attn: bandom folk who enjoy giving advice/seeing snippets of WIPs
I know you're all writing BBB. I'm not, since I've been stupidly busy all semester...until now.
Since I've got the itch to work on fic, and since you've probably got the itch to get out of your own brains/fics for a while, you might could help me decide what to work on next. I've got several WIPs of various types and lengths, and I just don't know where to start or what might interest people.
Poll
okay, so I'm laying a lot of stuff out here, some of it polished and some of it still kinda rough; it's just for information's sake
Spencer/his band & their girlfriends
working title: and then maybe my heart won't hurt me so
filename: forkatie (since it was cmonkatiekatie's plot)
Spencer breaks up with Haley and then platonically dates his bandmates (which leads to Brendon/Spencer) -- appx 12 k words; story is mostly written, but it feels like something's missing; might require beta intervention, IDK
Snippet (near beginning)
Ryan thinks food solves everything. He learned this from Spencer's mother. Neither of them are wrong, but still.
Ryan tries to cook for him once or twice in the first couple of weeks, like someone's died and this is a wake and you're supposed to bring casseroles. Except Ryan can't make casseroles-he can't make much of anything that doesn't come out of a box-and all it does is pretty much turn his kitchen into a disaster area. But there's something strangely cathartic about sponging off counters and washing dishes, and about how Ryan can be such good, quiet company, especially when they're eating out of pizza boxes.
For entirely too many days, they laze around on the couch and ignore how they're on a long break to record a follow-up to Pretty. Odd. (except for how they're apparently on a long break from that, too) by watching endless hours of crime shows. CSI is improved by weed in the slow hours of the afternoon or the desperate, wee hours of the morning when there's nothing to do but talk seriously about shit they'd really rather not talk about.
Law & Order, on the other hand, seems the most fascinating after dinner and late at night, especially when there's beer involved. They don't turn it into a drinking game, but they do make silly bets about stupid things like which kind of plot twist the episode will feature. Ryan's favorite: He's Guilty But The Justice System Sucks And Will Let Him Get Away With It.
Late one night, at the end of an episode featuring the revelation of a Lying Liar Who Lies, who fucked the trial and maybe even the entire investigation from the start, Ryan goes into the kitchen to throw their empty bottles away, having lost some ridiculous wager about Jill Hennessey's shoes. When he comes back, Spencer is curled in on himself.
"I wish I could hate her," comes out of his mouth. But Haley is not a liar or a whore or anything else, and that's the trouble. Spencer wonders if maybe the whole love system sucks.
Ryan doesn't reply. He just plasters himself along Spencer's back, all knobby strength and heat, waiting to see if there will be more. There isn't.
They fall asleep like that, and both of them wake up stiff and sore and a little awkward with Ryan's morning wood making a bump against the small of his back. He remembers how something like that was just as awkward back when they were twelve and thirteen, and then when they were fifteen and sixteen it was catastrophic levels of embarrassing, at least for Spencer.
He remembers he got over that, too. It's oddly comforting.
***
genderswap fic
working title: And That's Okay
filename: girlsforkatie [lol]
everyone but Jon turns into girls; Brendon/Jon and Ryan + Spencer (there's some femmeslash, but the story's about their friendship, not some True Love thing) -- appx 10 k words; missing a couple of scenes, might need re-jiggering once I figure out what the Brendon/Jon tension actually is, *sigh*
Snippet (first section of story)
In the end, it's much easier to be annoyed than worried.
Brendon has enormous tits. It's not fair. It is, in fact, proof that life itself is not fair. This should have occurred to Spencer about the time he looked down and realized his dick was gone (and, fuck yes, it did occur to him), but the point is actually brought home by Brendon Urie as a girl: long dark lashes, a mouth you would sell your soul for, waist size zero, and disproportionately large breasts. C's, they will learn later. C's aren't exactly in Pamela Anderson territory, but on a frame that small…
Brendon has not taken his hands off them. Jon has not taken his eyes off them. Jon is still a boy, and that apparently annoys Ryan far more than Brendon's impressive rack.
Ryan puts his hands on his hips. "You," he spits. As if Jon is the reason three quarters of the band has suddenly developed vaginas. (He isn't, not that Spencer knows of.) As if Jon is at fault for ogling Brendon's tits.
Jon looks rebuked for all of three seconds, about as long as he ever lets himself be startled into contriteness at one of Ryan's bitchfaces. Then his expression softens.
"Ryan," Jon murmurs, staring at him, awed. Spencer knows exactly how he feels. Ryan is still in a button-down paisley shirt and corduroy pants, but now they cling to him in really wonderful ways. It isn't that he has impressive curves-actually, he'd best be described as waify, but in a good way, like a runway model-but he does have this softness about him now. He has light brown hair that hangs in waves past his shoulders. He still looks like he could snap you in half and eat you if you made him angry enough, but somehow on a girl it's…
Ryan turns pink, spins on his heels, and stomps off down the hallway.
No one speaks for a moment, then Brendon lets out a long sigh.
"Jesus Christ, he's hot."
Jon lets out a peal of laughter. "You all are, you dipshit."
Then Jon turns his gaze on Spencer, and Spencer suddenly knows precisely why Ryan ran.
***
Greta/Brendon
failboats! -- appx 8 k words; I actually wrote this recently, and it's mostly done, just needs a couple of scenes added
Snippet (from first 1/2 of story)
Bob Morris is an observant person. Freakishly observant, because he's naturally disposed to it and because he takes care to be. Greta sort of loves and hates him for it, all at once.
Bob's sitting backstage watching Panic's set and Greta sits down beside him. This is what they do: watch the world together, especially the music. They listen in companionable silence for a while, but tonight this companionable thing is pretty much fucking with her head. She's well used to surreptitiously watching Brendon and lying to herself that she's simply judging his performance, not staring at his ass or falling in love with his phrasing during "Northern Downpour," but having someone so nearby and knowing she's lying to herself kind of sucks.
Also something that sucks, but in no uncertain terms? Being not a girl, not anymore. Not really, not when it counts.
"He showed me his penis," she says.
"What?" Bob squeaks, loud enough someone shoots them a look. As if they can be heard over Spencer's drumming and Brendon's piercing vocals.
She traces a crack in the concrete floor with her finger, and she aims her words there. "I mean, not in some sexy way, just in the way Brendon has of walking around his bus half naked." She tries not to picture it, because it was by turns distractingly hot and absolutely unhot, if such a concept is even connectable with Brendon Urie. She adds, "Boxer shorts are stupid articles of clothing, by the way. What in the hell is that flap for other than mentally scarring girls who have crushes on you?"
"Pissing," Bob says immediately, nodding once. "Ease of pissing."
Then he looks at her with this half-smirky face, and she answers it with a smirk that says, yes, okay, fine…for god's sake, sure, I admitted it…now, please, I've dealt with enough dick this 24 hours that I don't need you to be--
"But he didn't…mean to?" Bob says, cautiously. Oh, she's in trouble now: he's put on his 'worried for her' and 'worried because he doesn't know what she'll do' face.
"Of course he didn't mean to. I think he didn't mean to?" She sighs. "It's just…"
"…he didn't mean not to, either."
"Exactly."
***
Brendon/Johnson
working title: He Gave You His Latte When You Were Hungover In Detroit
(possibly, yes, I'm a crazy person)
the story works itself out around the gimmick of Cash noticing Johnson's crush and trying to convince him that Brendon feels the same way by listing 10 ways Brendon's different with Alex than anyone else -- ??? words, 10k-ish words; only a couple of scenes written, but plot sketched out
Snippet
And he only shares his weed with Alex when he's got a reason to. Tonight, he's sharing his weed with Alex. Tonight, he's rolling joints before the headliners are even off the stage. Tonight, he's dragged Alex's ass away from the backstage, reminding him that he's seen the show so many times by now he could probably sit in for Spencer (for the record: he could not), and forced him to help with his attempt at hotboxing the tiny vacant dressing room at the end of the hall, so far from the stage they can only hear the vibrating, rumbling undertow of amplification, no actual tones of music.
And tonight, Cash is smirking at him and saying, "You want I should get Brendon in here when they're done? I do owe him a fat one or two, and maybe if you're more or less stoned you'll stop acting like you don't want to marry him and have his spazzy little babies."
And then Cash smiled that smile again.
"What are you talking about?" Alex said as calmly as he could. He genuinely thought he was going to have a heart attack. Seriously, he was too warm and his heartbeat was rushing up into his throat and Cash was so not helping by fighting back his smile only to replace it with a condescendingly mature face.
"It's really not a big deal," Cash said, shrugging.
Oh, but it so is.
Cash added, "We already know you're gay, and we still love you, man."
Which is not the point.
Cash opened his mouth again, but Alex barked out, "Roll, fucker."
So Cash rolled. And Alex? He began this contemplation of how much he hates him.
***
Shane/Brendon/Spencer
(wherein the Shane/Spencer is the last piece of the puzzle to fall into place)
I keep getting hung up on the origins of it all; the dynamics make good sense to me (in several different ways, which is its own problem), but I keep trying to make it too serious and plotty; HELP ME WRITE PWP
[so, I wrote this thing, and I realized it was backgroundy; this is one version of backstory to this threesome…the plotties, maybe]
Spencer never meant it to turn into two separate things, really. He likes Shane. Really likes him. Would date him himself if Brendon wasn't half in love with him. Would date him himself now anyway if things hadn't fallen so easily into a rut: Brendon and Spencer when they're on the road, Brendon and Shane when they're at home.
But it's not that Spencer doesn't like Shane. Fuck, they've talked about it, how it ought to be the three of them, how it technically is, no matter how it usually happens. They've fooled around together. Spencer knows what Shane sounds like when he comes. He likes Shane, likes the way Shane takes care of Brendon, gives him another soft place to land but also understands that Brendon is damn fucking strong all on his own, so worth wanting and loving. Shane's kissed him, too, kissing the taste of Brendon out of his mouth but also kissing to taste him, what he is besides Brendon's. But still, it's come to this: when they go home to Vegas, Brendon spends all his time with Shane, and even if Spencer gets close to him, it doesn't become three, just a juggling of twos.
It's not like it's not logical. Spencer gets him so much of the time, so it makes sense for Brendon to wrap himself in Shane's arms and not let go. But they've been home for two weeks now, and Spencer's starting to get itchy. He's weirdly okay with Brendon pulling away a bit-they're all sort of sick of each other after all these weeks; and he knows he'll come back, he always does-but he's for some reason not okay with the sudden, inescapable observation that if there was ever a tie between him and Shane, it's gone like it wasn't even there.
***
Brendon/Ryan/Jon
lazy threesome sex at Ryan's new place -- shortish; written part of a scene, not sure if there's a story for it or it's just some random porn
Snippet
Jon's not there for very long before Brendon's breaking the kiss and crawling over Ryan and kissing Jon like he hasn't seen him in months. Brendon-kissing him, touching him, letting him in-had been too much for the both of them at first, so it was a good thing there were two of them. They learned early on to double team him, divide his energy and earnestness so that it didn't swallow them whole. Not that Brendon's ever minded. He seems to love being between them like this, Ryan kissing his shoulders and curving his palms along the curve of his ass and Jon holding his face in his hands and nudging himself closer and closer.
Ryan thinks Jon's got pretty awesome arms to sink into, but for some reason Brendon's even more prone to lean on Ryan, let him hold him and take care of him. Now, he arches into Jon's grinding hips, but his shoulders fall back against Ryan's chest, and when he tears his mouth away from Jon, he rolls his neck and says against Ryan's throat, "In me. Please. Just like this."
Jon reaches for the lube. It's closest to him, and he's patient, infinitely more patient than Ryan. It suits him. He lets Ryan and Brendon come together and burn it all out of each other, then he takes what he wants. He has to wait, but then he gets their undivided, unguarded attention. Normally, Ryan fucks Brendon fast and hard, and then Jon gets to take his time, press even deeper until Brendon's nearly incoherent with it.
But this time isn't normal. Ryan thinks he's going to be the one to take his time. Brendon's still a bit languid and pliant from his nap, and Ryan feels awake and alive and content, like he could fuck him for hours. When he slides a finger into Brendon slow and smooth, Brendon just groans and bites at Jon's neck.
"God," Brendon says with a shiver.
***
Brendon gen
working title: The Boy I Was, The Boy I Am
my mysterious and possibly ill-conceived Brendon story based around lyrics from Folie a Deux (which also attempts, lamely, to withhold a pairing till the end, so I can't spoil that here); roaming around Brendon's stream of thought for a while (in the 3rd person, though); takes place at a party at Pete's house and involves Panic, FOB, and possibly Saporta (or Travis, haven't decided yet) - will be appx 15k word, plot sketched but only 5 of 13 long scenes written
Snippet
It's never like the first time anymore. This is a different house and Pete's a different Pete. This time, Brendon's not so scared he's going to ruin Ryan Ross's one shot at being fucking brilliant that he wants to throw up. He hasn't been the guy with the geek shoved tight into tight pants and focused down with eyeliner in a long time, either.
The laugh's the same. He can hear Pete's braying all the way down the hall, but he just keeps on winding through the house, snatching up a beer out of a cooler as he goes, body rolling in time to the beat even if he doesn't much feel like dancing.
Apparently, Trohman doesn't either. He finds him strangely sober and sitting on the stairs. Joe looks old now, older than he looked when Brendon first met him. He can remember fidgeting too much when he recorded that song on Cork Tree, and fidgeting even more when he started to worrying about fidgeting. Back then, everything made him fidget, the unknowns coming out in jerks and nervous laughter. Everything stretched ahead of him, but he couldn't see that he had the fucking soul to hold it all in perfect time, the hips to strut through it, all of it. He sees it now, and he mostly believes it, most of the time.
"Ross here?" Joe says by way of greeting.
Brendon nods. "Somewhere. Went back to see Pete."
"To see the belly, you mean. Fucking shit, that girl's got to be sick and damn tired of all these weird-ass people touching her stomach."
She is weird-ass people, he thinks, but he says, "I dunno. She seemed fine a couple of weeks ago."
Patrick had been recording vocals for "Nosebleed" and she was there for no good reason, watching Patrick and then watching Brendon and Patrick. Brendon had let his hand be placed at the top of the arc of her stomach, just beneath her breasts. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to feel; he figured it was more for the other people to see than him to feel. Baby likes to listen, she'd said. Especially to Patrick. He said, So why am I trying to feel, then? Pete had given him a smirk: Maybe you should feel Patrick, he'd said, and Patrick gave him a soulful, longsuffering look like sometimes Spencer gets with Ryan just before he turned a wicked shade of pink.
He doesn't stay with Joe. He doesn't stay anywhere for a while, just walks from room to room, speaking when spoken to and drinking the knot of tension out of his stomach. It almost works. There's a lot of buffering noise and the house is warm but not suffocating and he didn't realize until just now that this was exactly what he needed tonight: people.
***
Ryan/Spencer
about hand holding, I shit you not; the story eventually leads to porn, with them screwing around on the grass at a fireworks display in, like, IDK, Missouri, or some shit? - only some of the short, snippety bits that make up most of the fic are done; the last big (porny) scene is already written
Snippet (first section of story)
One random afternoon in one of the corn states, Ryan took his hand as they were walking along between the buses, talking. It felt perfectly natural, except for how it totally wasn't. But Spencer was really pretty okay with it until he started thinking about it. Then it felt nervous and sweaty, and it made his stomach do this jumping thing, and he didn't even know why, only that it wasn't enough to make him want to stop.
Soon, he had learned how to master the stomach jumping. It made it easier that Ryan was careful never to do it in front of anybody else. That told Spencer everything and nothing all at once.
***
Brendon/Jon
where Brendon starts writing messages on Jon's arm as a pre-show ritual, and then there's a lot of failboating which leads to cuteness and kissing - 3k words, written but needs tinkering (really, it needs me to decide if it's postable)
Snippet (first section of story)
It started as a joke. One day when they were stoned and eating their body weight in those little candy hearts leftover from Valentines Day (unearthed from the back of a cabinet in the bus kitchen, and the mental math was kind of difficult but pretty much unavoidable on how fucking old those things were) Brendon kept asking Jon to BE MINE.
Mostly he chucked candy hearts at him or laid them in his open palm, but once he made a pouty face and drawled, "Be mine, Jon Walker."
Since Jon never did answer, finally Brendon got insistent and grabbed a sharpie and Jon's arm and wrote it there. BE MINE. Like it wasn't a question this time. Jon kissed his forehead and said, "okay," and then Brendon did a victory lap around the bus.
"I totally own Jon Walker."
Actually, he totally did. Already. Didn't need a sharpie marker to prove it. If only he'd fucking do something about owning a ridiculously large piece of Jon's heart other than inadvertently make him horny all the time doing perfectly Brendon-like things like turning his tongue purple-orange with candy and sticking it out at him.
***
girl!Spencer/Gabe epic love story of much epicness
will probably be the longest thing I've ever written - already at 11k words of draft...which is less than 1/4 of the story I've sketched out (honestly, I'd love to finish this, but it's sort of a pipe dream)
Snippet (somewhere in the first 1/3 of the story)
She used to hate dancing, and she mostly still does, in theory-at least until she's actually doing it. If she can stop worrying about her shoes and her hair and how silly she feels and just get into it, she's fine. Brendon is the only person she'd willingly go out on the floor with, because he's so frenetic and goofy that she has to get over feeling ridiculous really fast. But he's also got amazing little hips, and she feels like she can follow them, or at least she knows he's not going to mock her if she can't.
"So," she says, leaning into him and making her voice sharp enough, right there at his ear, to be heard over the music. "You don't seem weirded out that I'm screwing around with Gabe."
He just raises an eyebrow.
She mouths, Seriously?
He grabs her by both sides of the neck and pulls her close, closer than maybe she'd like, but he's not grinding. Much. He says, "It's your life, Spence."
"But he's Gabe Saporta."
"And I bet you knew that before you got naked with him. I bet it was the reason you got naked with him, hmm?" Then his eyes flicker over her shoulder. "Speak of the devil."
She doesn't even turn around, but it turns out that knowing his arms when he slides up behind her doesn't actually make it any less startling. She'd made this safe little cocoon with Brendon out there, and she'd fallen into a rhythm with his shoulders and hips and the pulsing music, everything else swirling around them like fucking awesome energy that buoyed them up without touching them at all. Gabe's hands at her waist bring her back to where she is, how many people are jostling her and how much noise assaults her ears. She feels unbearably hot, especially when he instantly brings his body flush with hers, leaning down over her to breathe on the back of her neck.
"Didn't know you were a dancer," he says in her ear. "Fucking hot, Spencer Smith."
She shakes her head, already willing herself to try and relax back against him.
He says, "Don't tell me what's hot and what's not." He looks up at Brendon and shouts, "She's smokin', right?"
Brendon slides up a little closer. "That's what I try to tell her. Don't want to deprive the dancefloor of her fucking hotness."
"Not a dancer," she says. "That's all I meant."
Gabe spins her around and pulls her hips into his. He's not hard, not yet, but he still nudges his groin against hers and grins at her like he wants to drink her down. And also like he's amused. He mouths, Oh. I see, miss thang.
So tell me what you think, guys. What would you actually want to see more of?
Since I've got the itch to work on fic, and since you've probably got the itch to get out of your own brains/fics for a while, you might could help me decide what to work on next. I've got several WIPs of various types and lengths, and I just don't know where to start or what might interest people.
Poll
okay, so I'm laying a lot of stuff out here, some of it polished and some of it still kinda rough; it's just for information's sake
Spencer/his band & their girlfriends
working title: and then maybe my heart won't hurt me so
filename: forkatie (since it was cmonkatiekatie's plot)
Spencer breaks up with Haley and then platonically dates his bandmates (which leads to Brendon/Spencer) -- appx 12 k words; story is mostly written, but it feels like something's missing; might require beta intervention, IDK
Snippet (near beginning)
Ryan thinks food solves everything. He learned this from Spencer's mother. Neither of them are wrong, but still.
Ryan tries to cook for him once or twice in the first couple of weeks, like someone's died and this is a wake and you're supposed to bring casseroles. Except Ryan can't make casseroles-he can't make much of anything that doesn't come out of a box-and all it does is pretty much turn his kitchen into a disaster area. But there's something strangely cathartic about sponging off counters and washing dishes, and about how Ryan can be such good, quiet company, especially when they're eating out of pizza boxes.
For entirely too many days, they laze around on the couch and ignore how they're on a long break to record a follow-up to Pretty. Odd. (except for how they're apparently on a long break from that, too) by watching endless hours of crime shows. CSI is improved by weed in the slow hours of the afternoon or the desperate, wee hours of the morning when there's nothing to do but talk seriously about shit they'd really rather not talk about.
Law & Order, on the other hand, seems the most fascinating after dinner and late at night, especially when there's beer involved. They don't turn it into a drinking game, but they do make silly bets about stupid things like which kind of plot twist the episode will feature. Ryan's favorite: He's Guilty But The Justice System Sucks And Will Let Him Get Away With It.
Late one night, at the end of an episode featuring the revelation of a Lying Liar Who Lies, who fucked the trial and maybe even the entire investigation from the start, Ryan goes into the kitchen to throw their empty bottles away, having lost some ridiculous wager about Jill Hennessey's shoes. When he comes back, Spencer is curled in on himself.
"I wish I could hate her," comes out of his mouth. But Haley is not a liar or a whore or anything else, and that's the trouble. Spencer wonders if maybe the whole love system sucks.
Ryan doesn't reply. He just plasters himself along Spencer's back, all knobby strength and heat, waiting to see if there will be more. There isn't.
They fall asleep like that, and both of them wake up stiff and sore and a little awkward with Ryan's morning wood making a bump against the small of his back. He remembers how something like that was just as awkward back when they were twelve and thirteen, and then when they were fifteen and sixteen it was catastrophic levels of embarrassing, at least for Spencer.
He remembers he got over that, too. It's oddly comforting.
***
genderswap fic
working title: And That's Okay
filename: girlsforkatie [lol]
everyone but Jon turns into girls; Brendon/Jon and Ryan + Spencer (there's some femmeslash, but the story's about their friendship, not some True Love thing) -- appx 10 k words; missing a couple of scenes, might need re-jiggering once I figure out what the Brendon/Jon tension actually is, *sigh*
Snippet (first section of story)
In the end, it's much easier to be annoyed than worried.
Brendon has enormous tits. It's not fair. It is, in fact, proof that life itself is not fair. This should have occurred to Spencer about the time he looked down and realized his dick was gone (and, fuck yes, it did occur to him), but the point is actually brought home by Brendon Urie as a girl: long dark lashes, a mouth you would sell your soul for, waist size zero, and disproportionately large breasts. C's, they will learn later. C's aren't exactly in Pamela Anderson territory, but on a frame that small…
Brendon has not taken his hands off them. Jon has not taken his eyes off them. Jon is still a boy, and that apparently annoys Ryan far more than Brendon's impressive rack.
Ryan puts his hands on his hips. "You," he spits. As if Jon is the reason three quarters of the band has suddenly developed vaginas. (He isn't, not that Spencer knows of.) As if Jon is at fault for ogling Brendon's tits.
Jon looks rebuked for all of three seconds, about as long as he ever lets himself be startled into contriteness at one of Ryan's bitchfaces. Then his expression softens.
"Ryan," Jon murmurs, staring at him, awed. Spencer knows exactly how he feels. Ryan is still in a button-down paisley shirt and corduroy pants, but now they cling to him in really wonderful ways. It isn't that he has impressive curves-actually, he'd best be described as waify, but in a good way, like a runway model-but he does have this softness about him now. He has light brown hair that hangs in waves past his shoulders. He still looks like he could snap you in half and eat you if you made him angry enough, but somehow on a girl it's…
Ryan turns pink, spins on his heels, and stomps off down the hallway.
No one speaks for a moment, then Brendon lets out a long sigh.
"Jesus Christ, he's hot."
Jon lets out a peal of laughter. "You all are, you dipshit."
Then Jon turns his gaze on Spencer, and Spencer suddenly knows precisely why Ryan ran.
***
Greta/Brendon
failboats! -- appx 8 k words; I actually wrote this recently, and it's mostly done, just needs a couple of scenes added
Snippet (from first 1/2 of story)
Bob Morris is an observant person. Freakishly observant, because he's naturally disposed to it and because he takes care to be. Greta sort of loves and hates him for it, all at once.
Bob's sitting backstage watching Panic's set and Greta sits down beside him. This is what they do: watch the world together, especially the music. They listen in companionable silence for a while, but tonight this companionable thing is pretty much fucking with her head. She's well used to surreptitiously watching Brendon and lying to herself that she's simply judging his performance, not staring at his ass or falling in love with his phrasing during "Northern Downpour," but having someone so nearby and knowing she's lying to herself kind of sucks.
Also something that sucks, but in no uncertain terms? Being not a girl, not anymore. Not really, not when it counts.
"He showed me his penis," she says.
"What?" Bob squeaks, loud enough someone shoots them a look. As if they can be heard over Spencer's drumming and Brendon's piercing vocals.
She traces a crack in the concrete floor with her finger, and she aims her words there. "I mean, not in some sexy way, just in the way Brendon has of walking around his bus half naked." She tries not to picture it, because it was by turns distractingly hot and absolutely unhot, if such a concept is even connectable with Brendon Urie. She adds, "Boxer shorts are stupid articles of clothing, by the way. What in the hell is that flap for other than mentally scarring girls who have crushes on you?"
"Pissing," Bob says immediately, nodding once. "Ease of pissing."
Then he looks at her with this half-smirky face, and she answers it with a smirk that says, yes, okay, fine…for god's sake, sure, I admitted it…now, please, I've dealt with enough dick this 24 hours that I don't need you to be--
"But he didn't…mean to?" Bob says, cautiously. Oh, she's in trouble now: he's put on his 'worried for her' and 'worried because he doesn't know what she'll do' face.
"Of course he didn't mean to. I think he didn't mean to?" She sighs. "It's just…"
"…he didn't mean not to, either."
"Exactly."
***
Brendon/Johnson
working title: He Gave You His Latte When You Were Hungover In Detroit
(possibly, yes, I'm a crazy person)
the story works itself out around the gimmick of Cash noticing Johnson's crush and trying to convince him that Brendon feels the same way by listing 10 ways Brendon's different with Alex than anyone else -- ??? words, 10k-ish words; only a couple of scenes written, but plot sketched out
Snippet
And he only shares his weed with Alex when he's got a reason to. Tonight, he's sharing his weed with Alex. Tonight, he's rolling joints before the headliners are even off the stage. Tonight, he's dragged Alex's ass away from the backstage, reminding him that he's seen the show so many times by now he could probably sit in for Spencer (for the record: he could not), and forced him to help with his attempt at hotboxing the tiny vacant dressing room at the end of the hall, so far from the stage they can only hear the vibrating, rumbling undertow of amplification, no actual tones of music.
And tonight, Cash is smirking at him and saying, "You want I should get Brendon in here when they're done? I do owe him a fat one or two, and maybe if you're more or less stoned you'll stop acting like you don't want to marry him and have his spazzy little babies."
And then Cash smiled that smile again.
"What are you talking about?" Alex said as calmly as he could. He genuinely thought he was going to have a heart attack. Seriously, he was too warm and his heartbeat was rushing up into his throat and Cash was so not helping by fighting back his smile only to replace it with a condescendingly mature face.
"It's really not a big deal," Cash said, shrugging.
Oh, but it so is.
Cash added, "We already know you're gay, and we still love you, man."
Which is not the point.
Cash opened his mouth again, but Alex barked out, "Roll, fucker."
So Cash rolled. And Alex? He began this contemplation of how much he hates him.
***
Shane/Brendon/Spencer
(wherein the Shane/Spencer is the last piece of the puzzle to fall into place)
I keep getting hung up on the origins of it all; the dynamics make good sense to me (in several different ways, which is its own problem), but I keep trying to make it too serious and plotty; HELP ME WRITE PWP
[so, I wrote this thing, and I realized it was backgroundy; this is one version of backstory to this threesome…the plotties, maybe]
Spencer never meant it to turn into two separate things, really. He likes Shane. Really likes him. Would date him himself if Brendon wasn't half in love with him. Would date him himself now anyway if things hadn't fallen so easily into a rut: Brendon and Spencer when they're on the road, Brendon and Shane when they're at home.
But it's not that Spencer doesn't like Shane. Fuck, they've talked about it, how it ought to be the three of them, how it technically is, no matter how it usually happens. They've fooled around together. Spencer knows what Shane sounds like when he comes. He likes Shane, likes the way Shane takes care of Brendon, gives him another soft place to land but also understands that Brendon is damn fucking strong all on his own, so worth wanting and loving. Shane's kissed him, too, kissing the taste of Brendon out of his mouth but also kissing to taste him, what he is besides Brendon's. But still, it's come to this: when they go home to Vegas, Brendon spends all his time with Shane, and even if Spencer gets close to him, it doesn't become three, just a juggling of twos.
It's not like it's not logical. Spencer gets him so much of the time, so it makes sense for Brendon to wrap himself in Shane's arms and not let go. But they've been home for two weeks now, and Spencer's starting to get itchy. He's weirdly okay with Brendon pulling away a bit-they're all sort of sick of each other after all these weeks; and he knows he'll come back, he always does-but he's for some reason not okay with the sudden, inescapable observation that if there was ever a tie between him and Shane, it's gone like it wasn't even there.
***
Brendon/Ryan/Jon
lazy threesome sex at Ryan's new place -- shortish; written part of a scene, not sure if there's a story for it or it's just some random porn
Snippet
Jon's not there for very long before Brendon's breaking the kiss and crawling over Ryan and kissing Jon like he hasn't seen him in months. Brendon-kissing him, touching him, letting him in-had been too much for the both of them at first, so it was a good thing there were two of them. They learned early on to double team him, divide his energy and earnestness so that it didn't swallow them whole. Not that Brendon's ever minded. He seems to love being between them like this, Ryan kissing his shoulders and curving his palms along the curve of his ass and Jon holding his face in his hands and nudging himself closer and closer.
Ryan thinks Jon's got pretty awesome arms to sink into, but for some reason Brendon's even more prone to lean on Ryan, let him hold him and take care of him. Now, he arches into Jon's grinding hips, but his shoulders fall back against Ryan's chest, and when he tears his mouth away from Jon, he rolls his neck and says against Ryan's throat, "In me. Please. Just like this."
Jon reaches for the lube. It's closest to him, and he's patient, infinitely more patient than Ryan. It suits him. He lets Ryan and Brendon come together and burn it all out of each other, then he takes what he wants. He has to wait, but then he gets their undivided, unguarded attention. Normally, Ryan fucks Brendon fast and hard, and then Jon gets to take his time, press even deeper until Brendon's nearly incoherent with it.
But this time isn't normal. Ryan thinks he's going to be the one to take his time. Brendon's still a bit languid and pliant from his nap, and Ryan feels awake and alive and content, like he could fuck him for hours. When he slides a finger into Brendon slow and smooth, Brendon just groans and bites at Jon's neck.
"God," Brendon says with a shiver.
***
Brendon gen
working title: The Boy I Was, The Boy I Am
my mysterious and possibly ill-conceived Brendon story based around lyrics from Folie a Deux (which also attempts, lamely, to withhold a pairing till the end, so I can't spoil that here); roaming around Brendon's stream of thought for a while (in the 3rd person, though); takes place at a party at Pete's house and involves Panic, FOB, and possibly Saporta (or Travis, haven't decided yet) - will be appx 15k word, plot sketched but only 5 of 13 long scenes written
Snippet
It's never like the first time anymore. This is a different house and Pete's a different Pete. This time, Brendon's not so scared he's going to ruin Ryan Ross's one shot at being fucking brilliant that he wants to throw up. He hasn't been the guy with the geek shoved tight into tight pants and focused down with eyeliner in a long time, either.
The laugh's the same. He can hear Pete's braying all the way down the hall, but he just keeps on winding through the house, snatching up a beer out of a cooler as he goes, body rolling in time to the beat even if he doesn't much feel like dancing.
Apparently, Trohman doesn't either. He finds him strangely sober and sitting on the stairs. Joe looks old now, older than he looked when Brendon first met him. He can remember fidgeting too much when he recorded that song on Cork Tree, and fidgeting even more when he started to worrying about fidgeting. Back then, everything made him fidget, the unknowns coming out in jerks and nervous laughter. Everything stretched ahead of him, but he couldn't see that he had the fucking soul to hold it all in perfect time, the hips to strut through it, all of it. He sees it now, and he mostly believes it, most of the time.
"Ross here?" Joe says by way of greeting.
Brendon nods. "Somewhere. Went back to see Pete."
"To see the belly, you mean. Fucking shit, that girl's got to be sick and damn tired of all these weird-ass people touching her stomach."
She is weird-ass people, he thinks, but he says, "I dunno. She seemed fine a couple of weeks ago."
Patrick had been recording vocals for "Nosebleed" and she was there for no good reason, watching Patrick and then watching Brendon and Patrick. Brendon had let his hand be placed at the top of the arc of her stomach, just beneath her breasts. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to feel; he figured it was more for the other people to see than him to feel. Baby likes to listen, she'd said. Especially to Patrick. He said, So why am I trying to feel, then? Pete had given him a smirk: Maybe you should feel Patrick, he'd said, and Patrick gave him a soulful, longsuffering look like sometimes Spencer gets with Ryan just before he turned a wicked shade of pink.
He doesn't stay with Joe. He doesn't stay anywhere for a while, just walks from room to room, speaking when spoken to and drinking the knot of tension out of his stomach. It almost works. There's a lot of buffering noise and the house is warm but not suffocating and he didn't realize until just now that this was exactly what he needed tonight: people.
***
Ryan/Spencer
about hand holding, I shit you not; the story eventually leads to porn, with them screwing around on the grass at a fireworks display in, like, IDK, Missouri, or some shit? - only some of the short, snippety bits that make up most of the fic are done; the last big (porny) scene is already written
Snippet (first section of story)
One random afternoon in one of the corn states, Ryan took his hand as they were walking along between the buses, talking. It felt perfectly natural, except for how it totally wasn't. But Spencer was really pretty okay with it until he started thinking about it. Then it felt nervous and sweaty, and it made his stomach do this jumping thing, and he didn't even know why, only that it wasn't enough to make him want to stop.
Soon, he had learned how to master the stomach jumping. It made it easier that Ryan was careful never to do it in front of anybody else. That told Spencer everything and nothing all at once.
***
Brendon/Jon
where Brendon starts writing messages on Jon's arm as a pre-show ritual, and then there's a lot of failboating which leads to cuteness and kissing - 3k words, written but needs tinkering (really, it needs me to decide if it's postable)
Snippet (first section of story)
It started as a joke. One day when they were stoned and eating their body weight in those little candy hearts leftover from Valentines Day (unearthed from the back of a cabinet in the bus kitchen, and the mental math was kind of difficult but pretty much unavoidable on how fucking old those things were) Brendon kept asking Jon to BE MINE.
Mostly he chucked candy hearts at him or laid them in his open palm, but once he made a pouty face and drawled, "Be mine, Jon Walker."
Since Jon never did answer, finally Brendon got insistent and grabbed a sharpie and Jon's arm and wrote it there. BE MINE. Like it wasn't a question this time. Jon kissed his forehead and said, "okay," and then Brendon did a victory lap around the bus.
"I totally own Jon Walker."
Actually, he totally did. Already. Didn't need a sharpie marker to prove it. If only he'd fucking do something about owning a ridiculously large piece of Jon's heart other than inadvertently make him horny all the time doing perfectly Brendon-like things like turning his tongue purple-orange with candy and sticking it out at him.
***
girl!Spencer/Gabe epic love story of much epicness
will probably be the longest thing I've ever written - already at 11k words of draft...which is less than 1/4 of the story I've sketched out (honestly, I'd love to finish this, but it's sort of a pipe dream)
Snippet (somewhere in the first 1/3 of the story)
She used to hate dancing, and she mostly still does, in theory-at least until she's actually doing it. If she can stop worrying about her shoes and her hair and how silly she feels and just get into it, she's fine. Brendon is the only person she'd willingly go out on the floor with, because he's so frenetic and goofy that she has to get over feeling ridiculous really fast. But he's also got amazing little hips, and she feels like she can follow them, or at least she knows he's not going to mock her if she can't.
"So," she says, leaning into him and making her voice sharp enough, right there at his ear, to be heard over the music. "You don't seem weirded out that I'm screwing around with Gabe."
He just raises an eyebrow.
She mouths, Seriously?
He grabs her by both sides of the neck and pulls her close, closer than maybe she'd like, but he's not grinding. Much. He says, "It's your life, Spence."
"But he's Gabe Saporta."
"And I bet you knew that before you got naked with him. I bet it was the reason you got naked with him, hmm?" Then his eyes flicker over her shoulder. "Speak of the devil."
She doesn't even turn around, but it turns out that knowing his arms when he slides up behind her doesn't actually make it any less startling. She'd made this safe little cocoon with Brendon out there, and she'd fallen into a rhythm with his shoulders and hips and the pulsing music, everything else swirling around them like fucking awesome energy that buoyed them up without touching them at all. Gabe's hands at her waist bring her back to where she is, how many people are jostling her and how much noise assaults her ears. She feels unbearably hot, especially when he instantly brings his body flush with hers, leaning down over her to breathe on the back of her neck.
"Didn't know you were a dancer," he says in her ear. "Fucking hot, Spencer Smith."
She shakes her head, already willing herself to try and relax back against him.
He says, "Don't tell me what's hot and what's not." He looks up at Brendon and shouts, "She's smokin', right?"
Brendon slides up a little closer. "That's what I try to tell her. Don't want to deprive the dancefloor of her fucking hotness."
"Not a dancer," she says. "That's all I meant."
Gabe spins her around and pulls her hips into his. He's not hard, not yet, but he still nudges his groin against hers and grins at her like he wants to drink her down. And also like he's amused. He mouths, Oh. I see, miss thang.
So tell me what you think, guys. What would you actually want to see more of?