112
in the interest of keeping everything organized:
while the city sleeps
Panic! At The Disco (Brendon/Spencer)
Written for audreysrev's kink meme. 620 words, third person, something close to nc-17, probably.
“Fuck,” he says, his breath wet in his throat, humid air that he can’t quite get enough of.
At this particular moment, Spencer thinks that it’s probably inappropriate for him to be wondering if this is such a good idea - and, anyway, it doesn’t matter what he decides, because in just about every way possible it is all kinds of too late.
Actually, Spencer is pretty fucking sure that this isn’t a good idea, his shoulder blades digging bruise-hard into the fluorescent plastic of the soda machine, the fingernails of one hand scratching against the smooth surface while he tries so so hard to keep the fingers wound in Brendon’s hair from pulling too hard.
“Fuck,” he says, his breath wet in his throat, humid air that he can’t quite get enough of, trying not to look down at Brendon on his knees, thick hair soft and slightly dirty against his fingers, and he knows that it’s 4:15 in the morning, that everyone but them is asleep, but Brendon blowing him in the corridor outside some shitty motel in middle-America hasn’t ever been exactly what he’s expected out of his evenings. Spencer’s thinking thin walls and press coverage, he’s thinking Ryan and Jon two doors down and his mother’s face when she reads the paper, he’s thinking Brendon’s smile as he’d slid to his knees and the finger he’d pressed to his lips. He’s thinking sure hands on the button of his jeans, Brendon’s jaw soft and just slightly stubbly under his fingertips.
He gasps and tries to keep his hips still as Brendon presses his tongue against the underside of Spencer’s cock and sucks hard. Spencer knows if he looked down he’d see Brendon’s cheeks hollow and shadowed in the yellow lighting, maybe the curve of his eyelids, delicately curled eyelashes, the dark line of his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline, his wet, full lips wrapped around Spencer’s cock. He can’t, though, he can’t, because he knows if he does, he’ll come right there, and he doesn’t want that, yet.
Brendon’s hand wraps around the back of Spencer’s thigh (jeans still tugged almost all the way up), his fingers gentle, a nearly-there touch that’s not enough for Spencer, who can feel his thighs shake with the effort of keeping still.
“Shit, Brendon,” he says, his voice a desperate whisper, and Brendon makes a muffled noise, the vibration running up Spencer’s body and down the inside of his spine like cool liquid. The faint buzz of the soda machine is loud in his ears - the buzzing of his nerves under his skin, of vibration in his veins threatening to shake him open - and then he’s tugging on Brendon’s hair, a quick warning, and throwing his head back against the hard plastic as he comes, a vague thud he can barely hear over the rushing in his ears. He’s pretty sure he’s shivering, letting Brendon pull him apart at the seams (with his tongue and his lips, with his smile, the warmth of his fingertips), and assuming that Brendon cares enough to put him back together the right way.
“Nngh,” is all he can manage, brushing his thumb over Brendon’s cheekbone as he pulls away, hiking his pants back up. He slides down the slick plastic, curling his knees up to his chest, prodding Brendon closer with a nudge of his foot. “Fuck you,” he says, eventually, his breathing still a little too quick in his lungs, sweat making his shirt stick to his chest. Brendon just smiles, leans forward and kisses him, one hand coming up to wrap around the back of his head, and Spencer can taste the tang of his come with his tongue as he licks into Brendon’s mouth, familiar. Spencer curls a hand into the soft fabric of Brendon’s t-shirt and doesn’t let go.
we will play the mirrors
My Chemical Romance/Fall Out Boy (Gerard/Pete)
Written for foxxcub's kissing meme however long ago. 415 words, third person, pg-13.
Pete’s voice is whisper-thin and fakely intimate, something they are not.
“This is a really bad idea,” Gerard says, with his hands curled up in the collar of Pete’s shirt, the pads of his fingers swiping over the skin that’s pulled taut over Pete’s collarbones. He can feel the heat from Pete’s body against the palms of his hands, Pete’s breath on the side of his neck as he leans closer.
“Probably,” Pete says. “Usually, yeah.” Pete’s voice is whisper-thin and fakely intimate, something they are not - not here, especially, backstage under the fluorescent lighting and white-painted brick, metal folding chairs and peeling linoleum tiles. Pete’s not actually touching Gerard, just leaning in close, and he looks up into Gerard’s eyes with a grin so far open that Gerard can see the pink of his gums, eyes wide with faux-innocence out of place with the rest of his face. “Is that going to be a problem?”
Gerard breathes in, careful slow cautious, and none of those things are what Pete wants from him, what Pete sees when he stands sidestage and watches. But Pete just darts in quick, presses his lips hard against Gerard’s, more mash than kiss, and Gerard doesn’t so much care where this ends up as where it’s going now.
“Just thought someone should point out the obvious,” he says, and Pete laughs high in the back of his throat, a sound that stops abruptly when Gerard moves his fingers to touch Pete’s adams apple. He can feel the vibration of trapped sound on his fingertips. “That’s all.”
Gerard kisses Pete with teeth, biting into his bottom lip, and he can feel the squirm that runs through Pete’s body with his fingers, the pant of Pete’s breath against his mouth, and Pete is laughing somewhere, mirth in his eyes and in the tongue that sweeps across Gerard’s teeth, in the fingers that clutch at Gerard’s arms. His fingernails are digging into skin the beneath Gerard’s t-shirt sleeves, and if Gerard had ever stopped to think about this beforehand, ever thought about kissing Pete Wentz, he doubts he would’ve imagined it soft, imagined it tentative, all coy eyes and petting fingers.
There is harshness between them, and almost no reason for it. Gerard’s not sure he’s ever wondered why before.
“Exactly,” Pete says, pulling away just long enough for the word to slip out. His breath is warm against Gerard’s lips, his smile something quieter than Gerard is used to, and Gerard isn’t sure just what Pete’s referring to, but he doesn’t much care.
while the city sleeps
Panic! At The Disco (Brendon/Spencer)
Written for audreysrev's kink meme. 620 words, third person, something close to nc-17, probably.
“Fuck,” he says, his breath wet in his throat, humid air that he can’t quite get enough of.
At this particular moment, Spencer thinks that it’s probably inappropriate for him to be wondering if this is such a good idea - and, anyway, it doesn’t matter what he decides, because in just about every way possible it is all kinds of too late.
Actually, Spencer is pretty fucking sure that this isn’t a good idea, his shoulder blades digging bruise-hard into the fluorescent plastic of the soda machine, the fingernails of one hand scratching against the smooth surface while he tries so so hard to keep the fingers wound in Brendon’s hair from pulling too hard.
“Fuck,” he says, his breath wet in his throat, humid air that he can’t quite get enough of, trying not to look down at Brendon on his knees, thick hair soft and slightly dirty against his fingers, and he knows that it’s 4:15 in the morning, that everyone but them is asleep, but Brendon blowing him in the corridor outside some shitty motel in middle-America hasn’t ever been exactly what he’s expected out of his evenings. Spencer’s thinking thin walls and press coverage, he’s thinking Ryan and Jon two doors down and his mother’s face when she reads the paper, he’s thinking Brendon’s smile as he’d slid to his knees and the finger he’d pressed to his lips. He’s thinking sure hands on the button of his jeans, Brendon’s jaw soft and just slightly stubbly under his fingertips.
He gasps and tries to keep his hips still as Brendon presses his tongue against the underside of Spencer’s cock and sucks hard. Spencer knows if he looked down he’d see Brendon’s cheeks hollow and shadowed in the yellow lighting, maybe the curve of his eyelids, delicately curled eyelashes, the dark line of his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline, his wet, full lips wrapped around Spencer’s cock. He can’t, though, he can’t, because he knows if he does, he’ll come right there, and he doesn’t want that, yet.
Brendon’s hand wraps around the back of Spencer’s thigh (jeans still tugged almost all the way up), his fingers gentle, a nearly-there touch that’s not enough for Spencer, who can feel his thighs shake with the effort of keeping still.
“Shit, Brendon,” he says, his voice a desperate whisper, and Brendon makes a muffled noise, the vibration running up Spencer’s body and down the inside of his spine like cool liquid. The faint buzz of the soda machine is loud in his ears - the buzzing of his nerves under his skin, of vibration in his veins threatening to shake him open - and then he’s tugging on Brendon’s hair, a quick warning, and throwing his head back against the hard plastic as he comes, a vague thud he can barely hear over the rushing in his ears. He’s pretty sure he’s shivering, letting Brendon pull him apart at the seams (with his tongue and his lips, with his smile, the warmth of his fingertips), and assuming that Brendon cares enough to put him back together the right way.
“Nngh,” is all he can manage, brushing his thumb over Brendon’s cheekbone as he pulls away, hiking his pants back up. He slides down the slick plastic, curling his knees up to his chest, prodding Brendon closer with a nudge of his foot. “Fuck you,” he says, eventually, his breathing still a little too quick in his lungs, sweat making his shirt stick to his chest. Brendon just smiles, leans forward and kisses him, one hand coming up to wrap around the back of his head, and Spencer can taste the tang of his come with his tongue as he licks into Brendon’s mouth, familiar. Spencer curls a hand into the soft fabric of Brendon’s t-shirt and doesn’t let go.
we will play the mirrors
My Chemical Romance/Fall Out Boy (Gerard/Pete)
Written for foxxcub's kissing meme however long ago. 415 words, third person, pg-13.
Pete’s voice is whisper-thin and fakely intimate, something they are not.
“This is a really bad idea,” Gerard says, with his hands curled up in the collar of Pete’s shirt, the pads of his fingers swiping over the skin that’s pulled taut over Pete’s collarbones. He can feel the heat from Pete’s body against the palms of his hands, Pete’s breath on the side of his neck as he leans closer.
“Probably,” Pete says. “Usually, yeah.” Pete’s voice is whisper-thin and fakely intimate, something they are not - not here, especially, backstage under the fluorescent lighting and white-painted brick, metal folding chairs and peeling linoleum tiles. Pete’s not actually touching Gerard, just leaning in close, and he looks up into Gerard’s eyes with a grin so far open that Gerard can see the pink of his gums, eyes wide with faux-innocence out of place with the rest of his face. “Is that going to be a problem?”
Gerard breathes in, careful slow cautious, and none of those things are what Pete wants from him, what Pete sees when he stands sidestage and watches. But Pete just darts in quick, presses his lips hard against Gerard’s, more mash than kiss, and Gerard doesn’t so much care where this ends up as where it’s going now.
“Just thought someone should point out the obvious,” he says, and Pete laughs high in the back of his throat, a sound that stops abruptly when Gerard moves his fingers to touch Pete’s adams apple. He can feel the vibration of trapped sound on his fingertips. “That’s all.”
Gerard kisses Pete with teeth, biting into his bottom lip, and he can feel the squirm that runs through Pete’s body with his fingers, the pant of Pete’s breath against his mouth, and Pete is laughing somewhere, mirth in his eyes and in the tongue that sweeps across Gerard’s teeth, in the fingers that clutch at Gerard’s arms. His fingernails are digging into skin the beneath Gerard’s t-shirt sleeves, and if Gerard had ever stopped to think about this beforehand, ever thought about kissing Pete Wentz, he doubts he would’ve imagined it soft, imagined it tentative, all coy eyes and petting fingers.
There is harshness between them, and almost no reason for it. Gerard’s not sure he’s ever wondered why before.
“Exactly,” Pete says, pulling away just long enough for the word to slip out. His breath is warm against Gerard’s lips, his smile something quieter than Gerard is used to, and Gerard isn’t sure just what Pete’s referring to, but he doesn’t much care.