Somehow I'd convinced myself that JuC day was today, which was bad because my story isn't done. However, it's tomorrow, so, phew!
I was asked to link the ficlets from the porn meme, so the first batch is here. It's all the bandom prompts, because I got fewer of those. Also, very little, if any porn is included in any of them. What can I say? I suck.
So, behind the cuts some MCR, a touch of Pete, and my first written Panic ever.
Mikey/Gerard, hand holding, for Turlough
Gerard loves his bedroom. It’s familiar, full of treasured possessions he can reach out and touch. He likes that it’s dark, the small window covered, leaving a small beam of diffused light. One that’s full of dust motes that Gerard watches as he curls on his bed, motionless, the thoughts in his head blanketed by drugs.
Gerard shifts his head, cheek against his drool-damp pillow, watches as Mikey walks down the stairs. He’s bundled in his coat, the furry hood against his back, and his cheeks are wind swept, cheekbones stark and made red with cold. His glasses are balanced at the end of his nose, steamed up and almost useless and Mikey blinks as he unzips his coat, shrugs it off and drops it onto the floor.
The bed dips when Mikey sits, and Gerard can feel the cold. It’s seeping from Mikey’s body, cold wind and snow, trapped in the fabric of his jeans, tangled in his hair. Gerard rolls closer, rests his cheek against Mikey’s thigh, smiles a little at the feel of Mikey’s hand in his hair.
“You’re cold,” Gerard says, and Mikey shrugs a reply, watches when Gerard shifts onto his side, and takes Mikey’s hand in his own. Mikey’s fingers are red, the tips white, and Gerard brings them to his mouth, tasting the cold against his tongue.
He sucks, cheeks hollowing as he runs his thumb across Mikey’s palm, slow unhurried strokes that pull at the beat in Gerard’s head, the reality of the moment momentarily pushing through the drugs, letting the melodies break free.
Mikey sighs and tilts back his head, exposing the line of his neck, the way his throat moves as he swallows. Gerard can’t look away, keeps watching as he licks along Mikey’s fingers, over the calluses and chilled skin. Slow, always so slow, and Mikey’s mouth is slightly open, his eyes closed as Gerard stops licking and presses a kiss against Mikey’s palm.
Mikey smiles, then curls his hand, his fingers damp against Gerard’s cheek, the heel of his palm against Gerard’s chin. He pulls his hand down, stroking over Gerard’s jaw, his neck, his chest. Mikey’s stops then, his hand splayed and it takes seconds for Gerard to entwine their fingers once more, neither saying a word, just holding on
Mikey/Pete, midnight, for Sperrywink
It’s minutes after walking off stage and Mikey’s wringing out his hair. The strands cling to his hands, sticky with sweat and product and when he stands he runs his hand over his head, rubs his palms down his thighs.
He feels hot and gross, suffering that step between performing when the sweat is fresh, and later when it’s dried and he can forget how his clothes clung to his body, his hair plastered against his head.
Now his t-shirt is clammy against his skin, and his jeans chafe and if he could be bothered he’d find Frank and his little make shift shower. He can’t though, and instead grabs the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it over his head.
“Mikeyway, is that you putting on a strip show for me?”
Which is just typical, and Mikey bundles the t-shirt up in his hand, crosses his arms across his bare chest and tries to show just how unconcerned he is that Pete Wentz is leering at him. Not that Mikey cares as such, he lives on a tour bus, he’s used to being seen semi-naked and Pete is just Pete, no one to get self conscious around. Still, Mikey wishes he’d left on his t-shirt. He’d feel less exposed as Pete walks closer, his smile bright like the sun.
“You were good today, really good.” Pete’s smile flickers, as if he’s suddenly unsure of what to say, and Mikey wants to help, smooth over the suddenly awkward silence, but he’s never been good with words and he manages a small smile, is about to go when Pete reaches out, his fingers warm against Mikey’s side, and says. “Wait.”
Mikey does, all too aware that Pete doesn’t move his hand, his fingers resting over the bump of ribs, and Mikey’s sure Pete will be able to feel his heart, the way it’s thundering in his chest.
“I thought, maybe later. We could hang out.”
Pete looks at Mikey through his lashes, has his foot turned on its side, and sounds more unsure than Mikey’s ever heard. It only makes Mikey like him even more.
“Sure, I mean. I’d like that.”
Pete’s answering smile is contagious, and Mikey finds himself smiling too, with teeth even, and he’s just glad there’s no one around but Pete to see.
“Good, great. I’ll come get you. Is midnight okay?”
“That’s fine,” Mikey says, and doesn’t think how he’ll have to sneak out of the bus, or the questions he’ll have to field.
“Awesome.” Pete’s still smiling, jumping on the balls of his feet, like the energy inside him is seeking escape. Then he’s shrugging off his jacket and hands it over, pushing it into Mikey’s hands.
“You’ll get cold with no top on.”
Which makes no sense, because it’s not cold at all. Still, Mikey pulls it on, the denim scraping against his skin, and when he fastens it all he can smell is Pete, and maybe it does make sense now. Pete seems to think so when he steps close and leans up, brushing a brief kiss against Mikey’s mouth.
“I’ll see you later, Mikeyway.”
Then disappears, leaving Mikey looking at his watch, counting the hours until twelve.
Ryan/Jon, hand holding, for themoononastick
This is stupid. Stupid and idiotic and, fuck!” Jon said, and he scowled, hands curled into tight fists. “We don’t owe them anything.”
“I know,” Ryan said, and tugged on the cuff of his sleeve, smoothed his hand down the front of his vest.
“Why do they even need to know?” Jon said, and turned toward Ryan. “We’re not made for the front page of the People; we’re not fucking Lance Bass.”
“Pity,” Ryan said, and dipped his head, hiding his smile when Jon froze in place, his mouth open slightly as he stared.
“You’re. I thought…Lance?” Jon blinked, looked at Ryan. “I thought you had a Backstreet thing. Nick whatever he’s called?”
Ryan adjusted his hat, looked at himself in the mirror to ensure it was at the correct jaunty angle. “Carter. His name’s Nick Carter.” Which was something Jon knew fine well, but Ryan was used to the teasing, and he smiled slightly, looking at Jon’s reflection in the mirror. “I’d do Lance.”
There was a silence, then Jon was smiling too, his hands uncurling, his shoulders relaxing as he moved to stand behind Ryan and said, fondly,
“You’re a slut, Ryan Ross.”
“For some things.” Ryan caught Jon’s gaze in the mirror, took a small step back so he was leaning against Jon’s chest, their bodies pressed close. “For you.”
“Good,” Jon said, and wrapped his arm around Ryan’s shoulder, his hand against Ryan’s chest.
Ryan kept looking in the mirror, brought his own hand up to Jon’s and entwined their fingers. Jon hand was warm, his fingers soft apart from the spots hardened by years of playing bass. Ryan squeezed, shifted their hands so they were pressed over his heart, and hoped Jon understood.
Jon turned his head, pressed a kiss against Ryan’s jaw, and his lips were warm, his beard scratching against Ryan’s skin, and he said. “I know.”
Mikey/Bob, crosswords, too much summer, fortune cookies, for crowgirl13
Bob stalks through the hotel lobby, on a mission to save Mikey from himself, and also an imminent death at the hands of his own band. Because Mikey's been down-right surely lately -- at least Mikey surely -- with excessive rolling of his eyes, and a sneer that had been a permanent fixture for days. Bob's sick of the cutting comments, and the way even Gerard isn't safe from Mikey’s sarcastic wrath.
Something needed to be done, and Bob is the man for the job.
Mikey isn't difficult to find, the looming security guard a certain give-away, and it doesn't take long for Bob to sign a few autographs and edge his way into the hotel coffee shop, where Mikey's sitting on one of the plush chairs, elbows propped on the table top and looking into a huge coffee mug, as if the secrets of the world are held in the chocolate-sprinkled foam.
“Mikey.” Bob waves away his own body guard and pulls out a chair, ignoring the way Mikey doesn't acknowledge him at all. “You disappeared this morning.”
Mikey says nothing, but Bob is patient, busies himself ordering food, the pastel pink menu dwarfed in his hand. He stands, asks for a coffee and cookies, then sits, and it’s only then that Mikey replies.
“I needed some time; alone.”
It’s pointed, but Bob looks past the tone, sees how Mikey’s holding onto his coffee cup, his knuckles white, the way his eyes are shadowed and his cheek bones sharp. He looks exhausted, wrung out and raw. Bob understands, Mikey’s made for late nights and dark, not this incessant sunshine, constant heat and a series of press and fan greets that seem never ending.
Still, while they all understand, Bob knows this can’t go on.
“When’s the last time you slept?” Bob doesn’t expect an immediate reply, but he keeps watching as the waitress places a plate of fortune cookies and a coffee in front of him. He smiles his thanks, and picks up a cookie, biting into it and pulling out the fortune as Mikey watches.
“What does it say?” Mikey takes a drink of his own coffee, wiping away the foam left on his lip with the back of his hand. Looks at Bob, and finally, quietly says, “two days ago.”
It’s what Bob suspected. It’s been too hot to sleep, almost too hot to eat, but at least he knows what to do.
“It says fortune smiles on the brave.” Which is a sucky fortune, because Bob knows plenty brave people who’ve never seen fortune, and he reaches across the table, rests his hand on Mikey’s and says, “come on, we’re going to bed.”
“That’s forward of you.” For an instant, it almost looks like Mikey smiles, then he’s as expressionless as ever, unless you’re Bob who can see the need, the relief Mikey allows himself to give in and stands, Bob’s hand on his elbow.
They walk back to their rooms, and Bob ushers Mikey past the others, into the bedroom where a fan is whirring, the bed covers folded back. Mikey drops down onto the bed, toes off his shoes, yawning wide as he pulls up his legs, lies on his side and looks at Bob through already shutting eyes.
“You coming?” Mikey asks, exhaustion heavy in his voice, and Bob is tempted, but he shakes his head and settles down on the floor, picks up a newspaper and looks for his page.
“Later, I need to finish this.” He picks up the pen he left on the bedside table, licks at the points and says, “Four letters, an animal with horns.”
Mikey’s asleep before Bob has finished saying the first clue.
Ryan/Brendon for darksanction
“I said no.” Ryan shifted, tucked up his leg, his heel caught on the edge of the couch. “You go, have fun.”
“I want you to come,” Brendon said, pleading, eyes wide and hopeful.
Ryan looked at him, looked away and dipped his head, his hair falling around his face, his attempt at hiding in plain sight. Brendon didn’t leave, just stood his ground, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. He was making the bus shift, just enough that Ryan leaned into the movement, pressed his hand onto the pile of papers at his side, scribbled lyrics and crossed out lines.
They were his excuse for staying in. Holed up on this too small bus and surrounded by things he’d looked at a thousand times. He should have been going stir crazy, but he wasn't. He didn’t care at all, could stay here forever, in this space where he knew everything and everyone.
“I think you need to come out,” Brendon said, and his smile faltered, his bouncing slowing down until he was perfectly still, his hands clasped together.
Ryan shot him a look and then looked away, stared at his notebooks through a curtain of hair. He didn’t need to go out. He’d been there, done that, gave himself to the fans, to the promoters, handing over a little of himself each day. Ryan could only stand to give so much, needed to keep more for himself, wrestle back some of the control he had to give up for this tour.
“Or we could go for a walk,” Brendon smiled again, wide and bright. “It’s nice outside, the moon’s out, perfect for walking. Not that I mean romantic walking in the moonlight, though that would be nice.”
Brendon hesitated, his smile slipping, and Ryan felt guilty because he’d do anything for Brendon; just not tonight. Uncapping his pen, he picked up his notebook, balanced it on his knee and tried to decipher the words the tumbled through his head. He expected to feel the bus move, the swish of the door as Brendon headed out for the company he craved.
Instead, he felt the couch dip, looked up to see Brendon settling next to him, shoes kicked off as he wormed into place, wiggling until his head was against Ryan’s shoulder, his hand resting on Ryan’s thigh.
“I thought I’d stay in tonight,” Brendon said. He looked at Ryan through dark lashes, his mouth curled into a smile. “I could help with the lyrics. If you want.” He tilted his head, pressed his mouth against Ryan’s neck. Butterfly kisses and a reassuring presence, allowing Ryan time to regroup.