More top fives, because yes, I am still sick.

[sinsense]

Top five hip-hop/rap artist names you would give yourself.
Top five household items that actually make awesome cat toys.
Five times Bob misses hanging out with the Used (warning for one NC-17 item).
Five things Ray Toro wants.


Top five hip-hop|rap artist names you would give yourself, from offonmars:

1. Mighty Dog. My mom called me that as a kid, and I still think it's the funniest slash coolest thing ever. The cover of the first album would be a drawing of a dog soaring over the earth with a cape and a microphone.
   
2. Queermo. The first album would be called Dandysexual.
   
3. Chicka. The first album would be titled B.A.W.C. I have had this in mind ever since I was in a truck stop in Texas, looking at a wall of novelty trucker hats, and a man took one off the rack and said, "you should buy this one, it suits you." The hat had two Confederate flags and the slogan "BAD ASS WHITE CHICK." I still laugh about it.
   
4. Dishes. Whatever, it is the coolest name for anything (except ceramic foodware).
   
5. God Eater, which is lifted from The God Eaters. I have actually always thought that it would make a good musician name, and it's especially appropriate for the bombast of hip-hop.

Top five household items that actually make awesome cat toys, from offonmars:

1. The only real correct answer to this is "everything." No caveats; if it's nailed down, it can be pried up or scratched to bits.
   
2. The strip that holds the lid of the milk jug on when you first buy it.
   
3. Toilet paper.
   
4. Unused tampons. Yeah, I said it. "AHAHAHA WHEEEE MOM LOOK! IT ROLLS AROUND! MOM! MOM!" Meanwhile Mom is attempting to cover her special sexy funtimes friend's eyes, because tampon and psychotic hosebeast cat. This is especially true of OB tampons. While I'm writing this: dear OB, please make your boxes more sensible and container-like, thank you.
   
5. CD cases. Little Bear really liked tumbling an entire stack of them into his litter box. This may have been a judgment of my musical taste and not play, but whatever.

Five times Bob misses hanging out with the Used, from secrethappiness:

1. For this one, you have to read the opening of a Brian/Used story I was writing at eleanor_lavish:
   
   ["Bert," Brian says, wearily, "that's enough." Bert pauses, but he doesn't get up from his sprint start. Down the hallway, in the living room, Quinn, Jepha, and Dan are all holding their toes; they look up as one, like demented meerkats. "Brian," Quinn whines, and Brian rolls his eyes.
   
   "Okay, finish the frame."
   
   Bert whoops and propels himself forward into a series of somersaults, faster than any human being ought to be able to go. At the end of the hall he smashes directly into Quinn, then flails and catches Jepha behind his knees. He manages to get them both to topple over - Jepha wobbles and crashes down, giggling wildly -- but Dan doesn't move.
   
   "Should have used a heavier ball," Brian comments, as Dan does his victory dance.
   
   "I'll show you some heavy balls," Bert says, and runs back down the hall to fling himself at Brian. Brian catches him with the ease of long practice. Bert smiles and licks his face a couple times, humming faintly and ignoring Brian's annoyed noises. Brian tries to drop him, but the fucker is clinging like a fungus. "Does my breath smell bad?" he says, and breathes in Brian's face. Brian sniffs.
   
   "Cigarettes," he says automatically, "And jizz?" He blinks. "Oh Christ, have you all been fucking again?" Jeph and Dan burst into loud, stupid laughter, braying away like donkeys. Quinn is just making lewd gestures as he walks down the hall. Bert starts sucking on his ear, and Brian tries to peel his fingers off.
   
   "Just a little fun," Bert wheedles.
   
   "That's not why I come here," Brian says sternly, "And aren't you supposed to be writing?" He jumps when Quinn's hands land on his shoulders, out of fucking nowhere. Quinn just dips his head and meets Bert's mouth at Brian's ear. They kiss, messily, their lips and tongues meeting occasionally on Brian's earlobe. Brian exhales shakily and says, "hey, no, off."]
   
   What you should know is that Bob was the undisputed King of the Pins. They used to make him balance on one foot, and still he wouldn't fall down. Bob misses the glory. (And the victory blowjobs.)
   ---
   
2. "Red, or black?"
   
   "Black," Bob sighs. Frank frowns and holds the red tie up against his collar again.
   
   "You're right," Frank says. He meets Bob's eyes in the mirror. "Aren't you going to shower before the show?"
   
   "What's the point?" Bob asks, but he gets up and starts searching for his shampoo. There's no debating Frank on hygiene.
   
   "We're in a hotel." Frank sounds like Bob just suggested raping a bus-full of nuns. When Bob shows him the shampoo, Frank looks relieved. "Oh, and you have to help me hose Gerard and Mikey down tonight."
   
   "Make Ray do it," Bob whines.
   
   "Ray did it last week," Frank says primly, "Don't be a little bitch."
   
   In the shower, Bob thinks wistfully about the Used buses, the way you could stick anything to the ceiling, how the smell of sweaty armpit would cling to your clothes, how Bert greeted everyone with a stinkfinger and a smile. Quinn hazed him for a week when he caught him using a wet wipe, once.
   ---
   
3. Bob really likes his band, really likes that they're all kind of boring, geeky guys. He likes that when they break at the end of a recording session, everyone heads off in their own direction for a while, to call their girlfriend or their wife. He likes that having an interest in a woman doesn't really have to be defended; he can just say, "Oh, there's this girl I'm dating," and they tease him a little, but don't look shocked and appalled.
   
   Still. Still, he really misses the cuddle piles. Frank likes to snuggle, and the rest of the guys are affectionate, but there's nothing like the Used. "If we don't cuddle him, Bert might light himself on fire," Quinn used to say, and Jepha would add darkly, "Again." Bob used to roll his eyes, but it wasn't like he minded, not really.
   
   Sometimes, when he's tired and a little gloomy, Bob thinks about the cuddle piles. He used to spend hours with his nose in Bert's hair, Quinn's leg tossed over his side, Rodriguez the drum tech's belly under his cheek, Branden's chin digging into his hip, Jepha's arm wedged under his ass. It was warm, even a little sweaty. Just remembering it now is enough to get Bob to sleep.
   ---
   
4. Bert has, hands down, the best voice Bob has ever heard live. He sounds almost exactly like he does on their CDs, and sometimes when he would change up the lyrics or the rhythm it would throw Bob off, make him jerk his head a little, blink in surprise.
   
   It isn't that any other singer Bob has ever heard is bad. Bert's voice is just unreal. It would soar up, no question whatsoever that it would hit the note the crowd wanted, and Bob would be struck again by how impossible it was that he could sing like that.
   
   What Bob misses, though, was the way Bert's face would be wild with joy while he sang, like the voice wasn't his, like he was as surprised as the crowd.
   ---
   
5. "Fuck," Jepha bites out, arching his lower back and going up on his toes. Bob squeezes Jepha's wrists tighter together, feeling the tendons sliding under his hand, and Jepha tosses his head back, letting out a helpless groan.
   
   Bob pushes in a third finger, and he would swear in court that Jepha actually goes on point, the muscles in his legs standing out with the strain even as his ass gives around Bob's fingers. "Four?" Bob asks, and Jepha groans again, tossing his head in a rough approximation of a nod. It's a little awkward in the position they're in, trying to hold Jepha's wrists against the wall while sliding most of his hand into Jepha's ass, but Bob manages. The noise Jepha makes is worth it.
   
   The door to the bus hisses open, and Quinn comes up the stairs. "The blue ones," he says into his phone, and waves at Bob. Bob just jerks his head, since his hands are kind of busy. "No, we'll do it at the merch table, Jepha and Bob are using the bus." Jepha rocks back on Bob's hand, and Bob gives him a few short thrusts before he pulls his hand back and wipes it on the leg of his jeans.
   
   "Give me the whole thing," Jepha pleads, but Bob ignores him, ripping his jeans open.
   
   "Later," Bob murmurs, when Jepha repeats himself, "after the show."
   
   "Promise."
   
   "I promise."
   
   "Okay," Jepha says, tilting his head forward again to expose his neck. Bob lines up his cock and shoves it in, putting his hand on Jepha's hip to pull him back into it. The back of Jepha's neck tastes like sweat, salty and spicy from the curry they had for lunch. Bob bites down and worries the skin, growling into the bite when Jepha makes another noise. Jepha rocks forward with his first thrust, lifts one leg and puts his knee against the wall. "Can you hold me?" Jepha asks. Bob lets his skin slip from between his teeth to say, "yeah, go, do it." Jepha has to brace himself with his ass on Bob's hips to get his other leg folded up against the wall, and his weight shoves him down impossibly further onto Bob's cock.
   
   Bob takes his hand off of Jepha's wrists, puts both hands under Jepha's ass and holds Jepha up; it frees his hips just enough that he can thrust. The noises Jepha makes are worth the way Bob's legs and arms are shaking. He's nonsensical, babbling strings of unrelated words, fuck yes hurts yes please fuck Bob Bob fuck shit Bob more fuck. Jepha finally drops one of his hands from the wall and jerks himself off, and he comes fast, twisting and nearly making Bob stumble. Jepha pushes back and lets his legs unfold when he's done coming. He presses his cheek against the wall and says, "God, fuck. Use me."
   
   "Bye, guys," Quinn chirps, and then, "Yeah, yes, I got it, quit bitching." Bob doesn't bother waving goodbye, just slaps Jepha's ass, leans forward and loses control. Jepha slides his hands down the wall to rest beside his face, and he doesn't say much, just lets his breath shake out of his lungs when Bob's hips slam up against his ass.
   
   "I feel so good," he whispers, after Bob comes. Bob laughs. Jepha stands up slowly after Bob pulls out, staggers a few steps, and then lets Bob help him walk. Bob shoves all of the crap off of the couch, gets Jepha to lay down on his stomach, and starts working him over with his hands, warming the muscles. "You're too good to me," Jepha says, turning his face into his folded arms.
   
   "No such thing," Bob says.
   
   "The whole hand later," Jepha says, and Bob laughs.
   
   "Greedy."
   
   "Yeah," Jepha says, and melts under Bob's hands. After a couple of minutes, he unfolds one arm to reach back and tug at Bob's leg. "C'mere."
   
   "I'm too heavy," Bob says, but he's already shifting his weight.
   
   "No you're not," Jepha says. "C'mon, I want it." Bob settles down over him, still conscious of how much he pushes down on Jepha's smaller frame. Jepha gives a happy groan, and laces his fingers with Bob's. Their skin sticks together. Jepha shifts a little, and then Bob can see him close his eyes. "I feel so good," he murmurs.
   
   "Me too," Bob says, quiet, and smiles against Jepha's shoulder.

Five things that Ray Toro wants, from secrethappiness:

1. For everyone to stop forwarding him fanfiction. He is so sick of opening a seemingly normal email and finding his dick in Ryan Ross's ass.
   
   "It's not that I don't like him," Ray explains patiently, pressing the phone closer to his ear and casting a glance around to make sure no one's listening. Frank cackles.
   
   "I hope so, you spent forever just licking his shithole!"
   
   "Gross. Oh, gross. I hate you," Ray says, and lets his head thump against the table. "We aren't friends."
   
   "Wow," Frank says, ignoring him, "I had no idea you were this hung. How do you walk around? Doesn't your dickhead chafe when it drags on the ground?"
   
   Ray wishes the internet a sudden and fiery death.
   ---
   
2. Ray wasn't actually all that uncool in high school. He wasn't cool, not by a long shot, but he wasn't a scapegoat. No one shoved him around, no one pranked his locker. He had a little group of friends. He had a girlfriend for a little while as a freshman, and then in junior year he got pretty serious with another girl.
   
   His parents didn't quite understand him, he felt like he had to pretend sometimes with his friends, and he couldn't tell his girlfriend all of his problems. Just like any other high school student, Ray was a little lonely.
   
   "This can't be like your skateboard," his mom warned, "You'll have to practice."
   
   "I promise," he said, "I really want this."
   
   She looked at him long and hard. "Well, if you're serious," she said, and he nodded furiously. "I'll go in for half."
   
   "Are you serious? Mom! That is-- you are so cool!"
   
   She blushed and turned back to the spaghetti pot. "You'll have to practice," she said again, stirring.
   
   "I swear," he said.
   
   Music didn't necessarily come naturally. It was the same as math, actually; he had a knack for it, but he wasn't amazing. Practicing, though, that he was good at. He would sit down on the edge of his bed, after he'd finished his homework, and just pick at the strings, trying scales and chords and fumbling through simple songs. The strings and the body of the guitar would slowly warm up under his hands, and Ray would lose track of time. He wasn't playing for anyone, wasn't trying to come up with songs, wasn't thinking about whether his playing would appeal to teenagers with a rack of MCR t-shirts.
   
   It's the only thing he misses from being a teenager, now that he's living the dream. Sometimes, late in the tour when they're all frayed and exhausted, he wants it back.
   ---
   
3. Something he will never ever admit that he wants, not ever. If someone else were ever to say it, Ray would forgo his lifelong pacifism and punch them in the mouth. He's never said anything, not even to his mom. But sometimes, just every once in a while, Ray wants the Way brothers to stop being such fucking headcases.
   ---
   
4. The press conference is calm. There are no screaming fans; the band's been broken up for long enough at this point that their screaming fans are middle-aged, more likely to say "oh, I loved them when I was younger" when it comes up on the news than to swarm a press conference.
   
   They don't get to see each other as often as they'd like to, all busy with their careers and their families. Still, they sit together comfortably, ribbing each other about the same old things, leaning around each other and tipping back in their chairs like much younger guys. Bob jogs Ray's elbow with his own when the representative stands up, and Ray forces Frank's chair back on all four of its legs with a thump.
   
   "My Chemical Romance was a landmark rock band," the representative begins, and on the screen behind her letters shimmer up out of a blue background: "Hall of Fame Induction: My Chemical Romance."
   
   The Sealy salesman is leaning right over him when Ray opens his eyes. "I'll take it," he says.
   ---
   
5. "Jesus, Ray," Gerard says, "Be a little more obvious."
   
   Ray yanks his eyes away from Bob's ass. "About what?" he says, but he blushes. It's got to be bad if Gerard can see it.