Some drabbles I don't think I've posted here
Spencer sits on the edge of the stage, dangling his feet in the throng of squealing teenage girls and wearily autographing their shirts and tickets. Sometimes it seems like none of them care about the music. They pay ridiculous amounts of money to see Panic live because they think the band members are hot. He doesn't get it.
Brendon leans over and says into his ear, "Remember that blue lacy thong someone threw at last night's show?"
Spencer grins and nods.
"I'm wearing it," Brendon whispers, and cruelly abandons him to the crowd.
Okay, maybe he gets it a little.
***
Frank only agreed to this in the first place because it meant he was going to get laid. That's the point of strip games, right? You get laid at the end. Everybody wins.
He just forgot that Gerard is Gerard.
"Okay, explain to me why you're making me put on clothes?" Frank asks.
Gerard piles a pair of camouflage suspenders and a cravat into his arms. "We have to start out wearing twenty articles of clothing each," he says, like it should be obvious. He stacks three baseball caps on his own head. "Twenty life points."
"Ah," Frank says despairingly. "Of course."
"Now, we need something to use as poison counters." Gerard looks around for inspiration. "Nail polish?"
"No," says Frank firmly. He digs a bottle of vodka and a bottle of rum out of the cabinet. "If I'm going along with this, we're using shots. Pick your, um, poison."
***
“Fried?” asks Spencer, stilling his hand.
Andrej takes a deep breath. Spencer knows that he’s struggling to hold out, to take more, and that means they’re done.
He sets down the lash on the bedside table and kisses Andrej’s shoulder, well clear of the reddened area, while he tucks a pillow under Andrej’s head. He lets the welts cool a little before dipping his fingers into the tub of Tiger Balm and gently soothing them.
He lies down on the bed. “Sleep,” he whispers, and the fact that Andrej doesn’t hear him means that Spencer has done his job well.
***
“Your penis is large, Spencer,” says Brendon. “I don’t understand why this is necessary.”
It’s not, of course. Spencer doesn’t actually need to watch Brendon’s lips stretch around his cock and a dildo at the same time. He doesn’t have to see the wet slide of Brendon’s mouth moving up and down, leaving the varnished wood of the dildo shiny and slick with spit. He won’t die if he doesn’t get to feel the muscles of Brendon’s throat squeezing his dick tight against the hard wooden surface, spasming, resisting the urge to choke.
It’s not strictly required. But it’s nice.
***
Brendon Urie is fucking obnoxious. Years of being Ryan’s best friend have rendered Spencer immune to obnoxiousness of the quiet, snarky variety, but Brendon is a different strain of irritating. He’s loud and needy and insecure. He always makes everything about him, and whenever anyone objects to anything he does or says, he takes it as a personal attack and has a giant attention-seeking nervous breakdown.
The most annoying part is, it works. When someone tears Brendon down and his eyes go watery, Spencer can’t help but defend him and protect him and try to fix him.
It’s fucking obnoxious.
***
They’re at the airport, like a million other times in a hundred other airports, when it happens. Ryan glances up, glances down, then manages to accomplish a spit-take without actually having anything in his mouth.
“Are you Robert Pattinson?” he demands. Jon raises an eyebrow.
The guy in the bank of seats across the aisle smiles wearily. “Sure am.”
“Holy shit!” Ryan squawks, then freezes and clears his throat. “Um. I, uh. Saw you in Little Ashes. Nice work. Great man, Dali.”
“Thanks,” says Robert.
“Shut the fuck up,” mumbles Ryan to Jon, who is failing to suppress his snickers.
***
"No, no, it's not that I actually want it!" protested Gerard. "I just... want it."
Frank, straddling him on the couch, raised an eyebrow.
"I mean, the idea of it turns me on, but I'm not going to actually ask you to..."
"Gerard," Frank said patiently. "You know why you hate needles?"
"It's an irrational phobia. Probably based on my--"
"No," Frank interrupted again. "It's because they fucking hurt."
Gerard closed his mouth and gave Frank his concerned look.
"I have been stabbed with lots of needles," said Frank. "I have played in a lot of punk bands, I have jumped off a lot of high places, I have moshed in a lot of worked-up crowds, and I have antagonized Bob Bryar a lot of times. I do not fear pain. It doesn't turn me on, but you being turned on fucking does. I do not mind. Really."
Gerard did his worried eyebrows. Frank fucking hated the worried eyebrows.
He wrapped his arms around Gerard's neck and breathed into his ear, "Use your nails. Leave marks. I want to see you when I look at my skin in the mirror."
Gerard moaned, his head falling back. "Are you--"
"I'm fucking sure." Frank shrugged out of his shirt and pressed up close to Gerard. "Bite me," he whispered. "My neck, right there. I want a hickey and I want it to bleed."
Gerard shivered violently and sank his teeth into Frank's shoulder.
"Yeah," Frank whimpered, "more," and Gerard stopped holding back.
***
Neutrality is Pete's least favorite emotional state, in himself and in other people. He rides the highs as willingly as he dives into the lows, but he makes the dives as steep as he can to limit the amount of time he spends in between. The only thing worse than not caring is not being cared about. This is why he takes friendships as quickly as he can, because there's always that initial period of emotional indifference before anyone starts giving a shit. And if he can't get them to love him right off the bat, he goes for the other extreme.
This is how he ends up pinned face-down over Pedicone's knee, legs splayed, an elbow between his shoulderblades and fingers digging harshly into his thigh.
"What the fuck are you looking for here?" Pedicone grits out, obviously doing his utmost to restrain himself from beating the shit out of Pete.
Pete wriggles, trying to get away, making Pedicone clench down harder on his leg. "This'll work," he grunts.
"What?" says Pedicone again. "You want me to fucking hurt you?"
Pete twists around and sinks his teeth into Pedicone's hip. Pedicone yelps and hits him hard in the temple, leaving Pete's head reeling. "The fuck is wrong with you?" Pedicone yells at him, and deals him a solid blow to the thigh.
Pete grins, because it's a reaction, and wriggles harder. Pedicone grabs the back of his neck and holds him still, hits him again with his other hand, and there, that's him not being able to stop. That's Pedicone losing control, throwing hard slaps at the problem because he can't see any other way to fix it.
Pete lies there and takes it, squirms when Pedicone starts letting up, doesn't say anything when his pants come off and his skin goes numb, because this is what he wanted. This is Pedicone caring. This is Pete not being forgotten.
***
Gerard prodded his chest gingerly. "Look, Mikey, I know you're trying to help, but the point is to be convincing."
"There is no better way to convince people you're a woman than having tits." Mikey stuffed another Kleenex into Gerard's bra. It looked like it was about ready to explode in a shower of fabric and tissue bits.
"Can we just... look, real women do not have cantaloupes attached to their chests." Gerard smacked Mikey's hand away and pulled out about two-thirds of the tissues in the bra. "Look. That's more realistic."
Mikey scowled. "Fine. But glitter eyeliner, no arguments."
***
The first time Brendon tries to go to Sexaholics Anonymous, he doesn't even get as far as the meeting room.
It's in a church, in the community area downstairs. Before he heads down, Brendon ducks into the sanctuary to check out the stained glass from the inside. Even though he's nothing resembling religious anymore, he grew up in a religious family, and he appreciates the art.
He's there when Brendon walks in. He's perched on the back of a pew, facing away from the altar, his legs spread obscenely wide. His clothes are too small for him, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. Brendon swallows and turns to leave.
"You have a gorgeous ass," says the guy. Brendon turns his head to look at him, and he cracks an inviting smile. "I can't decide if I want to rim it or spank it."
Oh, well. Maybe Brendon will make it to next week's meeting. He splays a hand across the small of his back, middle finger dipping into the crease of his ass, and says, "How are you at multitasking?"
Brendon leans over and says into his ear, "Remember that blue lacy thong someone threw at last night's show?"
Spencer grins and nods.
"I'm wearing it," Brendon whispers, and cruelly abandons him to the crowd.
Okay, maybe he gets it a little.
***
Frank only agreed to this in the first place because it meant he was going to get laid. That's the point of strip games, right? You get laid at the end. Everybody wins.
He just forgot that Gerard is Gerard.
"Okay, explain to me why you're making me put on clothes?" Frank asks.
Gerard piles a pair of camouflage suspenders and a cravat into his arms. "We have to start out wearing twenty articles of clothing each," he says, like it should be obvious. He stacks three baseball caps on his own head. "Twenty life points."
"Ah," Frank says despairingly. "Of course."
"Now, we need something to use as poison counters." Gerard looks around for inspiration. "Nail polish?"
"No," says Frank firmly. He digs a bottle of vodka and a bottle of rum out of the cabinet. "If I'm going along with this, we're using shots. Pick your, um, poison."
***
“Fried?” asks Spencer, stilling his hand.
Andrej takes a deep breath. Spencer knows that he’s struggling to hold out, to take more, and that means they’re done.
He sets down the lash on the bedside table and kisses Andrej’s shoulder, well clear of the reddened area, while he tucks a pillow under Andrej’s head. He lets the welts cool a little before dipping his fingers into the tub of Tiger Balm and gently soothing them.
He lies down on the bed. “Sleep,” he whispers, and the fact that Andrej doesn’t hear him means that Spencer has done his job well.
***
“Your penis is large, Spencer,” says Brendon. “I don’t understand why this is necessary.”
It’s not, of course. Spencer doesn’t actually need to watch Brendon’s lips stretch around his cock and a dildo at the same time. He doesn’t have to see the wet slide of Brendon’s mouth moving up and down, leaving the varnished wood of the dildo shiny and slick with spit. He won’t die if he doesn’t get to feel the muscles of Brendon’s throat squeezing his dick tight against the hard wooden surface, spasming, resisting the urge to choke.
It’s not strictly required. But it’s nice.
***
Brendon Urie is fucking obnoxious. Years of being Ryan’s best friend have rendered Spencer immune to obnoxiousness of the quiet, snarky variety, but Brendon is a different strain of irritating. He’s loud and needy and insecure. He always makes everything about him, and whenever anyone objects to anything he does or says, he takes it as a personal attack and has a giant attention-seeking nervous breakdown.
The most annoying part is, it works. When someone tears Brendon down and his eyes go watery, Spencer can’t help but defend him and protect him and try to fix him.
It’s fucking obnoxious.
***
They’re at the airport, like a million other times in a hundred other airports, when it happens. Ryan glances up, glances down, then manages to accomplish a spit-take without actually having anything in his mouth.
“Are you Robert Pattinson?” he demands. Jon raises an eyebrow.
The guy in the bank of seats across the aisle smiles wearily. “Sure am.”
“Holy shit!” Ryan squawks, then freezes and clears his throat. “Um. I, uh. Saw you in Little Ashes. Nice work. Great man, Dali.”
“Thanks,” says Robert.
“Shut the fuck up,” mumbles Ryan to Jon, who is failing to suppress his snickers.
***
"No, no, it's not that I actually want it!" protested Gerard. "I just... want it."
Frank, straddling him on the couch, raised an eyebrow.
"I mean, the idea of it turns me on, but I'm not going to actually ask you to..."
"Gerard," Frank said patiently. "You know why you hate needles?"
"It's an irrational phobia. Probably based on my--"
"No," Frank interrupted again. "It's because they fucking hurt."
Gerard closed his mouth and gave Frank his concerned look.
"I have been stabbed with lots of needles," said Frank. "I have played in a lot of punk bands, I have jumped off a lot of high places, I have moshed in a lot of worked-up crowds, and I have antagonized Bob Bryar a lot of times. I do not fear pain. It doesn't turn me on, but you being turned on fucking does. I do not mind. Really."
Gerard did his worried eyebrows. Frank fucking hated the worried eyebrows.
He wrapped his arms around Gerard's neck and breathed into his ear, "Use your nails. Leave marks. I want to see you when I look at my skin in the mirror."
Gerard moaned, his head falling back. "Are you--"
"I'm fucking sure." Frank shrugged out of his shirt and pressed up close to Gerard. "Bite me," he whispered. "My neck, right there. I want a hickey and I want it to bleed."
Gerard shivered violently and sank his teeth into Frank's shoulder.
"Yeah," Frank whimpered, "more," and Gerard stopped holding back.
***
Neutrality is Pete's least favorite emotional state, in himself and in other people. He rides the highs as willingly as he dives into the lows, but he makes the dives as steep as he can to limit the amount of time he spends in between. The only thing worse than not caring is not being cared about. This is why he takes friendships as quickly as he can, because there's always that initial period of emotional indifference before anyone starts giving a shit. And if he can't get them to love him right off the bat, he goes for the other extreme.
This is how he ends up pinned face-down over Pedicone's knee, legs splayed, an elbow between his shoulderblades and fingers digging harshly into his thigh.
"What the fuck are you looking for here?" Pedicone grits out, obviously doing his utmost to restrain himself from beating the shit out of Pete.
Pete wriggles, trying to get away, making Pedicone clench down harder on his leg. "This'll work," he grunts.
"What?" says Pedicone again. "You want me to fucking hurt you?"
Pete twists around and sinks his teeth into Pedicone's hip. Pedicone yelps and hits him hard in the temple, leaving Pete's head reeling. "The fuck is wrong with you?" Pedicone yells at him, and deals him a solid blow to the thigh.
Pete grins, because it's a reaction, and wriggles harder. Pedicone grabs the back of his neck and holds him still, hits him again with his other hand, and there, that's him not being able to stop. That's Pedicone losing control, throwing hard slaps at the problem because he can't see any other way to fix it.
Pete lies there and takes it, squirms when Pedicone starts letting up, doesn't say anything when his pants come off and his skin goes numb, because this is what he wanted. This is Pedicone caring. This is Pete not being forgotten.
***
Gerard prodded his chest gingerly. "Look, Mikey, I know you're trying to help, but the point is to be convincing."
"There is no better way to convince people you're a woman than having tits." Mikey stuffed another Kleenex into Gerard's bra. It looked like it was about ready to explode in a shower of fabric and tissue bits.
"Can we just... look, real women do not have cantaloupes attached to their chests." Gerard smacked Mikey's hand away and pulled out about two-thirds of the tissues in the bra. "Look. That's more realistic."
Mikey scowled. "Fine. But glitter eyeliner, no arguments."
***
The first time Brendon tries to go to Sexaholics Anonymous, he doesn't even get as far as the meeting room.
It's in a church, in the community area downstairs. Before he heads down, Brendon ducks into the sanctuary to check out the stained glass from the inside. Even though he's nothing resembling religious anymore, he grew up in a religious family, and he appreciates the art.
He's there when Brendon walks in. He's perched on the back of a pew, facing away from the altar, his legs spread obscenely wide. His clothes are too small for him, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. Brendon swallows and turns to leave.
"You have a gorgeous ass," says the guy. Brendon turns his head to look at him, and he cracks an inviting smile. "I can't decide if I want to rim it or spank it."
Oh, well. Maybe Brendon will make it to next week's meeting. He splays a hand across the small of his back, middle finger dipping into the crease of his ass, and says, "How are you at multitasking?"