Kiss meme ficlets
turps33 is running a bandom kiss meme! I've been having fun over there.
Gerard solo, first time wearing makeup, 423 words:
"Don't get strung out by the way I look," Gerard sings to himself, because if anyone walks in on him, there's no better excuse than Tim Curry. He pops the cap off the lipstick tube, one of the ancient worn-down ones his mom clearly hasn't touched in years. He doesn't think she would have noticed anyway, and if she did she probably wouldn't care, but... it's not about shame, or the consequences of anyone else knowing. It's just that Gerard wants this to himself.
He doesn't get many things to himself. His art is the closest thing to privacy he has, and even that isn't really all his. People know it's there, even when he won't let them see it. Gerard coats his lips carefully with color, respecting the edges of his face, filling his skin like he fills lines on the page. With this, no one knows to ask.
If they did, he thinks, looking at himself in the mirror, he might show them. Maybe. Depending on who it was.
"Just a sweet transvestite," he sings under his breath as he closes the tube and picks up an eyeliner pencil. He's not good at things getting near his eyes, and he keeps cringing away from his own touch, but eventually he manages to edge his eyelids in dark brown without stabbing himself. The mascara is next, and whoa, that really makes a difference. He never really noticed his eyelashes before now, never looked at them. The way they stand out lets him think the word "pretty" for the first time.
The blush is last. He thinks he heard somewhere that it's supposed to go on first, but if there's anything this isn't about, it's how things are supposed to work.
Gerard leans forward onto his elbows and stares into the mirror. He wants to look at the makeup, but all he can focus on is his own eyes, brave and proud. He looks different, not because of what's on his skin, but because of what's changing under it. By doing this, he's becoming a person who can do it, and that's fucking inspiring.
"I see you shiver with antici..." he sings quietly to his reflection, and pauses. Tilts forward. His breath fogs up the mirror a little, and he closes his mouth and breathes through his nose until it evaporates, leaving the glass clear and smooth. Gerard stretches his neck just a little and presses his lips against the mirror, quickly, suddenly.
For luck, he thinks, looking fondly into his own eyes.
--
Gabe/Patrick & Gabe/Pete, kissing a boy just to start shit, 372 words:
Pete is straight, of course, but Patrick is actually straight, which would make him less fun to toy with if Pete didn't treat him like his emotional property. Gabe noses against Patrick's collarbone, grinning at the uncomfortable shifting he can hear from where Pete is sitting a few feet away. Patrick huffs out an annoyed breath and cranes his neck around Gabe's 'fro so he can see his laptop screen.
They're sitting in between buses, waiting. The vast majority of tour life consists of waiting, interspersed with a few hours of frantic motion, then more half-days of nothing. Patrick is using this time to do something extremely important, apparently. "Knock it off, Gabe," he says impatiently. Gabe nibbles his ear in response.
"He said knock it off," snaps Pete.
Gabe lifts his head, grins directly into Pete's gaze, and smacks a big long wet one right on Patrick's lips. Patrick splutters against him hilariously, and even though Gabe is braced for it, the punch knocks their lips apart.
"Jesus Christ," says Patrick. "Leave it, Pete, he's just baiting you."
It's true, Gabe is, but Pete has never been one to let his awareness of his own shortcomings keep them from functioning. He tackles Gabe, fists flying. There, finally, something interesting. Gabe rolls away from Patrick to avoid accidentally hitting him, because Pete would get seriously pissed if Patrick got hurt. It's not about Patrick, anyway.
Pete's aiming for Gabe's sensitive areas, and when their tussling turns into wrestling, Gabe can feel that he's hard. He always gets hard when they fight. Gabe is, too. He doesn't usually get aroused from brawling with his friends, but he does with Pete, because he never knows if this is going to be the time that Pete gives in, lets himself stop throwing punches and start rubbing off frantically like he so obviously wants to.
Pete knees Gabe in the stomach, and Gabe can tell the moment he feels Gabe's hard-on against his shin. He jumps up, backs away a few steps. "Leave Patrick the fuck alone," he says nervously and disappears onto his bus.
Not this time, then. Maybe Gabe needs a plan of attack that doesn't involve the presence of a real straight boy.
--
Gabe/Kobra Kid, 574 words:
It's hard to believe that the desert will get cold in a few hours, but Gabe believes it. He knows better than to go off soul-searching by himself without checking the Wikipedia page on deserts first. He's not, like, stupid. So he gathers up some wood and sits there with his lighter, trying to get it to catch. It's really not working.
"Need some help there?"
Gabe looks up to see a guy standing there, hip cocked. He's dressed in a manner of which Gabe approves fully: black skinny jeans, a yellow tiger-striped shirt, and a red jacket, with a strangely decorated motorcycle helmet under his arm. There's no motorcycle in sight. His hair is bleached and styled like someone tried to slick it back with dust, and his face is friendly in an expressionless sort of way.
"Sure," Gabe says. "You know how to start a fire?"
The guy draws something off his hip that looks a hell of a lot like a gun. Gabe raises his eyebrows, then scrambles back in a panic when the guy starts shooting fucking lasers or some shit at his sad little pile of twigs. "What the fuck? Who the fuck are you?" Gabe demands.
The guy scoots one of the bigger pieces of wood toward the tiny flame and sits cross-legged on the other side of it. "You can call me Kobra," he says, and twirls the gun in his fingers.
***
"I just need a goal," says Gabe. "I'm awesome at getting shit done when I know what I'm doing it for, but if I don't have a plan, I'm the laziest bastard on earth. I need some kind of purpose."
Wikipedia has proven itself wise. The desert is fucking freezing at night. Gabe and Kobra are sitting next to each other now, pressed up arm to arm and hip to hip, sharing body heat and leaning toward the little fire. It would probably go out if Gabe went to sleep, but sleep was never part of the plan for this trip.
"What's important to you?" asks Kobra, and well, that's the question, isn't it? Gabe shrugs, feeling Kobra's jacket rub against his shoulder as he does.
"Music. I want to do something with music. And... I don't know, getting people to stop letting their cynicism dictate their lives. I guess that's kind of lofty."
Kobra puts a hand on Gabe's knee gently. "If you didn't want lofty, you wouldn't be on a fucking spirit quest."
This is a point.
"The world sucks," murmurs Kobra, and his face is close to Gabe's. "It's easy to give up, once you have that realization. Because it's not going to change, not really, not on a massive enough scale to really mean anything. The world is always going to suck. We can't really do anything about that. But that doesn't mean we have to be miserable. We can party through the apocalypse without a reason."
"That is a reason," whispers Gabe. "Fuck yeah, partying through the apocalypse. Living in the... fuck." He touches Kobra's face, and then they're kissing, cold from the desert air but hot from the friction of their tongues.
***
Sleeping wasn't part of Gabe's plan, but plans aren't worth shit at the end of the world, and when he wakes up Kobra is gone.
He staggers back to civilization in a daze, and when people ask him what he saw in the desert, he tells them.
--
Frank/Mikey, accidental first kiss, 326 words:
"Remember that time," says Frank, and there are a million ways the sentence could end, but Mikey's heart always shivers a little with hope, and this time it pays off. "When I was dating Gerard, and I climbed into the wrong bunk..."
"No," says Mikey coolly. Cool and collected is his thing. He can look bored in a hurricane. It's a skill. "I have no memory of you waking me up at four in the morning with your slobbery tongue. I repressed it."
Frank snuggles up closer to him. "Aw, c'mon, Mikeyway, I was totally out of it that night. I'm a better kisser than that, I swear."
Prove it, Mikey thinks, tell him to prove it. "Uh-huh. Sure."
"No, really, I am." Frank nuzzles Mikey's jaw. "Want me to prove it?"
Mikey snorts and gives him a side-eye, because he has to. He can't just take it, he has to pretend it doesn't matter first. But then, once he's shown the appropriate scorn, he can say, "Bring it."
Frank turns around on the couch, his knees pressing against the back cushion and his arm bracing him up on Mikey's other side, and leans in. He goes slow, hand cupping the back of Mikey's neck, breath teasing for stretched-out seconds before their lips touch. Mikey lets Frank lead, because this is about proving himself, not about enjoying themselves. Frank nudges Mikey's lips open with his own, sucks a little, then breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against Mikey's.
"Mikey," he says in a low tone, and there, he's the one opening it up to more-than-a-joke, and that means Mikey can grab his head and stick his tongue down Frank's throat, like that night when Frank thought he was his brother. Because jesus, no, Mikey hasn't repressed it. He thinks about it nearly every time he comes.
Frank strokes his fingers through Mikey's hair and gives as good as he gets, and maybe--maybe--Mikey can forgive him.
--
Pete/Patrick, aftercare kissing after a scene, 731 words (co-written with verbyna, who wouldn't let me call it "Afterblow"):
Pete wanted to stop talking, and Patrick decided the best way to accomplish this was deepthroating. Pete really only ever stops talking when he can't breathe, but that's all right. Patrick knows Pete's limits better than Pete does. So he fucked Pete's throat with one hand tight in his hair and the other gentle on his cheek, and now Pete is on the floor gasping.
Patrick takes a moment to bring his own lungs under control before he tugs his pants up and kneels next to Pete, pushing his sweaty hair back. Pete makes a sound in his throat, raspy and a little painful to hear, and Patrick pets Pete's neck to quiet him down. "Don't talk," he says softly. Pete pushes into Patrick's hand, but he doesn't try to talk again. This is the part that Patrick still can't believe he's allowed to do: look at Pete like he's been doing for so long, and actually use what he sees to make Pete feel better.
Pete isn't hard. When it gets this bad, it's not a turn-on for him. He's too busy wrestling his head into submission to focus on his dick. Patrick used to care about that, but he's slowly realized over the years that sex doesn't have to be about sex. It's a strange thought, and a strange reality, but it makes as much sense as Pete ever does.
He looks at Pete's stark, wide-open eyes and realizes that the scene is over. He sits down and waits for Pete to remember that he can move closer without being told now that Patrick is dressed and done pushing. It takes a minute. Patrick counts his breaths to stop himself from hurrying things along. He tried that once, when they started figuring themselves out, and Pete broke down and started begging. It's not something Patrick ever, ever wants to see again, unless he's given permission and made it safe.
He's painfully aware that right now, he's the whole sane part of the equation.
Finally, Pete moves those extra inches back into Patrick's space and moves to take his hand. His fingers are shaking a little. Patrick holds still, being solid for Pete, letting him know that solids still exist. When Pete's breathing smoothes out and he's not going to startle, Patrick wraps an arm around him and pulls him into his lap. Pete rests his head against Patrick's shoulder and Patrick holds him, tightly enough to keep him grounded, not tightly enough to send him back into the headspace he doesn't need anymore.
It's a fine line, bringing Pete back to the surface without letting himself slip out of the hyperaware state in which he's useful. Against his shoulder, Pete shakes his head at nothing in particular (or maybe at what's inside his head, but that's obviously not something either of them wants to revisit). Patrick gives him another minute to swallow around the soreness in his throat before he turns a little, careful not to dislodge Pete, and meets his eyes. It's almost a physical pain, seeing the trust in Pete's face right now, because Patrick knows that trust isn't just for him. It's for anyone who can hurt Pete in just the right way, whether it's his mom poking at an emotional sore spot or a stranger in a bar fight slamming a fist into his sternum. Patrick's just the only one who deserves it.
He tilts Pete's chin up with his fingers easily and touches their lips together. Pete sighs into it, nestles himself into Patrick's lap and opens his mouth to Patrick's. Pete hasn't so much as wiped his mouth after blowing Patrick, so he can taste himself on Pete's tongue. It's not so much a kiss as another point of contact, a way to communicate so that Pete understands without overthinking. Patrick licks Pete's lower lip slowly, asking for a little time, and Pete shivers, but acquiesces.
That there was a hint of resistance there is encouraging, Patrick thinks. He allows himself to enjoy this, the way Pete feels against him when he doesn't feel the need to struggle or crawl under Patrick's skin. Soon enough, the moment will pass, and Pete will start itching again; subtly at first, then more blatantly, until he's wrecking shit left and right. And Patrick will be there when he does, ready to give him what he needs.
Gerard solo, first time wearing makeup, 423 words:
"Don't get strung out by the way I look," Gerard sings to himself, because if anyone walks in on him, there's no better excuse than Tim Curry. He pops the cap off the lipstick tube, one of the ancient worn-down ones his mom clearly hasn't touched in years. He doesn't think she would have noticed anyway, and if she did she probably wouldn't care, but... it's not about shame, or the consequences of anyone else knowing. It's just that Gerard wants this to himself.
He doesn't get many things to himself. His art is the closest thing to privacy he has, and even that isn't really all his. People know it's there, even when he won't let them see it. Gerard coats his lips carefully with color, respecting the edges of his face, filling his skin like he fills lines on the page. With this, no one knows to ask.
If they did, he thinks, looking at himself in the mirror, he might show them. Maybe. Depending on who it was.
"Just a sweet transvestite," he sings under his breath as he closes the tube and picks up an eyeliner pencil. He's not good at things getting near his eyes, and he keeps cringing away from his own touch, but eventually he manages to edge his eyelids in dark brown without stabbing himself. The mascara is next, and whoa, that really makes a difference. He never really noticed his eyelashes before now, never looked at them. The way they stand out lets him think the word "pretty" for the first time.
The blush is last. He thinks he heard somewhere that it's supposed to go on first, but if there's anything this isn't about, it's how things are supposed to work.
Gerard leans forward onto his elbows and stares into the mirror. He wants to look at the makeup, but all he can focus on is his own eyes, brave and proud. He looks different, not because of what's on his skin, but because of what's changing under it. By doing this, he's becoming a person who can do it, and that's fucking inspiring.
"I see you shiver with antici..." he sings quietly to his reflection, and pauses. Tilts forward. His breath fogs up the mirror a little, and he closes his mouth and breathes through his nose until it evaporates, leaving the glass clear and smooth. Gerard stretches his neck just a little and presses his lips against the mirror, quickly, suddenly.
For luck, he thinks, looking fondly into his own eyes.
--
Gabe/Patrick & Gabe/Pete, kissing a boy just to start shit, 372 words:
Pete is straight, of course, but Patrick is actually straight, which would make him less fun to toy with if Pete didn't treat him like his emotional property. Gabe noses against Patrick's collarbone, grinning at the uncomfortable shifting he can hear from where Pete is sitting a few feet away. Patrick huffs out an annoyed breath and cranes his neck around Gabe's 'fro so he can see his laptop screen.
They're sitting in between buses, waiting. The vast majority of tour life consists of waiting, interspersed with a few hours of frantic motion, then more half-days of nothing. Patrick is using this time to do something extremely important, apparently. "Knock it off, Gabe," he says impatiently. Gabe nibbles his ear in response.
"He said knock it off," snaps Pete.
Gabe lifts his head, grins directly into Pete's gaze, and smacks a big long wet one right on Patrick's lips. Patrick splutters against him hilariously, and even though Gabe is braced for it, the punch knocks their lips apart.
"Jesus Christ," says Patrick. "Leave it, Pete, he's just baiting you."
It's true, Gabe is, but Pete has never been one to let his awareness of his own shortcomings keep them from functioning. He tackles Gabe, fists flying. There, finally, something interesting. Gabe rolls away from Patrick to avoid accidentally hitting him, because Pete would get seriously pissed if Patrick got hurt. It's not about Patrick, anyway.
Pete's aiming for Gabe's sensitive areas, and when their tussling turns into wrestling, Gabe can feel that he's hard. He always gets hard when they fight. Gabe is, too. He doesn't usually get aroused from brawling with his friends, but he does with Pete, because he never knows if this is going to be the time that Pete gives in, lets himself stop throwing punches and start rubbing off frantically like he so obviously wants to.
Pete knees Gabe in the stomach, and Gabe can tell the moment he feels Gabe's hard-on against his shin. He jumps up, backs away a few steps. "Leave Patrick the fuck alone," he says nervously and disappears onto his bus.
Not this time, then. Maybe Gabe needs a plan of attack that doesn't involve the presence of a real straight boy.
--
Gabe/Kobra Kid, 574 words:
It's hard to believe that the desert will get cold in a few hours, but Gabe believes it. He knows better than to go off soul-searching by himself without checking the Wikipedia page on deserts first. He's not, like, stupid. So he gathers up some wood and sits there with his lighter, trying to get it to catch. It's really not working.
"Need some help there?"
Gabe looks up to see a guy standing there, hip cocked. He's dressed in a manner of which Gabe approves fully: black skinny jeans, a yellow tiger-striped shirt, and a red jacket, with a strangely decorated motorcycle helmet under his arm. There's no motorcycle in sight. His hair is bleached and styled like someone tried to slick it back with dust, and his face is friendly in an expressionless sort of way.
"Sure," Gabe says. "You know how to start a fire?"
The guy draws something off his hip that looks a hell of a lot like a gun. Gabe raises his eyebrows, then scrambles back in a panic when the guy starts shooting fucking lasers or some shit at his sad little pile of twigs. "What the fuck? Who the fuck are you?" Gabe demands.
The guy scoots one of the bigger pieces of wood toward the tiny flame and sits cross-legged on the other side of it. "You can call me Kobra," he says, and twirls the gun in his fingers.
***
"I just need a goal," says Gabe. "I'm awesome at getting shit done when I know what I'm doing it for, but if I don't have a plan, I'm the laziest bastard on earth. I need some kind of purpose."
Wikipedia has proven itself wise. The desert is fucking freezing at night. Gabe and Kobra are sitting next to each other now, pressed up arm to arm and hip to hip, sharing body heat and leaning toward the little fire. It would probably go out if Gabe went to sleep, but sleep was never part of the plan for this trip.
"What's important to you?" asks Kobra, and well, that's the question, isn't it? Gabe shrugs, feeling Kobra's jacket rub against his shoulder as he does.
"Music. I want to do something with music. And... I don't know, getting people to stop letting their cynicism dictate their lives. I guess that's kind of lofty."
Kobra puts a hand on Gabe's knee gently. "If you didn't want lofty, you wouldn't be on a fucking spirit quest."
This is a point.
"The world sucks," murmurs Kobra, and his face is close to Gabe's. "It's easy to give up, once you have that realization. Because it's not going to change, not really, not on a massive enough scale to really mean anything. The world is always going to suck. We can't really do anything about that. But that doesn't mean we have to be miserable. We can party through the apocalypse without a reason."
"That is a reason," whispers Gabe. "Fuck yeah, partying through the apocalypse. Living in the... fuck." He touches Kobra's face, and then they're kissing, cold from the desert air but hot from the friction of their tongues.
***
Sleeping wasn't part of Gabe's plan, but plans aren't worth shit at the end of the world, and when he wakes up Kobra is gone.
He staggers back to civilization in a daze, and when people ask him what he saw in the desert, he tells them.
--
Frank/Mikey, accidental first kiss, 326 words:
"Remember that time," says Frank, and there are a million ways the sentence could end, but Mikey's heart always shivers a little with hope, and this time it pays off. "When I was dating Gerard, and I climbed into the wrong bunk..."
"No," says Mikey coolly. Cool and collected is his thing. He can look bored in a hurricane. It's a skill. "I have no memory of you waking me up at four in the morning with your slobbery tongue. I repressed it."
Frank snuggles up closer to him. "Aw, c'mon, Mikeyway, I was totally out of it that night. I'm a better kisser than that, I swear."
Prove it, Mikey thinks, tell him to prove it. "Uh-huh. Sure."
"No, really, I am." Frank nuzzles Mikey's jaw. "Want me to prove it?"
Mikey snorts and gives him a side-eye, because he has to. He can't just take it, he has to pretend it doesn't matter first. But then, once he's shown the appropriate scorn, he can say, "Bring it."
Frank turns around on the couch, his knees pressing against the back cushion and his arm bracing him up on Mikey's other side, and leans in. He goes slow, hand cupping the back of Mikey's neck, breath teasing for stretched-out seconds before their lips touch. Mikey lets Frank lead, because this is about proving himself, not about enjoying themselves. Frank nudges Mikey's lips open with his own, sucks a little, then breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against Mikey's.
"Mikey," he says in a low tone, and there, he's the one opening it up to more-than-a-joke, and that means Mikey can grab his head and stick his tongue down Frank's throat, like that night when Frank thought he was his brother. Because jesus, no, Mikey hasn't repressed it. He thinks about it nearly every time he comes.
Frank strokes his fingers through Mikey's hair and gives as good as he gets, and maybe--maybe--Mikey can forgive him.
--
Pete/Patrick, aftercare kissing after a scene, 731 words (co-written with verbyna, who wouldn't let me call it "Afterblow"):
Pete wanted to stop talking, and Patrick decided the best way to accomplish this was deepthroating. Pete really only ever stops talking when he can't breathe, but that's all right. Patrick knows Pete's limits better than Pete does. So he fucked Pete's throat with one hand tight in his hair and the other gentle on his cheek, and now Pete is on the floor gasping.
Patrick takes a moment to bring his own lungs under control before he tugs his pants up and kneels next to Pete, pushing his sweaty hair back. Pete makes a sound in his throat, raspy and a little painful to hear, and Patrick pets Pete's neck to quiet him down. "Don't talk," he says softly. Pete pushes into Patrick's hand, but he doesn't try to talk again. This is the part that Patrick still can't believe he's allowed to do: look at Pete like he's been doing for so long, and actually use what he sees to make Pete feel better.
Pete isn't hard. When it gets this bad, it's not a turn-on for him. He's too busy wrestling his head into submission to focus on his dick. Patrick used to care about that, but he's slowly realized over the years that sex doesn't have to be about sex. It's a strange thought, and a strange reality, but it makes as much sense as Pete ever does.
He looks at Pete's stark, wide-open eyes and realizes that the scene is over. He sits down and waits for Pete to remember that he can move closer without being told now that Patrick is dressed and done pushing. It takes a minute. Patrick counts his breaths to stop himself from hurrying things along. He tried that once, when they started figuring themselves out, and Pete broke down and started begging. It's not something Patrick ever, ever wants to see again, unless he's given permission and made it safe.
He's painfully aware that right now, he's the whole sane part of the equation.
Finally, Pete moves those extra inches back into Patrick's space and moves to take his hand. His fingers are shaking a little. Patrick holds still, being solid for Pete, letting him know that solids still exist. When Pete's breathing smoothes out and he's not going to startle, Patrick wraps an arm around him and pulls him into his lap. Pete rests his head against Patrick's shoulder and Patrick holds him, tightly enough to keep him grounded, not tightly enough to send him back into the headspace he doesn't need anymore.
It's a fine line, bringing Pete back to the surface without letting himself slip out of the hyperaware state in which he's useful. Against his shoulder, Pete shakes his head at nothing in particular (or maybe at what's inside his head, but that's obviously not something either of them wants to revisit). Patrick gives him another minute to swallow around the soreness in his throat before he turns a little, careful not to dislodge Pete, and meets his eyes. It's almost a physical pain, seeing the trust in Pete's face right now, because Patrick knows that trust isn't just for him. It's for anyone who can hurt Pete in just the right way, whether it's his mom poking at an emotional sore spot or a stranger in a bar fight slamming a fist into his sternum. Patrick's just the only one who deserves it.
He tilts Pete's chin up with his fingers easily and touches their lips together. Pete sighs into it, nestles himself into Patrick's lap and opens his mouth to Patrick's. Pete hasn't so much as wiped his mouth after blowing Patrick, so he can taste himself on Pete's tongue. It's not so much a kiss as another point of contact, a way to communicate so that Pete understands without overthinking. Patrick licks Pete's lower lip slowly, asking for a little time, and Pete shivers, but acquiesces.
That there was a hint of resistance there is encouraging, Patrick thinks. He allows himself to enjoy this, the way Pete feels against him when he doesn't feel the need to struggle or crawl under Patrick's skin. Soon enough, the moment will pass, and Pete will start itching again; subtly at first, then more blatantly, until he's wrecking shit left and right. And Patrick will be there when he does, ready to give him what he needs.