new fic: gone to the moon about you (pete/mikey)
Oh man, I just rediscovered my old Pete/Mikey playlist today! I haven't listened to it in a long while, and some of the songs are a slightly angstier take on the pairing than I'm really feeling these days, but some of them are still right on. Mike Doughty's "I Hear the Bells", for example, is exactly what I needed this afternoon. I stole the title for this from those lyrics.
This was written for the square on my kink_bingo card for "bondage (held down)". It's surprisingly not pornographic, considering.
gone to the moon about you
by Pearl-o
Pete/Mikey. Summer of Like. PG-13-ish. ~1250 words.
Thank you to brooklinegirl for encouragement and beta. ♥
Summary: There's a bruise on Mikey Way's wrist, and Pete doesn't know how it got there.
*****
There's a bruise on Mikey Way's wrist, shades of yellow and a sickly green. Pete's not sure how long it's been there, underneath Mikey's wristbands, because he never noticed it until just now, sitting in the back lounge of the Fall Out Boy bus, cuddling together on the couch. Now that he's seen it, though, he can't look away. He rests his head on Mikey's shoulder and watches his hands play with his phone and wonders.
"What?" Mikey says, without even looking at him, because Mikey can tell when Pete's thinking too hard about something. Or maybe just when he gets quiet.
"What happened to your wrist?" Pete says, nodding toward it.
Mikey puts down his phone and actually twists halfway around, till he is looking in Pete's face. "Are you serious?" There's a look on his face Pete can't quite read -- he knows a lot of Mikey's looks already, but he's got like an infinite supply, and they're mostly pretty similar.
"Yeah," Pete says. "Where'd you get it?"
Mikey glances over to the other side of the lounge, where Patrick's sitting with his laptop, headphones plugged in, determinedly ignoring them. "Uh," Mikey says. He drops his voice just a little. "It's from you, dude."
He sits back against the couch again and picks up his phone.
"Seriously?" says Pete. He grabs Mikey's hand out of his lap and brings it close up so he can see it better. "I don't remember that at all." He wraps his fingers lightly around Mikey's wrist, to see -- Mikey's hands are big, long and tough and solid, but his wrists are thin in comparison, easy to clasp in place in Pete's grip. He rubs his thumb against Mikey's pulse, feeling the delicate bones underneath, and Mikey shudders a little.
When Pete looks up at Mikey's face, Mikey's turned a reddish pink all over and he's biting his lip.
"You hold me down," Mikey says, still in that same quiet voice. He's looking straight at Pete through his glasses, serious and focused. "It's kind of weird, really. I mean, you're really fucking strong, dude, you know that? And like ... I'm not trying to get away or anything."
Pete swallows and stares back down at the bruise. If he moves his grip a little he can kind of see where the pressure points of his hands had made the marks. "Why didn't you say anything?"
Mikey Way shrugs and gives him a half-smile. "I don't know. It's kind of hot, I guess."
Pete smiles back, and then he lowers his head, brings his mouth down to Mikey's wrist. He licks a circle around, twisting Mikey's arm carefully in his grip, and then settles in, mouthing gently where the bruise is easiest to see. Mikey's arm and hand tense underneath him, the muscles flexing.
Pete pulls away, drops Mikey's arm, scoots back on the couch. "Fuck," he says, closing his eyes. Mikey's breathing too loudly next to him, and Pete can feel it as he shifts again on the couch. Of course he's been holding Mikey down all this time. Pressing him down into the bunk, holding on as tight as he can, keeping Mikey from moving away. That's Pete's fucking life in a nutshell, isn't it? The only difference is that usually the metaphors don't bother being this fucking explicit.
"Hey," Mikey says, nudging Pete with his shoulder. "I told you. It's kind of hot."
Pete scowls. "Your mom's kind of hot."
He opens his eyes again as Mikey climbs into his lap, his long legs folding up on either side of Pete's thighs. "What is your problem?" Mikey says softly, tucking his face in close to Pete's.
"I am a moody motherfucker," Pete says honestly, and Mikey's giggle shakes through his whole body, and Pete's where they touch.
Mikey kisses him, just a moment's peck. His voice is almost a whisper now, and his words are coming out a little fast, like maybe he's afraid of what he's saying. "I like it. You don't look that strong. I like the feeling like I couldn't get away even if I tried. You know? It's like you're keeping me grounded here somehow."
Their foreheads are resting against each other, Mikey's glasses almost falling off his nose to knock against Pete's face.
I think you're taking this thing between us a little too serious. Pete's had that said to him more times than he can count in his life. And this is one time when he thinks it's absolutely true, but the thing is, Mikey's never going to say it to him, any more than he would say it to Mikey. They're both on the same side here, both of them in too deep.
"I want to fuck you," is what he says, instead, and Mikey's eyes widen.
"Fuck yeah," Mikey breathes, soft against Pete's mouth.
"Some time when it's just the two of us alone, finally," when he has Mikey Way all to himself. All to himself. "I'll hold you down and open you up."
"Yeah," Mikey says, sounding almost as dazed as Pete feels, and then they're kissing, hot and familiar, pressed together everywhere they can. Mikey's hands are in Pete's hair, holding his head still to kiss him harder, scratching his nails into Pete's scalp, and Pete is holding on tight to the warm skin of Mikey's back, underneath his t-shirt, and it's all really fucking nice, right until the pillow slams into the side of their heads.
They jerk apart. "What the hell?" Pete says.
"Party foul!" says Patrick. He's standing next to his computer now, glaring at them. "This is fucking public band space, okay. There is another person in the room. I will get the hose if I have to, I swear to God."
Mikey Way snorts out a laugh as he climbs off Pete's lap, settling back in beside him in on the couch.
"Sorry, Patrick," Pete says. "My bad."
"Sorry, Patrick," Mikey echoes.
Patrick rolls his eyes and sits back down. He gives them a final warning look as he puts his headphones back on.
"It's worse than fucking high school sometimes, Jesus," Mikey mutters, and Pete laughs.
"High school was way easier than this, dude. I had a car with a backseat and my parents both worked late." He takes Mikey's hand, lacing their fingers together. "There was plenty of alone time available."
"Whatever," says Mikey. "This is fucking better, anyway." He squeezes Pete's hand once, and then picks up his phone again, where he'd set it down earlier. He has a new text from Frank, and he starts typing in a response immediately.
Pete rests his head back against Mikey's shoulder, bony but comfortable anyway, and looks across the room to Patrick, back in his own world, ignoring them totally. When Mikey's band comes back to fetch him for sound check later and take him away, Pete will tell Patrick about this conversation, and Patrick will complain about how he doesn't want to know. But he'll listen anyway, because he's Patrick, and he always does, whenever Pete needs him.
He catches Patrick's eye, just long enough to blow him a sappy wet kiss; Patrick makes a face at him and turns away, but Pete feels loved anyway. He closes his eyes and snuggles in closer against Mikey's side.
This was written for the square on my kink_bingo card for "bondage (held down)". It's surprisingly not pornographic, considering.
gone to the moon about you
by Pearl-o
Pete/Mikey. Summer of Like. PG-13-ish. ~1250 words.
Thank you to brooklinegirl for encouragement and beta. ♥
Summary: There's a bruise on Mikey Way's wrist, and Pete doesn't know how it got there.
*****
There's a bruise on Mikey Way's wrist, shades of yellow and a sickly green. Pete's not sure how long it's been there, underneath Mikey's wristbands, because he never noticed it until just now, sitting in the back lounge of the Fall Out Boy bus, cuddling together on the couch. Now that he's seen it, though, he can't look away. He rests his head on Mikey's shoulder and watches his hands play with his phone and wonders.
"What?" Mikey says, without even looking at him, because Mikey can tell when Pete's thinking too hard about something. Or maybe just when he gets quiet.
"What happened to your wrist?" Pete says, nodding toward it.
Mikey puts down his phone and actually twists halfway around, till he is looking in Pete's face. "Are you serious?" There's a look on his face Pete can't quite read -- he knows a lot of Mikey's looks already, but he's got like an infinite supply, and they're mostly pretty similar.
"Yeah," Pete says. "Where'd you get it?"
Mikey glances over to the other side of the lounge, where Patrick's sitting with his laptop, headphones plugged in, determinedly ignoring them. "Uh," Mikey says. He drops his voice just a little. "It's from you, dude."
He sits back against the couch again and picks up his phone.
"Seriously?" says Pete. He grabs Mikey's hand out of his lap and brings it close up so he can see it better. "I don't remember that at all." He wraps his fingers lightly around Mikey's wrist, to see -- Mikey's hands are big, long and tough and solid, but his wrists are thin in comparison, easy to clasp in place in Pete's grip. He rubs his thumb against Mikey's pulse, feeling the delicate bones underneath, and Mikey shudders a little.
When Pete looks up at Mikey's face, Mikey's turned a reddish pink all over and he's biting his lip.
"You hold me down," Mikey says, still in that same quiet voice. He's looking straight at Pete through his glasses, serious and focused. "It's kind of weird, really. I mean, you're really fucking strong, dude, you know that? And like ... I'm not trying to get away or anything."
Pete swallows and stares back down at the bruise. If he moves his grip a little he can kind of see where the pressure points of his hands had made the marks. "Why didn't you say anything?"
Mikey Way shrugs and gives him a half-smile. "I don't know. It's kind of hot, I guess."
Pete smiles back, and then he lowers his head, brings his mouth down to Mikey's wrist. He licks a circle around, twisting Mikey's arm carefully in his grip, and then settles in, mouthing gently where the bruise is easiest to see. Mikey's arm and hand tense underneath him, the muscles flexing.
Pete pulls away, drops Mikey's arm, scoots back on the couch. "Fuck," he says, closing his eyes. Mikey's breathing too loudly next to him, and Pete can feel it as he shifts again on the couch. Of course he's been holding Mikey down all this time. Pressing him down into the bunk, holding on as tight as he can, keeping Mikey from moving away. That's Pete's fucking life in a nutshell, isn't it? The only difference is that usually the metaphors don't bother being this fucking explicit.
"Hey," Mikey says, nudging Pete with his shoulder. "I told you. It's kind of hot."
Pete scowls. "Your mom's kind of hot."
He opens his eyes again as Mikey climbs into his lap, his long legs folding up on either side of Pete's thighs. "What is your problem?" Mikey says softly, tucking his face in close to Pete's.
"I am a moody motherfucker," Pete says honestly, and Mikey's giggle shakes through his whole body, and Pete's where they touch.
Mikey kisses him, just a moment's peck. His voice is almost a whisper now, and his words are coming out a little fast, like maybe he's afraid of what he's saying. "I like it. You don't look that strong. I like the feeling like I couldn't get away even if I tried. You know? It's like you're keeping me grounded here somehow."
Their foreheads are resting against each other, Mikey's glasses almost falling off his nose to knock against Pete's face.
I think you're taking this thing between us a little too serious. Pete's had that said to him more times than he can count in his life. And this is one time when he thinks it's absolutely true, but the thing is, Mikey's never going to say it to him, any more than he would say it to Mikey. They're both on the same side here, both of them in too deep.
"I want to fuck you," is what he says, instead, and Mikey's eyes widen.
"Fuck yeah," Mikey breathes, soft against Pete's mouth.
"Some time when it's just the two of us alone, finally," when he has Mikey Way all to himself. All to himself. "I'll hold you down and open you up."
"Yeah," Mikey says, sounding almost as dazed as Pete feels, and then they're kissing, hot and familiar, pressed together everywhere they can. Mikey's hands are in Pete's hair, holding his head still to kiss him harder, scratching his nails into Pete's scalp, and Pete is holding on tight to the warm skin of Mikey's back, underneath his t-shirt, and it's all really fucking nice, right until the pillow slams into the side of their heads.
They jerk apart. "What the hell?" Pete says.
"Party foul!" says Patrick. He's standing next to his computer now, glaring at them. "This is fucking public band space, okay. There is another person in the room. I will get the hose if I have to, I swear to God."
Mikey Way snorts out a laugh as he climbs off Pete's lap, settling back in beside him in on the couch.
"Sorry, Patrick," Pete says. "My bad."
"Sorry, Patrick," Mikey echoes.
Patrick rolls his eyes and sits back down. He gives them a final warning look as he puts his headphones back on.
"It's worse than fucking high school sometimes, Jesus," Mikey mutters, and Pete laughs.
"High school was way easier than this, dude. I had a car with a backseat and my parents both worked late." He takes Mikey's hand, lacing their fingers together. "There was plenty of alone time available."
"Whatever," says Mikey. "This is fucking better, anyway." He squeezes Pete's hand once, and then picks up his phone again, where he'd set it down earlier. He has a new text from Frank, and he starts typing in a response immediately.
Pete rests his head back against Mikey's shoulder, bony but comfortable anyway, and looks across the room to Patrick, back in his own world, ignoring them totally. When Mikey's band comes back to fetch him for sound check later and take him away, Pete will tell Patrick about this conversation, and Patrick will complain about how he doesn't want to know. But he'll listen anyway, because he's Patrick, and he always does, whenever Pete needs him.
He catches Patrick's eye, just long enough to blow him a sappy wet kiss; Patrick makes a face at him and turns away, but Pete feels loved anyway. He closes his eyes and snuggles in closer against Mikey's side.