed to get out, and then wasted no time shifting around so that his ass was facing Ray's face, anticipating how good this was going to feel - Ray had the best hands.

Sure enough, when he finally slid one slick finger into him, finding his prostate with an almost frightening precision, Gerard nearly wailed. It was a scratchy, pleasantly itchy feeling, and he arched his back like a cat in heat and whimpered when he was stretched out so carefully. He could have let Ray finger him for hours, but he finally pulled them out of him with a wet sound and gave his ass a playful smack to let him know to move around.

Gerard did so, and they were laughing when he straddled Ray's hips again. It felt so good to be able to laugh while doing this, their erections rubbing slickly against each other, the friction making them moan and giggle. It felt friendly - warm and comfortable and happy, not tense and urgent like the rest of the sex he'd had. There was no worrying about whether or not he'd be good enough for Ray, if his round little belly was turning him off any, if his cock was big enough for him. Instead, they were kissing and laughing and naked and moaning together, and then he was lowering himself onto Ray's big, gorgeous cock.

"Annnnngh," Gerard groaned as soon as he felt it slide into him, feeling even thicker than it looked. He'd never felt so full in his entire life, so filled up inside. And Ray put both of those big, strong hands against the sides of his waist and helped to hold him up, smiling up at him. He was still Ray, those warm eyes were still the same, and it really turned Gerard on. Frank had told him once before that when he and Mikey were in bed, Mikey changed into a different person entirely - someone aggressive and hungry who was completely insatiable. He thought it was sexy, but Gerard had always thought that he'd like his sexual partner to stay the same when they were in bed - sleeping with someone could be a stressful thing, and he figured it would be comforting to know that it was the same person that he loved there with him.

Ray sighed deeply, leaning his head back onto the pillow. Gerard was slick and searing-tight all around him, gripping his cock like a glove. He reached up to touch his face with one hand while he arched his back and started to move, and then he couldn't do much of anything because it felt so goddamn good.

"Nngh..." Gerard grunted, rising and falling, feeling Ray slide in and out of his body. His own cock was stiff and jerking against his belly, drops of precome splattering all over his chest. Ray slid his hand up his chest and tweaked one of Gerard's nipples, tugging on it gently with a teasing grin, and they laughed some more while Gerard rode him. Soon, Ray's entire body tensed up like one of his guitar strings, and his slim hips started bucking a little harder underneath Gerard, who groaned and sped up with his movements.

"Close?" he gasped out, rolling his hips, and Ray clenched his eyes shut and nodded.

"Me too," and then he was falling forward and Ray was taking him into those powerful hands again and somehow flipping them over without slipping out of him. Gerard was now on his stomach, a little startled at the sudden change but pleased when Ray lifted his hips and started to pound into him. Those fucking hands against his ass, that hot breath panting in his ear, the brush of that wild hair against the back of his neck. There was pretty much nothing better than being fucked by Ray Toro, he decided right then.

Ray went taut all over, his breath catching, and then Gerard could feel his cock swelling and pulsing out his orgasm into his body in long, hot spurts that seemed to go on forever. He nearly melted at the feel, but not quite. Instead, he came. His orgasm was different from Ray's - it came in quick, short bursts against the sheets, spurting out a handful of times and then ending, leaving his cock limp and twitching helplessly.

Ray collapsed next to him, and together they rolled away from the wet spot they'd made. He cuddled against him, smiling a dazed sort of smile when Ray gathered him up into his arms and nuzzled his hair. "Why did we do that, Ray?"

"To be honest with you, I have no idea. It just seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Felt good though, right?" Ray's voice suddenly sounded a little concerned. "No regrets?"

Gerard ran his fingers through the soft, curling brown hair on Ray's chest and smiled against his warm, damp skin. "None at all. But is this going to make things weird between us now?"

"I don't think so. I don't feel any differently about you than I ever did," Ray said honestly into Gerard's soft hair. "Gee, what you and I have...it's not like what Mikey and Frank have, and I don't mean that in the sense that I don't love you as much as they love each other or whatever. What I mean is that I love you. We're best friends, we work together. But this doesn't have to be some passionate, crashing romance like the one Mikey and Frank have, we don't need to announce to the world that we're dating or in love or anything, we don't need to pledge our undying commitment to each other to know that there's love here. We're best friends who kind of accidentally had sex, and it was really good. Hell, we might do it again sometime. Isn't that enough?"

Gerard relaxed against him, relieved. "Yes. Yes, it is. God, I was worried that you were going to get all, 'when's the wedding?' on me now. I don't think I'm ready for what Mikey and Frank have, but I love you a whole lot and I really liked having sex with you. I'm glad we don't have to complicate shit unnecessarily."

Ray smiled. "Don't worry. This feels right, the way it is right now. Let's just be best friends and have sex sometimes and cuddle even more than that and not overanalyze everything."

"God, yes."

Gerard rested his head against Ray's chest and felt his eyelids getting heavy, hearing Ray yawn. Outside, the snow was still falling, the air out there bitter-hurt cold. But in here everything was warm and comfortable and not unnecessarily complicated, and somewhere his brother was probably having sex with Frank in a hotel room somewhere while Bob clamped a pillow over his head and pretended he didn't hear it from the room next door.

When he opened his eyes again, waking up from a deep, dreamless sleep, Ray was in the shower. It was early in the morning, and the entire world was blanketed with a thick icing of snow, like God had been making a world-cake along with Ray last night. The sky was a dull gray, which meant that it would probably snow again soon, and there was leftover cake in the fridge for breakfast because that was how he and Ray rolled.

Ray emerged from the bathroom, toweling his shower-damp hair dry. He wasn't wearing anything but a white towel around his slim waist, and Gerard felt his skin heat up a little at the sight of him. He had such a beautiful body. Long and rope-tight, muscular in all the right places, with that long, elegant neck.

"Shower's all yours," he said with a grin, brushing his wet hair down while he could - it pretty much did its own thing when it was dry, and seemed to consider Ray's attempts to brush it a personal insult then.

Gerard flopped back down against the pillows, feeling languid and lazy. "It's the most perfect day ever, Ray."

Ray tossed a pillow at him, laughing at his romantic nature. "No kidding. Get up, I'm making hot chocolate again."

He kissed him on the lips as he walked naked to the shower, and somewhere in the city, in a hotel room across the street from the airport, Frank and Mikey were still having sex.

Sick (1/1)

2006-08-23T16:24:59Z

Title: Sick
Pairing: Frank/Mikey (in a sick, terrible kind of way.)
Summary: Frank loves Mikey with a terrible kind of intensity, and Mikey knows that it's the price he has to pay.
Pairing: Boy howdy. NC-17, for m/m rape, ANGST, disturbing imagery, and swearing.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, this never happened, and I make no money from this.

"Mikey," Frank said. "I love you."

And Mikey nodded, his eyes closed behind his glasses. As he positioned himself between his scrawny legs, Frank reached down and took them off of his face, carefully folding them and laying them down next to them. The rug on the floor of the hotel room was rough and scratchy, and outside on the rain-slick street below, cars were rushing by, their drivers completely unaware that right above their heads one young man was being willingly broken for the hundredth time.

"Look at me?" Frank asked, his voice tender. But underneath the adoration, there was the tone of someone who didn't expect to be disobeyed. So Mikey opened his eyes.

"There's those pretty eyes," Frank said, and Mikey did it because while he wasn't in love, he owed Frank this. He hated being on his back for him, hated and needed every second, every push of his hips, every stab of searing pain. This was the penance he was paying for breaking his best friend's heart, for not being able to love him back. Sometimes, when Frank was done with him, he'd smile and kiss him (at first when they'd started doing this, he hadn't been able to kiss him, but now he could), and then he'd stumble into the bathroom and throw up until his throat and stomach burned. Sometimes he'd lean over the sink with his face flushed and sweaty, coughing up vomit and semen (if he'd given Frank a blowjob that night) in front of the mirror. He always made sure to open the window or keep the sink water running when he did this, so Frank wouldn't hear. Because he was supposed to love him.

It had happened one night a long time ago, when Mikey was only twenty years old. The air was warm-heavy, and Mikey's glasses had been concealing his facial expression in the rapidly-fading light of dusk. Frank had smiled tiredly at him as he took a long drag on their joint, closing his eyes and holding in the sweet smoke for a moment before exhaling it into the air. Together, they'd watched it swirl up to the leaves of the tree they were sitting under.

"Nice out tonight," Mikey said, an inane comment for the occasion but sweet all the same. A little awkward, a comment to hold someone nervously at arm's length, and it was kind of endearing. Frank handed him the joint, and was quiet as he watched him take a hit. His throat worked a little as he breathed in the smoke, and it was unbelievably attractive. Mikey had one of those long, elegant necks, the kind that just begged for hickeys, Frank thought.

"Yeah," Frank said, taking the joint. The falling night around them was quiet, settling into the air with a cool sort of sweetness to be breathed in with the weed smoke. And then he'd opened his mouth, as the fireflies glinted through the dark air around them.

"Mikey?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm like, really in love with you."

The silence that fell around them suddenly hadn't been the warm, comfortable silence of before. Now it was a thick, tense thing, like rubber being pulled over their faces. Mikey stared at him, but Frank could barely see his face in the dusk.

"What?"

"I need you," Frank rushed on, the words spilling nervously out of his mouth all at once, all the emotion and hunger he'd been struggling with finally breaking loose like ice in warm water. "Ever since I met you, since you were that scrawny, knobby-kneed kid in glasses interning for Eyeball...God, you were so fucking beautiful. You still are. You have this...this mystique about you, you're so quiet and mysterious and it only made me want to get to know you even more. And then I did, and you're so sweet and intelligent and brave and...fuck Mikey, I love you so much."

He'd torn open the skin of his chest and exposed his heart and muscles and veins and bones to Mikey, and all Mikey could do was blink at him. Slowly, Frank became aware with a cold fear that something bad was about to happen.

"Frank..." Mikey started, the gripping in his chest making him heartsick for his best friend. "Frank, I. Um. Thank you?"

Frank laughed, unexpectedly. But it was a high-pitched, mirthless sound. "Thank you? Is that all you're going to say to me, Mikey?"

"I don't know what else to say, Frank," Mikey said helplessly, leaning in so he could take his friend's hand in a desperate need to let him know that he wasn't disgusted or horrified, but he wasn't in love either. "I'm flattered, I love you too...but as a friend, like a brother. Like I love Gee."

Already, Frank could feel the hot tears rising behind his eyes, spilling down his face. "But...this isn't how it's supposed to happen, Mikey. You were supposed to confess your love for me too, and then we were supposed to kiss and hold hands and shit."

"I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry," Mikey said, his own tears burning under his eyelids. "I just...I can't Frank, I can't give you that. Please don't say this is the end of us though, I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Me neither," Frank said quietly, pulling his hand away from Mikey's. "Goddamnit, Mikey!"

"I'm sorry."

"All I needed from you was your love," Frank whispered, his heart cracking in two inside his chest. He could feel it.

"And you have it!" Mikey said thickly, not bothering to stop his own crying. "Just not that kind of love, Frank."

"Every time I look at you from now on, all I'm going to be able to feel is this," Frank said, referring to the incredible, bone-cracking pain he was in, and it wasn't a threat or a jab or anything. His voice was suddenly dead, flat, the voice of a man stating a simple fact for future reference.

"That's not true. You'll find someone else," Mikey said, aching to hold Frank until it was all better, but the problem here was this was all his fault.

"There's no one else like you Mikey, and if there is, I hope I never find them. I'd rather spend the rest of my life hurting like this but knowing what it is to love you, than to move on with anyone else and forget this," Frank whispered, wrapping his arms around himself.

Those words shot straight to Mikey's heart, and finally he reached out and pulled Frank against his chest. His eyes were damp but not leaking anymore as Frank sobbed into his shoulder, and the pain he felt was so intense it was almost physical. When Frank tipped his head up, taking his face into his hands and pressing his lips to his in a frantic, desperate kiss, Mikey knew that this was the price he had to pay. For leading Frank on. For making him love him.

So he wrapped his skinny arms around Frank and they kissed and kissed, every second numbing him further to the horror of the moment.

And later, when Frank undressed him so gently, whispering such tender things into his ear, and laid him on his back and fucked him in the grass, Mikey gritted his teeth against the pain and tried not to let Frank see the tears that were dripping and soaking into the dirt.

---

And now, four years later, they hadn't stopped. Mikey could feel the rug burning a hot, itchy red rash into his lower back, but lay there quietly anyway as Frank slipped his cock into him, having been careful to stretch him out first with lotion-slick fingers. Frank was always so gentle and passionate with him, and if Mikey closed his eyes he could pretend he was a dead body.

You can't feel this, this isn't happening. You're just a corpse, far away in Hell. Frank can do whatever he wants with your body, because you're not in it anymore.

It helped.

"I love you, I love you..." Frank gasped out, burying his face into Mikey's neck and taking his soft, slender cock into one hand, pumping it gently. He never could get Mikey to come when they were having sex, but he always tried. Mikey would usually smile apologetically and shrug whenever he asked him about it. "Just tired, I guess," was what he'd usually say. Frank knew he was lying, but he couldn't make himself care anymore. This terrible, consuming love for Mikey had eaten them both alive at this point.

Frank tensed up and came soon, his cock swelling up and spurting inside of Mikey. They never used a condom - it made Frank feel like there was an unnecessary barrier between them. Besides, neither of them had dated or had sex with anyone else since that night four years ago. As far as the rest of the band was concerned, they were in a loving and healthy relationship with each other. Gerard even got them presents for every "anniversary" they'd had since he'd caught Frank kissing Mikey backstage two years ago. He'd failed to notice how limp and pliant Mikey was in Frank's arms, the deadness of his eyes.

Mikey could feel Frank's semen leaking out of his ass when he pulled out, and it made him feel filthy. Violated. And redeemed.

Sick.

"Going to go...clean up," he managed to say to Frank when Frank gently helped him stand up, hating being there naked in front of him. Frank couldn't stop looking at him, at how achingly beautiful he was, all long and slender and awkwardly graceful somehow, like a newly-born deer.

Somehow, Mikey managed not to scream when Frank nodded and smiled and touched his cheek. "Sure, honey. I'll be in bed."

And in the bathroom, Mikey threw up per usual, taking a shower so hot that he felt like his skin might scald and melt off in soft clumps in the shower, leaving nothing but bloody, torn muscle and bones there. Would Frank fuck him then? Would he still love him if he didn't have any skin?

Hey...that might work.

Mikey Way was slowly, quietly going insane.

Make yourself a zombie, make yourself skinless. Then he won't.

He started by experimentally drawing the razor blade he'd been planning on shaving his face with across his lower stomach. It left a long, thin cut that bled a little bit, and then stopped. It stung. But it wasn't enough, he had to be a zombie if it was going to work.

He'd love you anyway. You did this to him, and this is how you have to be punished for it. Don't try to escape, do you want to hurt him even more? He needs you.

So he stopped for now, but there was a certain relief in knowing that he had an out, a plan now. In case things really got bad.

And then he left the bathroom and climbed into bed with Frank, who wrapped his arms around him and cuddled up to him. "Mmm. You smell good. I love you," he murmured against his wet hair, and Mikey smiled at him in the darkness of the room.

"I love you too, Frank."

End.

Waycest drabbles.

2006-08-16T19:41:53Z

Title: In The Dark
Fandom: MCR RPS
Pairing: Gerard/Mikey
Rating: PG
Summary: Gee worries too much.

"Gee, I got into a car accident. Come pick me up?"

Gerard's heart dropped into his stomach. The couch was raw and scratchy against his skin as he sat down heavily, the phone cord yanking taut in his hand.

"What? Jesus, are you okay? Don't move, I'm coming to get you. Oh God, Mikey..."

"Gee. I am calling you. Right now. Jesus, relax. I'm fine, I promise."

Still, that night he held Mikey even closer than usual as they curled up in bed together, limbs bare and tangled up in each other, the dark bruise across his brother's forehead visible even in the dark.

Title: Quick Shower
Fandom: MCR RPS
Pairing: Gerard/Mikey
Rating: Hard R
Summary: Gerard belongs to someone already.

The sweat dripping from Gerard's pale forehead was fascinating, really, and Mikey laughed that night when they stood together under the hot spray of the shower on the tour bus. He slid his soapy hands into his brother's hair and washed it, smiling when Gee giggled like a child and nuzzled his wet throat.

And later, the angles of his knees, bent over Mikey's bony shoulders as he slid his slick cock into him made Mikey want to laugh again. They gasped and rocked together in bed, still damp from their shared shower. Mikey collapsed next to him when it was over, panting and sweaty again.

"Mine," he said cheerfully, breathlessly, rolling over to tug on a lock of Gee's soft hair.

"Yours," his brother agreed.

Title: Innocent and Breathless
Fandom: MCR RPS
Pairing: Gerard/Mikey
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Just a helpless, needy thing.

It was so innocent, so breathless, the way Mikey kissed him backstage that one time. He threw his arms around his neck because it had been their first really huge performance, and kissed him with a reckless abandon. His lips tingled when he pulled away, blushing finally.

"Sorry," he said weakly, and Gerard reached up to touch his cheek, as breathless and happy as he was.

"It's okay," he said, unable to keep from licking his lips, picking up an unfamiliar taste. Mikey, his mouth. God, he could kiss him again right now and suck his tongue into his mouth, press their hips together, rock with the aching...

"No, it wasn't. I'm sorry," Mikey said quietly, an unreadable expression on his face. And before Gerard could say anything, he was rushing away.