Very late new story: My Girls
Just so we're clear, I delayed the end of the challenge because *I* was late with my story, okay? I am lame and I apologize.
As a consolation, there were some amazing stories written for the challenge, and you should go check them out! (I read Femme's at T's house this weekend and embarrassed myself by making little squeaky noises into my fist the whole time. "This is pornography, I kept saying." We know," they replied. "No, no, you don't understand. PORNOGRAPHY.")
Anyway, here is my story, 1832 words, hand-written in bit and pieces over the weekend.
Title: My Girls
Author: Miss Pamela
Fandom: P!ATD, FOB, TAI, GCH
Pairing: Jon/Patrick, Jon/William, Jon/Travis, Pete/Patrick, William/Travis. Um.
Rating: Amazingly, only R
Summary: It was going to be Pete/Patrick, then it was going to be Jon/Patrick, and then, somehow, Jon Walker got passed around like a party favor.
Huge thanks to ficbyzee for the late-night beta!
“Listen, seriously, we’re friends with Pete.” Brendon smiled his very best “Hey, trust me” smile at the bouncer. Unfortunately, it made him look about four years old. Jon hoped that the paparazzi were still interested in James Gandolfini, because this would make an awesome story for dlisted.
“We’re in Panic! at the Disco,” Ryan offered.
“You’re also under twenty-one.” The bouncer, who Jon was pretty sure Pete hired because he looked exactly like Sloth from Goonies, grabbed Jon by the shoulder and pointed him at the door. “You can go ahead, sir.” Jon looked back at the other guys, spreading his hands in apology, but Ryan and Spencer had already turned to go back to the Range Rover, arguing back and forth, and Brendon had positioned himself behind a paparazzo, jumping up and down, asking, “Who’s coming in now?”
Jon shrugged, ducked his head, slid in between the chick from E! news and a gaggle of kids trying to take pictures on their Razors, and, ignoring the babble of “Is that...is that the guy..” and explosion of flashbulbs, slipped through the doorway.
The noise in the bar was deafening. Jon blinked a couple of times to clear the spots from his eyes and scanned the room for familiar faces. Wow, the line at the bar was about four people deep all the way around. There was Matt from Gym Class reenacting something involving windmilling his arms, Travie was on the decks, and, if Jon figured right, the Academy guys were probably out back behind the kitchen. Owners or not, some things never changed.
But his old crew wasn’t what he was worried about; he had his boys to take care of. Jon looked around for the largest group -- ah, there. One booth was surrounded by black suits, flashing cameras, and the most wannabes.
As Jon mentally rallied himself, he noticed Patrick leaning against the wall, sipping a glass of wine and staring bemusedly at the crowd.
“Hey,” Jon grinned and shook Patrick’s hand. “Pete’s in there?” He jerked his head toward the throng.
“Who else? Patrick smiled around the rim of his wineglass. “He and Ashlee are the king and queen of the prom.”
“Do I have a chance in hell of getting in there?” Jon glanced at the door. We have kind of a problem.”
“He did it, huh?” Patrick laughed. “What an asshole.”
“He did it on...” Jon closed his eyes. “Of course he did.”
Just then, the sea of reporters parted and Pete walked through, guiding an unsteady Ashlee by the elbow. “Walker! What’s up?”
“The guys are pissed,” Jon crossed his arms and tried to look serious, even though it was kind of funny. “You know they’re not going to drink.”
“No worries, man,” Pete laughed, wrapping an arm around Ashlee’s waist. She smushed her face against Pete’s and giggled. “I’ll take care of it...eventually.”
“You’re a dick!” Patrick yelled above the sudden blast of “Gett Off.” Travis was bobbing and weaving behind the decks, cupping one hand to his ear and making an exaggerated “Whaaaat?” face to the crowd.
“That’s why you love me.” Pete let go of Ashlee and kissed Patrick on the mouth smiling a little as he did it.
Well, hey. Jon blatantly stared as they kissed for way too short a time. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen Pete kiss guys before, but seeing Patrick get kissed was a new one. Not that Patrick wasn’t a fun guy or anything; he’d just mastered the art of being friendly! Fun! Strangely unapproachable! He sometimes reminded Jon of Spencer in that way.
But Patrick looked pretty approachable right now. He was swaying slightly to the music and patting Pete’s cheek, the top button of his white dress shirt undone, his fedora slightly askew. He was laughing and looked more relaxed than Jon had ever seen him.
It was a good look on him.
Jon needed a moment here, or better yet, a drink. The night was too young and he was too sober to get involved with Pete Wentz’s exhibitionism. Was this or was this not a bar? And did they not have a lot of free booze? Pete was going to take care of the guys, no worries.
Working his way through the crowd, slapping hands with the dudes he knew -- which was almost everybody, and how cool was that? -- Jon finally reached the bartender.
“Whiskey and soda!” Jon shouted.
“Hey, hey,” a voice crooned into his ear.
Yep, Jon would know those arms and legs and sharp little hips anywhere. “Bill,” he laughed.
“Give this motherfucker the whole bottle!” Bill yelled to the bartender, right in Jon’s ear.
Jon winced. “Nice place you’ve got here,” he said, taking the bottle and a glass from the bar.
“Did you see the bathrooms?” Bill leered at him from under his hair. “I’ll show you later.” He trailed a hand up Jon’s thigh.
“Later, later,” Jon laughed. “I still have to make the rounds.”
Bill looked like he was going to say something, but instead he yelled, “Andy Hurley, get the fuck out my bar, you straight-edge punk-ass motherfucker!” and lurched away.
Sometimes, Jon really missed Bill. But he wouldn’t trade his band for the world. Raising his glass, he said, “To Panic!” and went off to work the room as best he could.
The next few hours passed in a blur of celebrities he had no right talking to, whiskey, reporters, whiskey, his shit-faced friends, whiskey, and oh yeah, more whiskey. Jon was pretty sure that he danced with three models at once at one point, and then he was dancing with Gabe, who tried to get his hand down Jon’s pants five times and succeeded once, and then he was talking to fucking Jay-Z, and he accidentally called him “sir,” which made Jay double over and almost fall off his chair with laughter, which was maybe not the impression Jon wanted to make.
So when Bill caught up with him later and dragged him into the bathroom, Jon wasn’t really in any mood to protest.
Bill didn’t even try to talk; he just pushed Jon against the wall and stuck his tongue in Jon’s mouth. Jon dropped his glass into the sink and shoved his hands into the waistband of Bill’s jeans. They’d done this a few times before, but never too seriously. And this time wasn’t the exception -- Bill was too drunk to be anything but sloppy -- but it was familiar and wonderful, Bill’s long body both pressed against him and leaning over him, the brush of his hair on Jon’s cheek, the way he’d almost laugh in the middle of kissing Jon, puffing his breath against Jon’s mouth.
“And what do we have here?” Jon heard. He broke away from Bill’s mouth to see Patrick standing there, looking pretty much like the last time Jon saw him, except sweatier, with another button undone. Patrick smiled thoughtfully, quirking one corner of his mouth. He touched the corner of Jon’s mouth with his finger. “My turn,” he murmured, closing in on Jon’s mouth.
“Nice,” Jon could hear Bill mutter as he stepped away.
And yeah, it was really nice. Patrick was shorter than Bill, of course, which made things different -- hell, he was shorter than Jon -- and he was solid in a way that made Jon want to wrap himself around Patrick like Bill had wrapped himself around Jon. Patrick tasted like wine and salt and Jon couldn’t stop himself from licking the edges of Patrick’s mouth, tracing his lower lip, savoring the taste, because this probably wasn’t going to happen again anytime soon. Patrick reached up and gripped Jon’s shoulders, anchoring him against the cold bathroom wall.
“Oh, whoa, hey.” And just like that, Patrick was gone, and Travis was there, licking a wet stripe up Jon’s neck. “Are we all making out with you? I can do that. I can so do that,” he mumbled into Jon’s ear. Then he grabbed Jon’s hips and oh shit, lifted him so Jon’s crotch was pressed against Travis’ and Travis could give Jon the dirtiest, hottest open-mouthed kiss of Jon’s life without bending over.
Jon groaned into Travis’ mouth and tried really, really hard not to think about the possibility of security cameras, because he felt very close to taking his pants off, and he didn’t exactly want that on film.
“No fair,” Bill whined, and hey, Jon hadn’t noticed that he was still there. Except that Bill wasn’t looking at Jon, he was looking at Travis, who he grabbed by the wrist and hauled into the nearest stall. The door slammed behind them and then someone slammed into the door and Jon fought hard against the urge to crawl under there and join them.
“You don’t have your camera, do you?” Patrick asked, coming up behind Jon and nudging him in the shoulder.
“I didn’t want to be mistaken for a reporter,” Jon answered, trying to think of ways to get Patrick to make out with him again. He landed on “subtle,” which consisted of licking Patrick’s mouth.
Living with Brendon Urie for months gave Jon a whole new perspective on “subtle.”
Patrick kissed him back just as subtly, one arm slung over Jon’s shoulder, his fingers lazily tracing designs on Jon’s neck. Jon deepened the kiss, daring to splay his hands on Patrick’s chest and step up into his space even more.
“Oh, no you don’t, Walker.” A firm hand pushed him away from Patrick. “That’s my singer.”
Fucking Wentz.
“Oh, look who decided to show.” Patrick scratched his forehead, just under the brim of his hat. “Did Ashlee make it home okay?”
“Fuck you,” Pete said, and yeah, Jon was not getting involved in a Pete and Patrick fight. He’d known them for too long and he liked his teeth where they were, thanks.
Jon pushed himself away from the wall, and the lights dipped and swirled. “Whoa,” he said.
“Christ, Pete,” muttered a voice. “You couldn’t leave him in one piece?”
That voice -- it was -- it was---
“Spencer,” Jon breathed. Wow, he’d only been sober compared to the other guys. Now that a real-live-sober Spencer was there, Jon was suddenly pretty fucking drunk.
Spencer shook his head. “Come on,” he said. “We’ve been waiting for you.” He wrapped his arm around Jon’s waist and steered him toward the door, flipping off Pete as he left.
“My band!” Jon declared, never so happy to see anyone in his life. “My band is here! And they’re even better than making out with three other bands.”
“Dude, no way!” Brendon clutched his shoulder, guiding him away from a stray stool. “Do you have pictures?”
“Not a reporter,” Jon mumbled. “Patrick has a nice mouth.”
“I don’t know what being a reporter has to do with anything,” Spencer said, opening the door. “But that’s not news.”
As a consolation, there were some amazing stories written for the challenge, and you should go check them out! (I read Femme's at T's house this weekend and embarrassed myself by making little squeaky noises into my fist the whole time. "This is pornography, I kept saying." We know," they replied. "No, no, you don't understand. PORNOGRAPHY.")
Anyway, here is my story, 1832 words, hand-written in bit and pieces over the weekend.
Title: My Girls
Author: Miss Pamela
Fandom: P!ATD, FOB, TAI, GCH
Pairing: Jon/Patrick, Jon/William, Jon/Travis, Pete/Patrick, William/Travis. Um.
Rating: Amazingly, only R
Summary: It was going to be Pete/Patrick, then it was going to be Jon/Patrick, and then, somehow, Jon Walker got passed around like a party favor.
Huge thanks to ficbyzee for the late-night beta!
“Listen, seriously, we’re friends with Pete.” Brendon smiled his very best “Hey, trust me” smile at the bouncer. Unfortunately, it made him look about four years old. Jon hoped that the paparazzi were still interested in James Gandolfini, because this would make an awesome story for dlisted.
“We’re in Panic! at the Disco,” Ryan offered.
“You’re also under twenty-one.” The bouncer, who Jon was pretty sure Pete hired because he looked exactly like Sloth from Goonies, grabbed Jon by the shoulder and pointed him at the door. “You can go ahead, sir.” Jon looked back at the other guys, spreading his hands in apology, but Ryan and Spencer had already turned to go back to the Range Rover, arguing back and forth, and Brendon had positioned himself behind a paparazzo, jumping up and down, asking, “Who’s coming in now?”
Jon shrugged, ducked his head, slid in between the chick from E! news and a gaggle of kids trying to take pictures on their Razors, and, ignoring the babble of “Is that...is that the guy..” and explosion of flashbulbs, slipped through the doorway.
The noise in the bar was deafening. Jon blinked a couple of times to clear the spots from his eyes and scanned the room for familiar faces. Wow, the line at the bar was about four people deep all the way around. There was Matt from Gym Class reenacting something involving windmilling his arms, Travie was on the decks, and, if Jon figured right, the Academy guys were probably out back behind the kitchen. Owners or not, some things never changed.
But his old crew wasn’t what he was worried about; he had his boys to take care of. Jon looked around for the largest group -- ah, there. One booth was surrounded by black suits, flashing cameras, and the most wannabes.
As Jon mentally rallied himself, he noticed Patrick leaning against the wall, sipping a glass of wine and staring bemusedly at the crowd.
“Hey,” Jon grinned and shook Patrick’s hand. “Pete’s in there?” He jerked his head toward the throng.
“Who else? Patrick smiled around the rim of his wineglass. “He and Ashlee are the king and queen of the prom.”
“Do I have a chance in hell of getting in there?” Jon glanced at the door. We have kind of a problem.”
“He did it, huh?” Patrick laughed. “What an asshole.”
“He did it on...” Jon closed his eyes. “Of course he did.”
Just then, the sea of reporters parted and Pete walked through, guiding an unsteady Ashlee by the elbow. “Walker! What’s up?”
“The guys are pissed,” Jon crossed his arms and tried to look serious, even though it was kind of funny. “You know they’re not going to drink.”
“No worries, man,” Pete laughed, wrapping an arm around Ashlee’s waist. She smushed her face against Pete’s and giggled. “I’ll take care of it...eventually.”
“You’re a dick!” Patrick yelled above the sudden blast of “Gett Off.” Travis was bobbing and weaving behind the decks, cupping one hand to his ear and making an exaggerated “Whaaaat?” face to the crowd.
“That’s why you love me.” Pete let go of Ashlee and kissed Patrick on the mouth smiling a little as he did it.
Well, hey. Jon blatantly stared as they kissed for way too short a time. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen Pete kiss guys before, but seeing Patrick get kissed was a new one. Not that Patrick wasn’t a fun guy or anything; he’d just mastered the art of being friendly! Fun! Strangely unapproachable! He sometimes reminded Jon of Spencer in that way.
But Patrick looked pretty approachable right now. He was swaying slightly to the music and patting Pete’s cheek, the top button of his white dress shirt undone, his fedora slightly askew. He was laughing and looked more relaxed than Jon had ever seen him.
It was a good look on him.
Jon needed a moment here, or better yet, a drink. The night was too young and he was too sober to get involved with Pete Wentz’s exhibitionism. Was this or was this not a bar? And did they not have a lot of free booze? Pete was going to take care of the guys, no worries.
Working his way through the crowd, slapping hands with the dudes he knew -- which was almost everybody, and how cool was that? -- Jon finally reached the bartender.
“Whiskey and soda!” Jon shouted.
“Hey, hey,” a voice crooned into his ear.
Yep, Jon would know those arms and legs and sharp little hips anywhere. “Bill,” he laughed.
“Give this motherfucker the whole bottle!” Bill yelled to the bartender, right in Jon’s ear.
Jon winced. “Nice place you’ve got here,” he said, taking the bottle and a glass from the bar.
“Did you see the bathrooms?” Bill leered at him from under his hair. “I’ll show you later.” He trailed a hand up Jon’s thigh.
“Later, later,” Jon laughed. “I still have to make the rounds.”
Bill looked like he was going to say something, but instead he yelled, “Andy Hurley, get the fuck out my bar, you straight-edge punk-ass motherfucker!” and lurched away.
Sometimes, Jon really missed Bill. But he wouldn’t trade his band for the world. Raising his glass, he said, “To Panic!” and went off to work the room as best he could.
The next few hours passed in a blur of celebrities he had no right talking to, whiskey, reporters, whiskey, his shit-faced friends, whiskey, and oh yeah, more whiskey. Jon was pretty sure that he danced with three models at once at one point, and then he was dancing with Gabe, who tried to get his hand down Jon’s pants five times and succeeded once, and then he was talking to fucking Jay-Z, and he accidentally called him “sir,” which made Jay double over and almost fall off his chair with laughter, which was maybe not the impression Jon wanted to make.
So when Bill caught up with him later and dragged him into the bathroom, Jon wasn’t really in any mood to protest.
Bill didn’t even try to talk; he just pushed Jon against the wall and stuck his tongue in Jon’s mouth. Jon dropped his glass into the sink and shoved his hands into the waistband of Bill’s jeans. They’d done this a few times before, but never too seriously. And this time wasn’t the exception -- Bill was too drunk to be anything but sloppy -- but it was familiar and wonderful, Bill’s long body both pressed against him and leaning over him, the brush of his hair on Jon’s cheek, the way he’d almost laugh in the middle of kissing Jon, puffing his breath against Jon’s mouth.
“And what do we have here?” Jon heard. He broke away from Bill’s mouth to see Patrick standing there, looking pretty much like the last time Jon saw him, except sweatier, with another button undone. Patrick smiled thoughtfully, quirking one corner of his mouth. He touched the corner of Jon’s mouth with his finger. “My turn,” he murmured, closing in on Jon’s mouth.
“Nice,” Jon could hear Bill mutter as he stepped away.
And yeah, it was really nice. Patrick was shorter than Bill, of course, which made things different -- hell, he was shorter than Jon -- and he was solid in a way that made Jon want to wrap himself around Patrick like Bill had wrapped himself around Jon. Patrick tasted like wine and salt and Jon couldn’t stop himself from licking the edges of Patrick’s mouth, tracing his lower lip, savoring the taste, because this probably wasn’t going to happen again anytime soon. Patrick reached up and gripped Jon’s shoulders, anchoring him against the cold bathroom wall.
“Oh, whoa, hey.” And just like that, Patrick was gone, and Travis was there, licking a wet stripe up Jon’s neck. “Are we all making out with you? I can do that. I can so do that,” he mumbled into Jon’s ear. Then he grabbed Jon’s hips and oh shit, lifted him so Jon’s crotch was pressed against Travis’ and Travis could give Jon the dirtiest, hottest open-mouthed kiss of Jon’s life without bending over.
Jon groaned into Travis’ mouth and tried really, really hard not to think about the possibility of security cameras, because he felt very close to taking his pants off, and he didn’t exactly want that on film.
“No fair,” Bill whined, and hey, Jon hadn’t noticed that he was still there. Except that Bill wasn’t looking at Jon, he was looking at Travis, who he grabbed by the wrist and hauled into the nearest stall. The door slammed behind them and then someone slammed into the door and Jon fought hard against the urge to crawl under there and join them.
“You don’t have your camera, do you?” Patrick asked, coming up behind Jon and nudging him in the shoulder.
“I didn’t want to be mistaken for a reporter,” Jon answered, trying to think of ways to get Patrick to make out with him again. He landed on “subtle,” which consisted of licking Patrick’s mouth.
Living with Brendon Urie for months gave Jon a whole new perspective on “subtle.”
Patrick kissed him back just as subtly, one arm slung over Jon’s shoulder, his fingers lazily tracing designs on Jon’s neck. Jon deepened the kiss, daring to splay his hands on Patrick’s chest and step up into his space even more.
“Oh, no you don’t, Walker.” A firm hand pushed him away from Patrick. “That’s my singer.”
Fucking Wentz.
“Oh, look who decided to show.” Patrick scratched his forehead, just under the brim of his hat. “Did Ashlee make it home okay?”
“Fuck you,” Pete said, and yeah, Jon was not getting involved in a Pete and Patrick fight. He’d known them for too long and he liked his teeth where they were, thanks.
Jon pushed himself away from the wall, and the lights dipped and swirled. “Whoa,” he said.
“Christ, Pete,” muttered a voice. “You couldn’t leave him in one piece?”
That voice -- it was -- it was---
“Spencer,” Jon breathed. Wow, he’d only been sober compared to the other guys. Now that a real-live-sober Spencer was there, Jon was suddenly pretty fucking drunk.
Spencer shook his head. “Come on,” he said. “We’ve been waiting for you.” He wrapped his arm around Jon’s waist and steered him toward the door, flipping off Pete as he left.
“My band!” Jon declared, never so happy to see anyone in his life. “My band is here! And they’re even better than making out with three other bands.”
“Dude, no way!” Brendon clutched his shoulder, guiding him away from a stray stool. “Do you have pictures?”
“Not a reporter,” Jon mumbled. “Patrick has a nice mouth.”
“I don’t know what being a reporter has to do with anything,” Spencer said, opening the door. “But that’s not news.”