just want you to know

if you're all about the destination

2009-07-14T23:57:03Z

Firstly, let me start by saying that I completely accept and even ENCOURAGE you all to defriend me due to my looooong spell of absence. You are totally, totally justified if you do. My main excuse for being so effing GONE is just...life. I know I know, lame, right? But it has been a pretty hectic few months? weeks? I don't even know how long it's been.

I have officially left school (although I'm going back in September for some extra qualifications...don't ask), had my final prom, said goodbye to friends I've been educated with since the ripe old age of THREE; I have been working full time, I have managed to get myself in a car crash (no one was hurt, except for my poor little car and my security in the driving ability of others! DRIVING ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE ROAD IS NOT OKAY, ASSHOLES), Michael Jackson died and Panic split up what the actual hell, and my friend of 8 years moved to Canada today. And I have missed a hell of a lot on these here interwebs that I cannot apologise enough for. *makes pleady forgive-me eyes* All in all, I have decided that life is a stressful, complex thing that I most definitely am not mature enough to wrap my little mind around just yet. We should all just sit around and drink tea and watch the first season of the OC or something.

To diffuse this general depression at the somewhat random yet definite suck that life manages to petulantly throw about, let me show you some pictures of what I once was. I have been a (glorious!) redhead since roughly February, but as of today, the red hair is no more :( I am actually surprisingly upset about this. I keep double taking the mirror.

This picture was taken the night of my prom - please ignore my dear friend James and my highly questionable and extremely drunk attempt at a serious pout? pose? I DON'T KNOW WHAT MY FACE IS DOINGGG.

Yeah, I don't know. The light is kind of sucky, but the colour (of my hair) was very light and bright and beautiful and whyyyyyyyyyyy did I get rid of it :(

Cheers! But yeah, it faded to this kind of pale ginger-y colour which wouldn't have been bad except as I'm still growing my hair my natural mouse brown started coming through only it looked grey against the ginge. The combo was Not Good.

Now I am so dark it's practically black. But I'm going to highlight with some blonde honey tones sooooon. Fingers crossed it won't look too terrible.

ANYWAY. To try and wheedle my way into goodbooks LJ-over, I thought I'd upload some lovely music to try to persuade you all that I'm a good person really. :D?

Minus the Bear - Get Me Naked 2: Electric Boogaloo
Contrary to what the title suggests, this song is not dumb, stupid or funny. It is in fact merely brilliant. Kind of grungey but undeniably awesome. I listened to this song constantly with my best friend driving around the country lanes where we live to and from exams and to and from magnificantly fun times that I will always treasure.

Absent Elk - Cannibals
Just a really solid, fun slice of indie pop that makes me smiiile.

Two Door Cinema Club - Hands Off My Cash, Monty
Another generally awesome song.

VV Brown - Shark in the Water
DEAR GOD I love this song. So so so so so good.

Rosi Golan feat. William Fitzsimmons - Hazy
I definitely listened to this a lot after the Grey's Anatomy season finale :') Ah hem.
Let's bypass the coolness of that admission and focus on the prettyness and cute of this lil acoustic number. It's pretty damn cute.

Also, if you didn't know, La Roux's album is literally fantastic. Gimme a nudge if you want it. I can't pick a favourite song which is very trying :(

Anyway, hello! This is me resurrected. I hope you guys are all well and jovial and listening to some fantastic songs of your own ;D
EDIT: As I posted this entry 'You Are Not Alone' came on my shuffle. It was pretty creepy, but I'm going along with it. You are not alone, flist!

show me your W.I.P's!

2009-04-26T22:47:17Z

Totally old meme that I have actually already completed once before, but I have started like three separate fics in the, oh, 24 hours? 48 hours? since my laptop sprung back into life. This is the crazy you drive me to, bigbang D:

Also, the variation of pairings throughout - *ahem* - should show how completely unbiased I am to my OTP. Yeahhhh.

1. The One Where Patrick Is Jailbait and Pete Is Obvious(ly in love with him)

"He is so hung up on you, man," Joe says at a gas station somewhere in the Midwest, after Pete has spent the better part of five minutes asking Patrick if he's sure he doesn't want anything from the store. Patrick had snapped yes at the third offer of a soda for the sake of shutting him the hell up alone.

Patrick sighs, his legs dangling over the side of the van, watching Pete's dark little shape through the window, the way he runs his hands over the shelves and walks up and down every aisle. "I know," he says flatly, and Patrick is such a good fucking person to put up with this, to not act on this, he has the patience of a fucking saint. The problem is that he still has the hormones of a sixteen-year-old male, and the way Pete is making himself so fucking clear makes things very, very uncomfortable.

"He's a classy dude," Joe says as Pete shoves the door of the station store open with his hip, his face blooming into an impossibly bright grin when he clocks Patrick slumped on the back bench of the van.

Patrick punches Joe lightly in the arm and mutters, "Shut up," as Pete approaches.

"Ow, jeez," Joe hisses, going to hit Patrick's cap back off his head in retaliation but coming up short. Patrick laughs at him, ducking out of Joe's reach.

Pete throws a soda to Patrick from a few paces away and he manages to catch it, just about. "It's warm, sorry," Pete says, looking honestly apologetic.

Patrick cracks the seal and takes a swig, wincing at the horrible warmth and fizz of it but forcing himself to swallow, only partly to appease Pete. "It's fine," he says, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. "Thanks."

Pete beams and kicks Patrick's ankle until he shuffles back into the van to make room. Joe catches eyes with Patrick when Pete reaches up once they're settled, absentmindedly, thoughtlessly, kneading his fingers against the back of Patrick's neck in slow, soothing strokes. It feels nice, it feels good, but when Joe turns to lean back against the side of the van, Patrick can see the edge of his knowing smile.

He can't help it, can't stop the way he feels about Pete and thinks about Pete, but he can stop this - whatever this is - from happening.

He reaches up with his free hand, casually, and covers Pete's with his own. Pete's fingers still and Patrick is aware of him stiffening slightly, maybe anticipating something more than Patrick has given up so far.

Something hot and guilty and desperate whispers what if at the back of Patrick's head. He thinks of Pete's mouth, Pete's hips, Pete's hands, thinks of Pete's small selfless acts and wonders how that would translate. They can't, though, and Patrick squeezes Pete's fingers tight within the sweaty heat of his palm, feels the movement of Pete's bones and the rough grooves of his skin, and moves the hand slowly back down into Pete's lap.

Pete looks at it stupidly for a moment, before glancing back up at Patrick silently, brow furrowed. Patrick obstinately looks the opposite way, out the window furthest from Pete, at the slow steady movement of the traffic.

Patrick hears Pete sigh and he has the sudden overwhelming urge to take the hand back, to press it against the side of his throat and say, fuck it. I want you.

Ha, yeah. This was originally gonna be straight up PWP, but I don't even know. Apparently I can't start with just plain sex, I have to have some sort of idea behind it and then that turns into plot, but there's going to be jealousy and pining and superhot sex at some point, so.

2. The One Which Is An Actual Straight Up PWP

Patrick sighs hard, like this is some kind of extremely painful experience, having an obnoxious Pete Wentz fighting a losing battle with his zipper at some ridiculously early afternoon hour on their extremely unlocked bus.

"We're gonna scar Joe so deeply, dude," Patrick says sadly, but Pete's fingers give up their fight with the button at that exact moment and Pete's freaky cold palms slide under Patrick's shirt, over the curve of his belly. Pete grins and leans in to kiss him but Patrick shoves him back, his back arching off the creaky leather of the sofa. "Ugh, off limits, you ass," he hisses, pushing Pete's hands back off the fleshiest part of his skin.

"God you're a girl," Pete complains, sounding honestly frustrated, but he catches Patrick's face in the rough grip of his palm and kisses him hard. It's not exactly sweet and it's not exactly hot, until Pete changes the angle, licks across Patrick's lower lip and presses the heel of his hand firmly against the front of Patrick's half-opened jeans.

Yeah, it's going to be so totally shameless and filthy. God, can this even be described as a WIP? Whatever, the sex isn't done yet, so it totally counts.

3. The One With the Sex Doll

"It's not what it looks like," he says automatically, and Patrick's face is so pale.

Patrick touches the bulging shape of it, the way the seams stretch, the open, obscene gape of the mouth.

"It's a dude," he says carefully.

Pete's entire body is like, roughly around minus a billion. "Um?" he says succinctly, "Yeah."

"Like." Patrick turns around to look at Pete and he's got the fucking thing in his hand, clasped loosely in his fist, and Pete wants to die, actually *die*. "Like, this is the guy version," Patrick reiterates, and Pete bites his lip and looks very hard at his feet.

"Mmhm," he mutters, and squints his eyes upwards. The embarrassment is so hot in his belly, and he wonders how much more grossed out Patrick would be if he just chucked up all over. "Hey, how about we go straight to laughing about this?"

Patrick looks at Pete, then down to the doll in his hand. Pete watches as Patrick looks carefully into the gaping blackness of the mouth, the too-red colour of the lips, frowning.

"So you just shove your dick in it, or what," Patrick says bluntly, and Pete makes a small choking noise and thinks, fuck.

"Kind of," he says, and realizes that that doesn't actually make sense. "I mean, yes. What the fuck, dude, it's - you know what it is."

"You're gross," Patrick tells him honestly, and seems to suddenly understand what Pete has done with poor Joel. He rips his hand back from the mouth. "Oh, dude," he hisses, wrinkling his nose, and Pete puts on his most apologetic face.

"It was a joke?" Pete offers half-heartedly. "On tour, it was a bet, and - And shit, a guy's gotta be pretty fucking lonely to," he gestures at Joel, at the sad wideness of his face, the vague surprise of his eyes, "you know."

Haha, yeah, this was originally an attempt to complete emmzuka's prompt from way back, but it changed into something different and now I don't know exactly where it's going, but basically the concept makes me laugh a lot and allows for a lot of Patrick despairing and Pete trying to hide this horribly embarassing kink obsession thing, and one day it will be awesome.

4. The One That Ate My Soul: The Hooker!AU of Doom

The man looks him up and down again, slowly. Patrick feels every inch of the scrutiny and tries to stand taller, tries to suck in his belly.

Eventually, the guy nods. "Okay," he says, and brushes past Patrick into the shadow of the buildings. Patrick pauses before going to follow.

"Patrick?"

The voice is instantly familiar. Patrick stops dead.

"Patrick," the voice repeats, this time exhaling with relief.

Patrick turns on his heel, and it feels like slow motion. There, across the street, where Patrick's latest client had just been prowling, is Pete.

"P-Pete," Patrick stammers. He has to say it aloud just to make sure. "What are you. Why the fuck are you here?"

Pete's wide smile grows wider and he jogs over to Patrick. Patrick's heart does something painful and embarrassing within his chest.

"I was - okay, this is going to sound really lame, but I was sort of looking for you. All over." Pete grins and leans in to Patrick's space, touching his arm lightly. "Well - I looked in like, the two places I knew of where you might be. Pretty shitty, right? You would think I knew this town better but - I know you said you didn't want to. But. I was on my way to that show - it's not far from here - and I was, sort of going to physically make you come with me, or something."

Patrick actually feels physically sick. "You. You were?" His voice sounds very quiet.

"Yeah, big romantic gesture ahoy, right?" Pete looks almost painfully happy, and Patrick wants to kick just about everything in sight.

"I'm - I'm sorry," Patrick stammers. He glances down at the gum-covered sidewalk. "I can't, Pete. I told you. I'm busy."

"You -" Pete's brow furrows in confusion and he glances round. "But. You're not -"

"Yeah," Patrick interrupts. He can't look at Pete in the face. "Yeah, actually, the thing is I am."

As if on cue, the man in the suit steps back out from the alley, his voice sharp and irritable. "Hey, kid, what's the hold up? I don't have all day."

Patrick shrinks back against the wall of the building and tries desperately to catch Pete's eye, to explain, but Pete is staring unblinkingly over Patrick's shoulder, his eyes burning with some terrible unnameable thing as he takes in the man and the suit and the alleyway, the red flush of shame on Patrick's skin.

"Who the hell's this guy?" Pete says, eventually, his voice cold.

God damn, it is so difficult to take extracts from this monster that don't give shit away. WHEN WILL IT BE DONNNNE ALREADY, JEEZ. Like, I love the damn thing but come on. It just needs to be like, written.

Anyway, play with me! Whine about your BBB! Send me your WIP's and talk about how much you want to write me teacher student porn :D

i'm alive! i missed you guys :(

2009-04-25T18:23:38Z

Man, I hate technology. I mean, it tricks you into thinking all is well and dandy, like, "Sure, Chloe, you can download things and email people and you can search shit up on Google alllll you want!" and all the other PERFECTLY NORMAL FUNCTIONS THAT LAPTOPS ARE BUILT TO DO, and then KAPOW. Nothing! I kid you not, I had complete radio silence from this thing for like two weeks now and it sucked so hard. You cannot just keel over and die, technology, that isn't cool. There wasn't even that little light to say it was charging when it was plugged in :( I thought all my fic and songs and bookmarks and everything were gone. Then one day it just - starts up. What the hell is up with that, laptop.

Anyway, HELLOOOOO INTERNET! Man, I missed you. You know what, I can EMAIL people now! (Sai I CAN DOWNLOAD YOUR FICS AND BETA THEM NOW :'DDDDDD) I managed to download the new Young Love album! I read so much fic this afternoon, and it was mmmmmmmm good, like a full fat meal when you're really hungry. I edited the hooker!au like crazy! I toyed with new ideas! WHO AM I KIDDING I LOVE TECHNOLOGY SO HARD.

Also before the radio silence of doom, I managed to watch three gay themed films, Latter Days, Twist and Save Me. I think most people have heard of Latter Days, and I thought it was cute if cliched, and the Mormon boy was adorable. Save Me was really interesting; it's about a Christian home, with its purpose to try to "change" gay men, to see the error of their ways or whatever. I thought it was mostly really well acted, although, oh, Robert Gant, stick to TV, bb. Check out the trailer. Judith Light was absolutely amazing and it was really beautifully shot, I recommend it! Twist was something I just stumbled across, it's like a recasting of the classic Oliver Twist story, only with it's central focus on "Dodge", and Fagan's group of pickpockets are actually male hookers. It was super interesting as an idea, although I think some aspects could have been developed further, but it got really dark and kinda disturbing and I think I need to watch it again to get a better grasp of it. The trailer doesn't shed much light, but check it out if you can.

Ugh, I'm meant to be reading up on this dude Shakespeare right now, but I really want to write a super filthy PWP and download lots of music instead. Any recommendations? :DDDDD

iiiiiiiiiiiiiii got troubled thoughts

2009-04-07T11:02:57Z

ugh, i love the internet for allowing me to vicariously see what a catch live. THE MONTAGE THING AT THE END ARE YOU KIDDING ME :')

obv this isn't mine, credit goes to OohPwned702 on youtube, but seriously. Where can I go to on a really short flight to get over my fear of flying? So I can like, go to the US of A already.

the weekend is heeeere

2009-03-27T21:50:37Z

- I just watched the film Bent and it made me cry :( Not even at the ending which I was kind of expecting, but when the two men are standing in the yard touching without touching :'( Honestly, this was something I hadn't ever really considered before - the persecution of homosexuals during the Holocaust - and I don't know why that is. I don't knowww, it was just heartbreaking and the performances were great and ugh D: Friday nights in, seriously.

- It was the finale of Skins last night! Boo hiss, it kind of sucked, whatever, my bb Cook was amazing♥ I love him and I want him to not be sad or cry or be fucked over by everyone ever again mmkay writers? Mmkay. I love him :( He tries so hard. Idk, they just need to make him haaaappy. I also need more skins icons >:( People also need to upload all of his scenes ever to ytube, just sayin'.

- It is so weird driving everywhere! I can't believe how bad I am at parking, though. Like, it is horrific. I am ashamed of myself. But I'm getting there! I feel safe enough to drive people around so, you know, at least I'm not killing anyone. (Just yet.)

- We discussed homo-eroticism in WWI lit in class the other day, and it was wonderful. Owen's poetry remains stunning and my favourite always, beauty continues to be found in the most absurd and horrific of places. I love literature so hard♥

Right! Off to reply to emails I have failed at replying to (I am a terrible, terrible person) and to attempt to write more BBB. I love that I receive new presents from letters I received at crimbo time (oh, you!!♥_____♥). Pictures of my new reddddd hair sooooon! I hope you guys have a good weekend. Link me to something pretty/funny/shamelessly fanviddy? *bats eyelashes*

lol yay

2009-03-19T19:22:36Z

Today is awesome as the two weeks of sun that we've had means that it's officially spring, there's the new Gaslight Anthem video for 'Great Expectations' on my TV right now, it is Skins and THE TWINSSS episode tonight, and I passed my driving test today!!

Oh man, I was so freaking nervous. Like, it is really hard to have good clutch control when your *foot* is shaking! I crapped up the hill start which was the first thing the instructor asked me to do (rolling down the hill is not okay) but I was so obviously nervous and told her, and I guess she decided it was minor-worthy. I AM SUPERSTOKED AT THIS NEW FOUND FREEDOM. I have driven around all day singing along to my ipod in the sun and life is great. ♥

Off to read some great fic and work out on my step machine, because I need to lose like, 2 stone for this summer :(

STILL SUPER STOKED, THOUGH

fic: i'm rubber, you're glue

2009-03-16T16:43:12Z

You know those days when you're kind of unwell and you have a day at home trying to catch up on assignments and like, your health, and then you open your BBB fic and think "Damn, I really should finish this," and then you write weird Panic fic because you have not tried that shit out in so fucking long? Yeah, today was one of those days. This is so weird.

i'm rubber, you're glue
ryan/brendon
1426 words, pg-13.
absolute figment of imagination blahblahblah. if you think this is real, you're a dumbass.
unbetaed :( also, stupid.

Ryan is leant against the bus door, the sharp crook of his elbow pressed against the sheen of the bus, and Brendon knows what that elbow feels like scrunching his nose halfway back against his face, and he knows what it feels like, all bony and insolent, in the curve of his armpit and side, and he knows what it feels like beneath the loose run of Ryan's shirt when Brendon tries to catch on and pull him back.

"What?" Ryan says when he sees Brendon looking at him. His eyes are wary and amused, like he thinks Brendon might be about to pull some shitty thing on him, but he bites at the nail of his third finger and doesn't look away. "What?" he says again with a laugh when Brendon doesn't answer, and scratches the side of his nose around the edge of his smile.

Brendon doesn't duck his head and scuff his shoes and whisper, "Nothing," with accompanying dramatics, because he isn't in an angsty teen movie about high school. Instead he crosses the flat breadth of the parking lot and flicks Ryan's hand away from his face.

"Hey!" Ryan hisses, grabbing his wrist back. He glares at Brendon. "What the fuck was that for? Wow, you're an asshole."

Brendon smirks to himself and thinks of Ryan's grimy little mouth and the way he nibbled his own nail, god, and wonders how skanky it is that on many levels he kind of wants to kiss him.

"You're kind of gross, dude," Brendon says aloud, and Ryan frowns at him and says, "Well so, so are you."

Brendon raises an eyebrow and threatens, "Well maybe one day soon you may end up with pink-eye, Ross."

Ryan looks like he's thinking about that for a moment, dissecting it, before he throws his head back and wrinkles his nose in disgust. "Oh, gross, Brendon," he laughs, and goes to shove his shoulder.

Brendon dances out of the way but cuffs Ryan's head back against his chest, ruffling up that stupid fucking haircut - the one that makes him look like that kid from that movie with Hugh Grant - and laughs and laughs and laughs.

"I know where you sle-ep," he half-sings, and Ryan punches him in the back until he lets go.

"Are you high?" Ryan asks seriously, smoothing down the back of his hair with his left hand.

"No," Brendon says, grinning, then, "Well at least, I don't think so." He puts the flat of his foot against the first step up into the bus and peers back over his shoulder at Ryan. "What, so you're staying out here in the cold or coming in or what?"

Ryan rolls his eyes but glances down at the cell phone tucked into the curve of his right palm, half-hidden by his sleeve, and Brendon didn't notice that before. "In a minute," he says with a vague shoulder roll, and Brendon jogs up the rest of the way alone.

-

Brendon spends the entirety of his conversation with Ryan subtly untying the laces of his shoes.

"Oh, *Brendon*," Ryan hisses through his teeth when he realizes, but there's forgiving laughter somewhere at the back of his tone, like he's saying oh-you-always-do-this, but I-*like*-that-you-always-do-this.

Brendon tips his head back and cackles lightly at the ceiling, and maybe jolts into Ryan harder than strictly necessary at the shake of the bus over a pothole. His palm ends up tight on Ryan's lower calf, and he beams at the stoop of Ryan's face, at the way he can't reach to re-tie them with Brendon in the way, Ryan's legs too long for his arms.

"Oh, fuck it, I'll do it," Brendon says lightly, and Jon glances down at them on his way to the mini-fridge, at the mild impatience and amusement of Ryan's expression.

"And that," Jon says, swaying with the movement of the road beneath their feet, "Is why flip flops are a man's best friend."

"Ryan *is* my best friend," Brendon hums, complete with sickening-sweet inflection.

Jon snorts hard and shakes his head. Brendon watches as he leans down into the fridge to grab a Capri Sun, only the swing of the bus round a bend makes him crack his head against the fridge door.

"Oh for fuck's *sake*," Jon spits, and sits down hard on the floor. Brendon laughs so hard against the back of his hand that he thinks he might actually die.

"No okay, *you're* my best friend Jon Walker, for doing that, I love you," Brendon says, sniggering, and Ryan smacks him hard in the shoulder and says, "Hey! Slut."

-

Brendon mouths, "I love you," at Ryan whenever he turns his back to the crowd, to the screaming desperate faces and outstretched arms of the front row. Ryan slants his eyes over to him when he does and tilts his chin up to laugh. He gives Brendon the finger behind the low hang of his guitar, and Brendon twists away to his microphone, to the sea of faces and camera flashes.

"You are so *weird*," Ryan says disbelievingly in the changing room after, and Brendon wipes the sweat of his forehead off on Ryan's arm. "And - wow, I'm not a towel?"

Brendon shrugs and grins and taps out a beat on Spencer's shoulder when he walks past. Spencer doesn't look up, just picks up a water and lets Brendon do it again when he next crosses his path.

"Whatever, I was just saying elephant juice, anyhow," Brendon says, like that should be obvious or something. "Like, do you not remember how awesome it was when you realized how that worked?"

"*No*," Ryan says seriously, and something in Brendon's chest feels all wrung out like a wet sock left out to dry.

"Well anyway," Brendon says quickly, and he looks at Ryan carefully, at the way his hair sticks up at the back when he pulls off his shirt, at the way he doesn't flatten it down right away. "I thought it was awesome."

"It was awesome," Jon says agreeably, and he claps an arm over Brendon's chest, a quick squeeze of a hug from behind, his hand too far up so it's mostly across Brendon's neck.

Ryan turns around and searches for a new shirt in his bag. The thing he pulls out is purple and ugly and he looks up at Brendon, at Jon's friendly arm of embrace, and snorts once. Brendon wants to tell him that he's too skinny without his shirt on, that he's too long everywhere, but then he thinks *everywhere* and thinks, oh.

He laughs to himself and shrugs out from Jon's arms so he can take his own shirt off, so the white skinniness of his own chest can make Ryan's less lonely.

-

They watch a movie and Brendon is aware that he's being annoying, is aware that he's being fidgety and touchy and too much all at once.

"So right now I really want a burger, right," Brendon says, because he can't help it, he hates it being quiet. The movie sucks. He prods at Ryan's sides, at his ribs, and Ryan makes a low sound at the back of his throat and doesn't look at him. He frowns at the television screen.

"Like a big fat greasy burger," Brendon continues, "With like, cheese and bacon and everything and god, Ryan, I am hungry as fuck."

"No shit," Ryan says, his voice flat.

Brendon bites his arm.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Ryan says sharply, grabbing at the spot and wiping the saliva back on Brendon's shirt. "Ew - seriously, what the hell?"

"Hi," Brendon says, and he leans down and he kisses Ryan.

-

Ryan tangles a hand in Brendon's hair and when he kisses him this time he looks in his eyes and says, "I love you," with something that sounds like surprise.

Ryan's hair looks stupid all flattened down with sweat, and Brendon wants to tell him now how much he hates that fucking haircut, how much he doesn't want Ryan to talk to people on his cell phone when he could be talking to Brendon in real time, how much he wants Ryan to only let Brendon untie all his shoelaces of all his shoes ever and not get annoyed about it.

But instead he puts his hand over the words in Ryan's mouth and lets Ryan breathe hard against his palm. "You're gross," Brendon says seriously, and Ryan bites his palm and says, "Well so fuck me."

i love you and you and you and you

2009-03-13T22:17:40Z

I love Comic Relief :) I love that for this one day a year the whole of Britain just lets itself go crazy and doesn't care about looking stupid for this one big cause, it's sort of amaaaaazing. I've been watching the live show and French and Saunders doing Mamma Mia was PRICELESS, as was James Corden's pep talk to the England football team, ahahahaha. ilhim♥ (proof of his awesome.) although the promotional videos make me cry. i'm donating extra online right now.

We had a bunch of events on at Sixth Form to raise money and it was just one of those daaaays where everyone was in a fantastic mood and acting silly :DDDD We all dressed up to raise money; my favourites were the giant condom (200% bigger!), the dudes who sewed themeselves together, my friend Joe who was BananaMan, and I'm not gonna lie, mine was fucking amazing. I wore a giant box (cut out armholes ARE HARD at 8 in the morning) and covered it in cereal packets, and had a plastic gun, and was a cereal killer :DDDDDD ahahaha IT WAS SO EPIC. There was also a sixth form gross food eating competition, with knock out rounds and countdowns and like 100 people crammed into the titchy media room, cheering while people systematically left to puke. My life! Even my mum went to work dressed up today :) She was a panda!

We had our Leavers photo yesterdayyy. It's the end of an era, and I really love like all 100+ people in my year, I've decided. They are all amazing. I'm going to miss them like fuck.

I don't know, I'm in one of those moods where I just want to hug everyone and smile and blab on and on about how amazing life can be. ALSO SOMEONE TALK TO ME ABOUT WHAT A MINDFUCK SKINS WAS LAST NIGHT, seriously WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK WAS THAT? Someone else tell me to stop liking the new Oasis song as well, ugh :(

on my radar

2009-03-09T01:17:46Z

you guys, i haven't been on the interwebs in like, a long while, and i have so much to *do* and so much to saaaay it's ridic. but it's late so some other time. (seriously, IT IS NOW PAST ONE AM D:)

i saw fob in cardiff last night and it was epic. patrick, YOU ARE EVERYTHING THAT IS RIGHT WITH THIS WOOOORLD. the fucking pyro and sparklers and everything♥ it was amazing. i have a p.weezy guitar pick courtesy of my concert-buddy pete, because he's awesome like that. pyro is fucking hot when you're in the third row. more later, maybe.

idk, bbb i think is probably no longer bbb and more, HAYY HOOKER!AU SUUUUP. it gives me peace of mind to think of it like that instead! i don't know. people are posting lines from their WIPs but that is like, the only one i can cope with right now and none of it makes much sense, but have a line or so under the cut. nc-17 because i'm hardcore like that. (i'm sorry patrick DDDD:)

1. "God, you're so," Pete starts to say, his voice high and breathless, his hands sliding over Patrick's face, tracing the full line of his jaw, the stretch of his lips. Patrick hums and sucks harder, up and over the swollen head, his hands at the curve of Pete's ass. He has to close his eyes, has to focus in on the feeling of this, doing this, can't think about the wonder and amazement, about the darkness, of the tight pleasure on Pete's face.

"Hungry for this," Pete finishes, and when he comes, Patrick swallows.

Haha, sorry to lower the tone but that literally cracks me up every time I read it. It's the small things in life isn't it? Hahaha, oh god.

2. "I need you to not make comments like - you have, while I'm here."

Pete stops and looks at Patrick very seriously for a moment.

"Are you out?" Pete asks bluntly.

Patrick goes to ask what the hell that's supposed to mean, but he isn't stupid. He knows. "No," he says. Then fiercer, "Not that it's any of your fucking business."

Pete sighs and looks at Patrick in that awful, patronizing way, like Patrick's mom did when he didn't have a date for junior prom.

Did I mention that hooker au's are mainly lots of porn + lots of angst and therefore equal my new favourite thing to write (most of the time)? Oh, boys. One day this beast will be done.

3. "I feel like fucking -- like that guy, you know the one, what's it-- The, was it Gere? Something Gere? That one."

"Richard," Patrick corrects, absently. "You mean Richard Gere in Pretty Woman. You asshole, I'm meant to be Julia fucking Roberts? Uh huh, I've heard that one before. Shitty comparison, dude, I give you a C-."

Pete groans. "Do NOT remind me about the," he waves his hand for emphasis, "*school* thing, please. *Please*."

Patrick looks up at him and grins. "Well then don't remind me about the," he gestures mockingly with his hand and Pete snorts, mouth wide, "hooker thing, you loser."

I repeat: ONE DAAAY.

in other news i really want to see watchmen and i am really really happy that people on my flist have been getting into skins. YESSSS. ILU SO HARD FOR THIS. can i take a moment to just *appreciate* the hot that is cook? good god. he is practically on fire, i don't even know. i thought freddie was hot from the first ep but good grief, HE IS NOTHING IN COMPARISON. WHEN HE CALLS HIMSELF COOKIE MONSTER I MAY DIE A LITTLE INSIDE. also, i have a hardcore girlcrush on emily. she is so badass in rl as well. have ridic ramblings/vids under the cut because I REALLY JUST LOVE COOK, OKAY.

Firstly, there is EPIC bromance this series. Like, I am waaaaay more interested in the relationship between Cook/Freddie/JJ than ANY of the romantic ones (except maybe Emily/Naomi MY HAAAART). This is the ensemble vid of my dreaaaaaams, and then a vid of Cook being ridiculously hot, which is shattered by the crazy hotness and trash of this. Idk, I like shitty videooos. All the good ones of actual scenes and stuff are like, banned if you're from the UK wtf, but seriously, WATCH THE SHOWWWWWW. Bromance and angst and sex and drugs and parties and ridiculousness. Hahahaha these people are like legit my age (or thereabouts), and I find this hilarious. *heeee*

Oh, and my education thus far is done in something like eight weeks from now. EIGHT WEEKS. WHAT. THE FUCK. HEY, HEY, ANYONE, WHAT SHOULD I DO WITH MY LIFE?!!!!

life is nothing much to lose

2009-02-28T22:47:23Z

I shit you not, I have *the* most epic Skins Primer in the works. There's not even any need, there's been 2 1/2 seasons and they're all up online, but I started having way too much fun compiling things and I just want you all to love it because that show is so the love of my life. So ridic and gay and hilarious and then they throw in surprise ouch >:( THEY DECIDE TO THROW OUT THE ENTIRE CAST AFTER TWO SEASONS AND I STILL LOVE IT :( My dirty affair with it is not over, basically. Let me indulggggge.

For now have this weirdass scene which came from nowhere when I was attempting to write BBB the other day. I think I probably read a fic which went along this vein of thought one time and this is my own version or something. It's probably stolen, idk. Sorry?

"I'm not gay!" Patrick bursts out. His palm slams down against the back of the chair and clings on, the muscle of his forearm clenched tight. "I'm sorry, Pete, but that is never going to happen."

Pete sits down slowly, his knees threatening to buckle under the weight of his own stupidity.

"I know," he says quietly, calmly, because some quiet, persistent part of him did. The louder, scarier part of him merely drowned it out, because Patrick had always let Pete do whatever he wanted, and this wasn't so different, really.

"Do you?" Patrick asks with heat in his eyes. Pete winces.

"Yes," he insists. "Yes, I fucking know, okay, but I can't help this, you know? You need to give me some time to fucking get over you, man, come on."

Patrick sighs at that, shakes his head at the words and puts his palm to his forehead, over his eyes. Pete feels small and large and twisted at the thought that this, this is his reaction. This is the response that Pete is getting.

"I love you," Patrick says after a moment. He drops the hand to look at Pete, and Pete feels the sharp ache of embarrassment for himself, the clench somewhere deep within him at the shape of Patrick's words, at the way they don't fit into Pete's meaning of them.

"I--I honestly do," Patrick continues, his eyes slanting off to the kitchen counter behind Pete. "But not like that. Not in that way. Okay, I - I can't."

"I *know*," Pete says again, and he feels like some automated response machine, feels like Patrick is pressing this button and then that, and each slim glimmer of hope Pete had ever harboured is slowly shut off, the light dimmed.

"I'm straight," Patrick repeats miserably. He looks helpless and afraid, like he honestly wishes he could change that. "I'm sorry. Pete. Pete."

"Yeah, okay," Pete murmurs, and there's a dull finality to it. "Okay, what, I get it. I get it."

"I don't," Patrick stammers. He steps nearer around the curve of the kitchen table and Pete bristles. "I don't want to fuck this up, but the way you've been lately -- I just thought you should know that."

Pete kicks at the table leg, wants to say well thanks a fucking lot, buddy, and, you have no fucking clue what this feels like, but doesn't. Patrick's fucking serious little face, and Pete had only ever wondered, he'd never *said*.

"I guess - I, I'm flattered," Patrick continues stoically, almost to himself, looking down at his custom Nikes, not at Pete, "and I want you to be happy, but I can't *be* that for you. Pete?" He glances back up. "You understand that, right?"

"Yes," Pete snaps, the word bitten and furious. He wants to shout then why did you never stop me! Wants to scream at Patrick that in his noble fucking bid not to offend he had let Pete fall in love with him, wants to beg enough, enough.

"Okay," Patrick says, guarded. He steps back. "Then. Are we good? Are we - Pete?"

Pete blinks up, looks at Patrick blankly, at the way he fumbles for a hold on the next chair over, at the way his forearms and his hands stay in a tight line against the back of Pete's kitchen chair; at the way Patrick is the centre of the room despite the miserable helpless look on his face, the way his shoulders slump.

"Yeah," Pete says, forcing his mouth to form the shape, the sound of it. He can't seem to form any real meaningful thought, his brain stuttering to keep up with the scenario unfolding.

"Right," Patrick says, and the clip of his tone spits disbelief. "I guess - it's okay if I go, then." He looks awkward at the thought of it, of this, unsettled by the distance and bitterness radiating from Pete's side of the table.

"No, yeah, don't think twice about it." Pete's words *sound* bitter and he knows that he's not handling this well. He hadn't *meant* to say that, sound like that, but some part of him is furious with Patrick for not returning it, for not reciprocating this, for not being the one that Pete had thought he was. "It's fine, just go."

Patrick purses his lips and raises an eyebrow at Pete. "Okay, I'm not even going to *try* to believe that." His voice is dry with sarcasm, and he sighs when he concedes, "But if that's what you want."

Patrick sighs again and turns to leave and Pete snaps, "I don't think you understand how good this could be," at the back of his t-shirt.

hahahah, WHAT. *despairs*

Also I have downloaded a lot of awesome music today! :) The debut album from White Lies is awesome, fyi, and the OST for Angus Thongs And Full-Frontal Snogging is really good, damnit :(

yeah, I HATE TODAY, whatever

2009-02-14T19:34:31Z

you guys, i have to literally stay awake all night tonight, and i don't sleep well normally so you'd think that wouldn't be such a big ask, BUT IT REALLY REALLY IS. a whole night is a long time, okay! it is totally different to just like, not being able to get to sleep til 2am on a regular basis. A WHOLE NIGHT IS SO MANY HOURS. D:

basically, i am not doing this for kicks as you may think, but i am going to poland for a week! and i'm excited, because i get to go to auschwitz and krakow and all these places that i have always wanted to visit, but i am also scared, as i have a real lameoid phobia of flying. and none of my close friends are going, as my sixth form is running like four different trips this week, so they're either skiing in france or visiting people's embalmed bodies in russia, i don't know. so if i panic, no one will be there to comfort meeee D: also WHAT IF I LITERALLY CAN'T GET ON THE PLANE? i mean, what would be the outcome? i keep wondering, but i would probably just go home and cry, most likely.

this long ramble is to say that hello! i won't be here for a week, i will be freezing my ass off abroad, panicking, or off my tits on vodka. maybe a combo of all three, it's likely. i have valium to take to get me there, actually, but i have never taken it before as usually i freak out just at the sight of planes landing, so i have skirted the whole travel issue many a tiiiiime. i am slightly worried what will happen? but it will be okay. basically i will be high as a kite from the moment i step foot in london at, oh yeah, 5.30 AM. i have to be at sixth form by FOUR. WHAT IS THIS MADNESS? i will be spaced out from lack of sleep and high and panicking? this is overall a terrible idea.

so, if anyone wants to help keep me up all night, that would be really really great! keeping in mind i am alone on valentine's day and very, very bitter. send me songs, send me fic, email me! maybe just send blank things this way as it nears the early hours to make sure i'm still awake. I AM ALREADY COLD AND SLEEPY.

i'm luke i'm 5 and my dad's bruce lee!

2009-02-10T21:06:06Z

I'M ACTUALLY DOING A MEME. WHAAAAAAAAT.

1. Reply to this post and I'll assign you a letter.
2. List (and upload, if you feel like it) 5 songs that start with that letter.
3. Post them to your journal with these instructions.

prettykitty_aya tagged me with the letter 'J'! Unfortunately I am unable to follow rules ever :( And therefore there are 10 songs instead of five? Ahahaha, I don't know either.

- jude law and a semester abroad - brand new. I HAVEN'T UPLOADED THIS BASED UPON ASSUMPTIONS, BUT TELL ME IF I'M WRONG AND I WILL.
- junkie man - rancid. oh rancid :'D
- jet lag - frank turner. um, like i could not post one of his songs when given the chance, haha. this song is GORGEOUS.
- just so over you (demo) - new amsterdams. this song is really old but i still love it as much as i did first listennn.
- just abuse me - air traffic. i heart 'shooting star' by them more, but they are cute and indie!!
- just another day - good old war. um, yes, i love this lots ♥♥♥
- the jcb song - nizlopi. AHAHAHA YES. THIS SONG IS EPIC AND RIDIC AND LIKE 5 YRS OLD BUT IT IS CENTRAL TO MY LIFE IN MANY WAYS, OH GOD.
- just like i remember - bleed the dream. oh wow, i don't even know. my first year at taste of chaos is all the information you need on this. *facepalmy*
- just stay - kevin devine. :DDDDDD ♥!!
- jesus was a dreidel spinner - jill sobule, ahaha AGAIN WHAT, I DON'T KNOW.

you don't know how caught up in nostalgia i got just now sifting through my itunes, jeeeez. FEEDER HAS SEVERAL SONGS BEGINNING WITH J, FYI!! 'Just the Way I'm Feeling', oh man.

i had way too much fun doing this. comment if you want to plaaaay!

you've got a phone don't you

2009-02-07T14:37:58Z

We have had an epic week of snow, which is awesome. I made the very adult decision to take a snow day on Monday, mainly because I had no way to get to college and it was just too much effort, and then we've had two consecutive actual legit snow days (which were fun but meant we were like, stranded) and it has been GLORIOUS! Unfortunately it has also resulted in me getting very ill, but I have tried to be productive through the sniffles: I have tidied, I have made advertisements to sell my drumkit (Sad times, but the MONEY...) and I have written a letter to the editor of a local paper in the hopes of getting an internship. Here's hoping!

I have also managed to write nearly 10,000 words for my bigbang!! I AM VERY SURPRISED AT MYSELF OVER THIS ACHIEVEMENT. \o/!! Granted, there is like, 6000 words of porn, but it is a hooker AU, okay! That is totally justified!

But anyway, I am in sore need of a beta or ten for when this thing is nearly done - just someone to keep me on track and maybe hold my hand and tell me to cut out all the freaking commas and run on sentences. I'm willing to return the favour? Oh, and I definitely need to keep the whole British thing in check. Argh, any help would be appreciateddddd.

And because it's Saturday, take a free song! This is Tommy Reilly's 'Gimme A Call', and it's super catchy and cute and acoustic-y and I love his Scottish accent and you should definitely give it a cheeky listen. He was the winner of T4's Orange Unsigned Act, and I hope for big things in his future!

he had it all in his hands

2009-02-04T22:22:22Z

Firstly, you guys are lovely, and also I was waaaaay drunker than I thought I was when I posted that last...thing. Holy emo batman! Oh, morose drinking. I must refrain from that in the future.

Also, you know when you have an album you love and can't stop listening to, and then you have a break from it and you come back to it and just go YES! This is BRILLIANT. I am experiencing that right now with Razia's Shadow. Fuck yeah, guys. I just kind of want to sway my head about and sing really loudly, but I won't. I'll swing my head about and mime the words, because it's late. PLACE YOUR HANDS ON MIIIINE!! Oh man, the Narrator's voice is so soothing, I forgot :')

Oh and hey, you know the whole Big Bang fandango? Well, as soon as they say OKAY GO YOU HAVE 3 MONTHS GOOD LUCK I appear to have maybe had an aneurysm. I am unable to write anything other than this ridiculous ALMOST PAINFUL TO ME hooker!AU, but man, I am fighting with the strongest desire to write some good old fashion Ryan/Brendon. But like, I don't know where to start? And then I just re-read parts of 'Scenes From A Marriage' - you know the epic Brendon/Shane of everyone's hearts SURELY? - and flapped about, and then, you know, Razia's happened, and basically, I forgot how fucking sexy Brendon Urie and in particular his voice is. Damn.

Upsettingly, I am also battling the urge to write a Twilight AU. I want Brendon in it somehow, I think, but Pete definitely needs to be the vampire, because hello. That is the obvious way forward always. All tortured soul and fighting a moral compass and weirdly stalkerishly in love with someone? Mmmm, I see it. But I don't think I am very good at the whole Pete/Brendon dynamic - don't get me wrong, I love it, but I'm not very good at those two voices combined, I guess. Maybe good old fashioned PxP, but I'm getting the itch to dabble in something different, so I don't know. WHY AM I EVEN DISCUSSING THIS? Someone please tell me to move away from this train of thought. Fandom looks down upon shit like this, right? I AM NOT THINKING THESE THOUGHTS.

I will be over here, not-singing and not-plotting, honest! I hope you guys had a good day :)

EVERYTHING SEEMS TO FADE WHEN I SEE HEEEEER FACE
THE SKIES AND TREES ALL BLUR EVERYTIME I LOOK AT HER

young boys, young girls

2009-01-14T20:54:30Z

I was reminded by the lovely givesyouhell today that OH HAY, I DID NOT DO MY TOP ALBUMS OF 2008.

Firstly: 2008 was not a great year, music-wise. There were some highlights, there were several lowlights, but it's over now, and these, I guess, were my favourites!

10. Gym Class Heroes - The Quilt
I didn't like this album at first; it just wasn't very accessible for me. I mean Catch Me If You Can is instantly appealing, and I loved Cookie Jar from the snippet on the CFOB mixtape, but the rest of the album seemed to take a different tone which I didn't quite get at first. But I took the time out on a long bus ride and walk to properly listen to the album front to back and mixed around and over and over, and I can honestly say now that I really enjoy this CD. You can really hear the effort that has gone into making it.
Stand out tracks: The above mentioned, Live Forever (Fly With Me), Drnk Txt Rmeo, Guilty As Charged

9. Carolina Liar - Carolina Liar
I stumbled across these guys by mistake on my friendslist, I think. Someone had made a post saying that these guys were supporting TAI and everyone should download them immediately because they were awesome. And I did, and they are. They're like Keane mixed with good, oldschool Killers, and are just sort of anthemic and indie and really great to sing along to. I find them calming and inspiring and just, always a really good listen.
Stand out tracks: All That Shit Is Gone, Done Stealin', California Bound

8. Jack's Mannequin - The Glass Passenger
Dude, there are no words. I think a lot of people will understand when I say that this is just what I wanted and needed from Mr Andrew, and that I love him a lot for this. That dude is inspiring and amazing and this album reflects that.
Stand out tracks: The Resolution, Caves, Orphans, EVERY TRACK EVER

7. Forgive Durden - Razia's Shadow: A Musical
I was skeptical when I heard a few of the tracks before the whole album - like, I loved them, but I didn't see how the whole thing was going to work together. But LISTENING to the whole album together just completely shat over all of my worries, because it's amazing and ridiculous and perfect. I love the ambition that this personifies. I love that it's so fucking traditional, yet skewed because of the more modern voices and just. I love it. A lot. I'm also surprised that I'm putting this above Jack's, but I think these two are honestly interchangeable with the amount of love I have for them.
Stand out tracks: The Missing Piece, It's True Love, Genesis, AGAIN ALL OF ITTTT

6. Empires - Howl
Love this album, didn't expect it, will never regret downloading it, used it for my media project, am a big fan of music for free! ahahah. I love all of the different influences and the fact that you can pick them out, that they aren't hidden, I love the fact that it ISN'T perfect, but that it's a fantastic first try that I will always appreciate and admire.
Stand out tracks: Spit The Dark, I Want Blood, My Poor Lover, Under The Bright Lights

5. Lydia - Illuminate
I am a hardcore Lydia fan. I have been quietly cheering them on since I heard them on an Atticus compilation several years ago. I didn't think It's December could be beaten, but this is a bloody good effort. I was actually on this laptop as I listened to it for the first time and my running commentary is saved somewhere and is hilarious. Just lot's of breathless OMG THIS IS SO AMAZINGGG's. This album kind of wrenches at my heart a lot.
Stand out tracks: This Is Twice Now, I Woke Up Near The Sea, Now The One You Once Loved Is Leaving

4. Fall Out Boy - Folie A Deux
Had to be in, right?! I love this album in a fond, protective of a little brother kind of way. It makes me SMILE. It makes me want to get up and have a good time and watch it played live in a raw, non-practised kind of way. It makes me happy. I CHOOSE to listen to it all the time, and it provokes real enjoyment and emotion in me. I spoiled myself for it by listening to the leaked tracks, something I kind of regret now, and sometimes I think it is a little too OTT. But it still has a kickass opening track, What A Catch and Headfirst still make my heart do backflips, and it's just a fucking really good, solid, enjoyable album. I love it. Well done, boys.
Stand out tracks: w.a.m.s, West Coast Smoker, Pavlove, above mentioned!

3. Kings of Leon - Only by the Night
Okay, let me be honest. I never really got them before this album. I had the opportunity to see them years ago for like £5 and I turned it down. I regret that a lot now. This is a wonderful album: well crafted, enjoyable, layered and distinctive. I really think they've done a great job and deserve every kind of success that they are enjoying right now. Also, the lead singer just got smoking hot, what the hell? And the drummer blows my mind live.
Stand out tracks: Use Somebody, Manhattan, Revelry

2. Frank Turner - Love, Ire and Song
I fucking love this man. Like, the man, he is so awesome. It's kind of weird for me that he's getting more popular now, because he's basically had to live as a vagrant at times, so. He used to ask during his set for a place to stay that night, come on! He really, really deserves it, and I am so happy for him. This album is JUST as good as his first. I love the crafting of his songs, the rawness of his voice, the sense of companionship that his music evokes. His performance was the highlight of my Reading festival, just a bunch of us drunk and singing along with our arms around each other's necks. This album is the musical equivalent of that feeling. The personal importance of Long Live The Queen is almost painful (it's based upon a close friend of Frank's who lost the battle with cancer), Jet Lag is an amazing song for late nights, and every other track just reminds me of long drives with close friends. Loud and unavoidable, obnoxious and touching, with a bonus smile that is impossible to remove.
Stand out tracks: Reasons Not To Be An Idiot, Photosynthesis, Better Half, the above mentioned.

1. The Gaslight Anthem - The '59 Sound
This only just made number one past Frank, but it is such a good album it couldn't be anywhere else. The oldschool feel and the lyrics, the heartwrench and hope of it, made me fall in love instantly. It makes me want to be at a gig singing along 'til my lungs hurt, but suits late at night curled up with headphones just as much. It just gets me on so many levels, and was such an unexpected find, recommended to me by someone who means a lot to me. So I guess I have weird emotional links to it, too, but aside from that I CANNOT CONVEY how freaking good it is. Like Rancid mixed with Counting Crows and rolled around in something new and ingenious that they definitely do not sell to the average Joe but which I wish they did. I love this, I WANT TO SEE THEM PLAYING WITH FRANK ON SUNDAY, and you should definitely get hold of not only this album, but the AP live acoustic session, where you really get the full impact and raw intensity and devastation of his voice and the lyrics.
Stand out tracks: Great Expectations, Here's Looking At You Kid, High and Lonesome, The '59 Sound

Honourable mention goes to Adele - '19', and The Dear Hunter's latest album 'Act II' of the something something. Both albums are fantastic but didn't quite make my top ten, and of course The Cab! Who are fun ridiculous babies who I sort of want to squidge and laugh at - whilst dancing? Haha. Also in 2009 look out for Black Gold's full length debut 'Rush'!

If anyone wants any uploads, let me knooooow.

public service announcement

2008-12-15T21:22:22Z

Guys, I know I am super lame at doing these and will probably end up FAILING YOU ALL, but whatever, let's just do this shit, okay?

Prompt me and I will write you things! It can be anything as long as you can safely assume I know a little about the people/things involved. Dude, it is nearly Christmas, okay! MY TREE IS UP! So this is my present to you, world, be it gen or porn. Kinky (although not like...the scary, YOU WANT ME TO WRITE WHAT?? kind, the oh yeah sure thang kind) or cute.

Think of the possibilities! Song-based or picture-based or story-based or movie-based! Totally out there stuff you were never brave enough to write yourself or ask people for. I am willing to be the ear to your desires. The keyboard to your fantasies. The let down to what you actually wanted.

And go!

fic: romantic fatigue

2008-11-23T22:27:30Z

Title: Romantic Fatigue
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: No harm, no foul intended. If this involves you in any way, please hit the back button immediately! Title taken from a song by Frank Turner (link at the end!)
Author's Notes: This is an absolute shameless undertaking of self-indulgent angsty nonsense. This is like, oh god, just about every epic fucking romance cliche rolled into a slam-bam of angst-filled P/P, and then rolled around in a sickly pile of fluff with added melodrama. I'm not kidding. This is what happens when I have a shitty few weeks and I start a fic just to wallow in ONLY IT WON'T LEAVE ME ALONE AFTER D: I'm sorry!!
Thank you to dimmingdivine for getting the first draft back so speedily, and being supercool and absolutely right about the bits that didn't work, and for the prodding to maybe have a happy ending after all. I should maybe sit on this thing longer, but it is a Sunday, guys, and therefore Monday tomorrow, and I think that that is reason enough.

Romantic Fatigue

When Pete first meets Patrick, he sees a starry eyed sixteen-year-old struggling to quite grasp what is happening to him, but with something raw, that one-in-a-million thing radiating through every shy smile and concentrated frown. He is unknowing in that inexperienced sort of way; refreshing in the way he sits in Pete's basement and watches and takes in and learns from everything they do, from all the different ways that they play. They play an album front to back and Pete has never felt anything click as quickly or as comfortably as Patrick to him and him to Patrick, and Patrick to the band, Pete's new band.

Patrick is also stubborn, in a way that proves to Pete, skeptical of how such a person could exist, could find him, that he is indeed a real life walking talking teenager.

"But I play guitar," Patrick says stupidly, blinking at Pete in confusion when he is approached with the deal breaker, the golden ticket hidden amongst all of this.

"Yes," Pete says slowly, as if talking to a child (which Patrick is, Pete tells himself, firmly), "But now you're going to be a singer."

"But I can't sing. I play drums, Pete. And guitar."

Pete doesn't say, but I know that you will be better at this, because he wants Patrick to realize that for himself, somehow. Pete sort of sucks at whatever he does anyway, so who the hell is he to make Patrick do anything?

But it is implied in the look he gives Patrick, in the hand he places carefully on Patrick's shoulder. "How about you just try it for a little while?" Pete pushes. "For me. C'mon. Come on."

Pete can see the inner fight in Patrick, has seen the way that Patrick looks at Pete, sometimes, when Patrick thinks that he can't. Pete has worn that same look himself too often, that wistful hope, that urge to please, that tumultuous rough-and-tumble of feelings that is so obvious to everyone on the outside, yet so inescapable when you're in the thick of it. Pete finds it endearing; it makes Patrick ever more charming, the way he'll fiddle with the brim of his hat or push his glasses up his nose, red and smiling and fidgety when Pete makes a comment or leans too close. It's cruel, maybe, the way that that makes Pete want to do it more.

Patrick pulls a face, and he feels hot through his layers of clothing beneath Pete's hand. "I guess," he says, with a fight between the words, "As long as you don't care that I suck. Your band is going to suck, a lot, because of me."

"Not entirely because of you," Pete says with a smile, and squeezes Patrick's shoulder tighter. He knows that he's got some fight in him yet, to work Patrick around to it. Pete has found it, knows somewhere that he has found that golden ticket, and that its initials are unbelievably PMS.

-

It happens a night out in the back end of nowhere, when they're travelling in the van, of all things. Pete is driving and trying to calculate in his head whether they have enough money for gas, or if they're going to have to get out and push to reach the club, or even the next city, in time.

Patrick is asleep beside him, snuffling, and at first it is really annoying: Patrick's wet senseless incoherence breaking into Pete's thought patterns in loud contented little snores and half-formed words. Patrick mouths out something beginning with "Pe-", and Pete looks sideways at him, eyebrow raised and grinning. Patrick does it again, and shuffles further into his seat, his mouth open, vowels leaking out over his tongue.

"Patrick," Pete says quietly, whispering, because however much an asshole he can be at times, they've all been awake for twenty hours plus or something ridiculous, and the dudes in the back deserve their sleep, too. "Patrick."

Patrick groans and mutters something, another wet half-formed "Pete" into his seatbelt. Pete chuckles to himself, imagining all the ways to mock him about this tomorrow. "Hey, buddy," Pete whispers, and thinks of how young Patrick is, how he needs his rest, "Hey, keep it down, okay? Okay?" And he might be talking to himself, what the hell does it matter, but Patrick twitches a bit in his seat, and doesn't say another word.

"Thatta boy," Pete hisses through his grin, and touches Patrick's thigh without thinking.

Patrick grunts a little, and then his eyes are open, blinking slowly in the dark. He touches his mouth where it was wet and open and sees Pete's hand on his thigh, Pete smiling dreamily out onto the road. "Pete?" he mouths groggily through the sudden dryness of his throat, and Pete swirls around, grins even wider.

"Oh, dude, did I wake you? Sorry." Pete looks a little out of it, like maybe he's running on too little sleep and having to fucking drive in the silence of the others is driving him crazy, a bit. "Do we have enough money for gas?" Pete asks, and he is naïve in the hugeness of it, maybe, and unaware that the warm heat of his palm on Patrick's leg is anything other than ordinary.

"Uh, maybe. I think so? I might have some, somewhere," Patrick says, digging, and just like that Pete's hand is gone as he swerves into a station, looming up out of the darkness. He's Pete, so he doesn't stop to make sure.

There are disgruntled protests from the back at the twist and fall, and even a muttered, "Pete you are so fucking lame at driving, oh god," from Andy. But Pete doesn't seem to care, just clambers out with a, "Gas station, you fuckers," thrown over his retreating shoulder.

Pete does feels sort of crazy, and the slam of Patrick's door is too loud when he gets out. The van rocks as Pete fumbles with the pump.

"You okay?" Pete shoots as Patrick brushes past, and Patrick just rubs at his eye and grumbles something indiscriminate, about needing "a piss, chill out". Pete feels some errant part of him twinge at the pale sleepy glow of Patrick's face, at the way his index finger swiped and rubbed at his eye in slow purposeful motion. The moment lingers in his memory like a scene on pause, rewind, even as the harsh stench of gas hits the back of Pete's throat.

The lights are too bright when Pete steps inside the store, that dirty gas-smell thick and threatening in the air, and he has to blink fast to steal his vision back from the flickering fluorescent overhead. He picks up some Cheetos and puts them down again, moves on to stare longingly at the adult magazines, wondering if he can justify it when they can barely pay for gas. He can't, because his hand and the thoughts in his head aren't getting that old, so Pete walks past, eventually.

Once he's paid, counting out every cent, Pete presses through the swing door to the men's, knocking his knee and the tip of his Converse against the shitty graffitied plastic. It is too fucking late to be driving, anymore, and he just sort of wants this to be over with. He thinks of Patrick's open sleeping mouth, the rustle of his breath in the quietness of the air.

"Patrick! Hurry the fuck up, we're leaving. I'll leave you behind, swear to god," he calls, in an obnoxiously loud voice for the hour. The acrid stench of bleach and piss flares his nostrils, leaving Pete's head aching. The bathroom is grimy and dimly lit, and Patrick is over at the urinals, glaring at Pete through the mirror.

"I am pissing," Patrick annunciates wryly, "Please leave me alone."

Pete smirks at him, and steps in further, unzipping himself.

"Pete," Patrick says, with a frustrated whine. His eyes duck down, travel Pete's length in the reflection. "Do not even think about it. Seriously, dude. Not in the mood right now."

"I'm taking a piss, jeez, chill out," Pete says with a cool smile, and it is nothing to do with the hour or the sleepless airless buzz of his head when he shoves up in the urinal next to Patrick, knocking their shoulders together. "Huh," Pete mutters, voice low, eying Patrick lewdly, "Stage fright, huh?"

"Fuck you," Patrick bites, fiercely. He shoves Pete with his shoulder, and Pete's aim goes all to shit. He ends up hitting the wall and barks out a laugh.

Patrick stares him in the eyes as Pete's mouth is big and open with laughter, and says with something that sounds like a challenge, "I thought your dick would be bigger."

Pete tells himself that Patrick is seventeen. "What, asshole, you haven't seen it before?" he laughs, because they have all done way worse to each other than this, crammed together in the back of that shitty little van, squished between kick drums and guitar cases.

Patrick flushes and shoots a dark hot look at Pete. "No," he bites out, stoutly. "I don't fucking look, you asshole, of course not. God, will you just aim right, already?"

Pete thinks a lot about pissing on Patrick, laughter already bubbling at the back of his throat, but something wordless, different, stops him. Maybe it's the shadow of Patrick's hat across his face or the angry flush of his cheeks.

Pete is left instead grinning inanely at the black smudge of dirt on the tile below the mirror, Patrick's shoulder warm with presence against his.

"Fuck you," Pete mutters, eventually, in a mild and lazy tone. Patrick sighs and half-shakes his head, and tucks himself back in, zipping up. Something like nerves, like missed opportunity, flashes startling and electric in Pete's chest. "Hey," he bites out, as Patrick turns to leave, "Hey, dickwad, I did not unzip just to piss all over you. Come back here. I've got cock with your name all over it."

Patrick pauses a moment in a half-turn, and Pete tucks himself back in, meets Patrick's slow glare with a heady grin. "Fuck you," Patrick spits right back at him. "Oh my god, you wake me up and then you act like such a dick, Pete. It's like four in the fucking morning or something and you're making dick jokes. I'll fucking drive, seriously."

And maybe Pete really is light-headed with tiredness, because he crosses the shitty public bathroom floor and sees their reflections dancing at the corners of his vision through the mirrors. He folds his hand into Patrick's. Patrick's dick was in this hand, Pete thinks, and he says, "I'm fucking lonely okay, asshole, and why in the hell are you so young, I can't fucking do this."

But he does it anyway, crushes his mouth against Patrick's, and Patrick fights him for a minute, his palm sweaty and insistent within Pete's. Pete bites at his lips and Patrick's mouth is open in protest, and Pete shouldn't, shouldn't do this, but he means it when he says, "I fucking know how you feel, okay, I've always known," and then Patrick is clinging to him, actually clinging to him with his hands, clammy and hot on Pete's skin and tight in his shirt, and Patrick's mouth is wet and nervous and needy all at once.

"You're an asshole," Patrick mutters against Pete's lips, and it's because Pete knew, knows, laughed at him, made this happen, all of it.

Pete kisses him in that shitty bathroom, both half crazy from sleep deprivation, and it is the start of everything.

-

Patrick and Pete and Joe share an apartment, and it is both the best and the worst time of their lives. Joe gets cranky at the way all of their shit intermingles and breeds and becomes this mass of ownerless junk. Patrick cannot handle the lack of privacy that comes with moving in with two other dudes after a lifetime of mostly blissful optional seclusion, the sort that comes with living at home with a mother who loves you. They fight sort of a lot. Pete tells them both to suck it up.

The first time Pete comes into Patrick's room without a ridiculous costume on or a paint gun in hand, the door slams wide and his shape stands smudged in the grey of night in the doorway, paused.

"What," Patrick says thickly from beneath his duvet. Joe is in the other room, singing loud and off-key along to his new favorite metal band with some of their friends, and friends of those friends. Possibly air guitar is happening, and Patrick should not be able to sleep through this. "What?" Patrick says again, and flings his fist out in frustration. "Pete, fuck off, I'm fucking asleep you asshole."

"I know," Pete says, in a strange voice. He comes in and lets himself fall onto Patrick, landing flat on top with just the comforter in-between. Patrick sighs this heavy put-upon sigh and tries to shove him off, but Pete clings on tight, all dead weight.

"You hate me right now," Pete says, muffled, matter-of-fact. "But I can hear you in here, Patrick Stump. I can hear you in here not being in there."

Patrick pinches the bridge of his nose. "I was fucking asleep. I wasn't making any noise, Pete. What are you even talking about?" And maybe that wasn't quite the reaction Pete was hoping for.

"I will cook you some fucking breakfast, okay," Pete says. He raises his head, puts his face close to Patrick and tries to tell him his thoughts, what he's saying, through telepathy or what-fucking-ever. "In the morning you can actually hate me, but I need to sleep here tonight, okay. I'm gonna fall asleep on top of you and it's going to look really gay, but you're going to have to deal with it."

"What?" Patrick slurs, his voice a sharp snap of a reaction, and Pete grabs his jaw with a great paw of his arm. He digs his fingers into Patrick's cheeks and Patrick glares at him hard, shocked, until Pete kisses him, Patrick's mouth dry and restless with sleep against his.

Pete stops, after a while, after Patrick loosens and relaxes under him. Pete kisses him once, twice, lingering and soft but chaste, reluctant to pull away.

Patrick stares up at Pete with a frown after, confusion and something else, that weird unnamable look of his that he's had since he was sixteen, shining in the grey of his room.

"Really gay, huh?" Patrick says eventually, and Pete dips his head and snorts hard against Patrick's neck. Patrick shakes with helpless laughter and it sounds like the thump of a heartbeat through the covers.

"Yeah," Pete says, "Sorry." He laughs against Patrick in a stupid helpless shake, and it is echoed in a loud roar from the next room over.

-

Patrick is nineteen and tipsy when he finds Pete, and Pete goes from "You shouldn't drink, dude, your voice," to, "You are a fucking hilarious drunk, though," in about naught point nine seconds.

"I want to have sex with you," Patrick says in a drunken slur, and he is laughing in a way that Pete can't. "I really want to have your dick in my mouth, dude."

Pete breathes in a slow shaky inhale, although he shouldn't be surprised, bites his lip, and takes his hand back from where it was lying comfortably across Patrick's shoulder. "Well," he says, with a rough edge to his voice, because the words, Patrick's words are like a sucker punch to his stomach and a knock out to the head. He has thought about it so often, has bitten at his lips and thought about it while his hand is tight and fast on his dick, has moaned at the feel of it, the thought, too often too easily caught, a part of him always hoping Patrick will find him, will know.

"Patrick," Pete says, softly, eventually, and there is a no in the tone of it, because Pete is self-destructive like that. Every single part of him is saying yes.

"I'm beyond legal," Patrick says, and he is still so young, still, and he has never stopped wanting Pete. "I'm, please."

Pete thinks to himself no, no, I can't do this, thinks of kissing Patrick late at night, only when he can't help himself, always backing off, always telling himself no. Stop it, a part of him wants to say, but Pete can't say that because this is Patrick, and every part of him, from the square stance of his legs to his ugly plaid shirts to his stupid unnecessary trucker hats, is faultless, for that reason alone. It's Patrick.

"Okay," Pete says, on an exhale. It's like a release to finally say it.

Patrick makes this little sound like relief, like finally, and he is so young and so infatuated in the way he scrabbles at the button of Pete's jeans, the way his breath pools over Pete's stomach in a hot and needy mist.

Pete says, "Patrick," because Patrick is on his knees for Pete, and this should be different, somehow, probably. Patrick's hands are callused on the fingers from his guitar, the guitar he plays for Pete, for them, and Patrick's breath is shaky and so hot when he sucks down Pete's cock.

Pete takes a sharp heady inhale and looks at Patrick looking at him, looks at his mouth stretched like that around Pete's cock, at the pale hands against his skin, at the drunken heat in Patrick's eyes, and Pete thinks fuck it, because on some level, this is love.

-

Fall Out Boy tour Europe without Pete Wentz, because Pete Wentz has to take time out to see shrinks and take meds and talk a lot about his feelings. There is a solid fucking stand-in that is in no way a comparison, and Joe calls Pete from a different time zone to laugh about how shitty Patrick's stage patter is. His voice is strained with worry and false lightness, which is the part that stings more than anything, and Pete is somewhat glad that he doesn't have to look at any of them in the face.

Pete shuts himself down and out in some desperate bid to regroup, to follow order, and when he comes back, which he isn't sure he was expecting, Patrick really fucking hates him for it.

It is the fourth day after all those weeks spent away on a different fucking continent, when Patrick decides to finally start speaking to Pete again, outside of texts and the obligatory small-talk.

"You're an asshole," Patrick tells him fiercely. "Why didn't you talk to me? After everything, why didn't you just say?"

Pete doesn't know, doesn't even remember, it was just the craziness of his head and the stupid fucked up cliché of the situation, and he hadn't really even thought of Patrick, how he would feel, at all. He'd just wanted everything to stop. Just for a minute.

Pete says, "I'm sorry," in a tired hollow voice. A part of him maybe still wishes he hadn't come back. A larger part is just glad to have Patrick even looking at him. To be here, to have Patrick's eyes on him.

Too long after, Patrick forgives him. One night he comes to Pete at fucking ass o'clock and says, simply, "Nothing is the same without you."

Pete thinks no? with cynical disbelief screaming through his conscious.

"It fucking sucked while you were gone, okay," Patrick says. Then quieter, "It wasn't the same."

Pete opens his mouth to start to apologize some more, a half-hearted but well-meaning attempt of a thing. But in some ways he is not sorry, and in many ways Patrick deserves more. He doesn't say anything.

Patrick's breath is sudden and hot on Pete's skin, and his voice is hard and ripped apart when he leans in close. "Don't you ever do that again," he hisses, with a strange, terrible ferocity, "Okay, don't you dare."

"No," Pete says, softly, and Patrick's eyes are scared and angry, so he says it again. "No, okay, Patrick, I won't."

-

They have sex, properly, when Patrick is twenty one. Pete sucks him off, because he couldn't help himself, because Patrick looked so dazed from the awards show and it was all because of him, really, in Pete's eyes. Because of Andy and Joe and this fucking stupid amazing little band full of amazing fucking people, and Patrick was the centre of it all, the golden ticket. Pete's golden ticket.

On the drive back Pete's hand had found Patrick's thigh, then his crotch, the zipper, and Patrick had been flushed and wide eyed and eager, out of it maybe from the show; enamored with Pete, maybe, for starting all of this.

Patrick's voice is pitch-perfect and there is sweat at his hairline, his jaw. His lush bottom lip is bitten and held between his teeth as Pete sucks him off, thick perfect heat on his tongue, Patrick's hand on his cheek, deep in his hair.

"Please," Patrick pants between shaky inhales, "Pete, I need."

Pete closes his eyes at the sound of Patrick's voice, hitched and rough and desperate, moans and presses his fingers into Patrick, into him, the arch up from Patrick's body silent and obscene in its newness. His. Pete thinks, hazily, that this is what it feels like to claim him, this moment, to feel the fierceness of the mine that is shocking and immediate in Pete's head, just from the sounds of Patrick's moans and breath.

Patrick goes down on his elbows and knees and Pete kisses the back of Patrick's neck, presses his cheek to the sideburn and skin. Patrick ducks his head down and Pete can feel the low moan in every centimeter of his skin, means every gasped out half-bitten word he mutters into Patrick's ear as he fucks him, slow and steady and their first time.

"This is down to you," he says, dizzy, fierce. "All of this is down to you, okay."

Patrick gasps and presses his head up, and their faces stick together with the heat and the sweat. Patrick kisses him desperately, and Pete kisses back.

-

"I will buy you a mansion," Pete says, when they get big enough for Patrick to have too many guitars, for him to buy the drum set of his dreams. "And it will have the world's biggest fucking music room, like a fucking altar to you, Patrick Stump, and you are going to fucking love me for it."

Patrick laughs at him and tells him to shut the hell up, and doesn't seem to get that Pete really means it.

It's ironic, maybe, that in a few weeks time Pete will quit the band after pictures of his dick flood the internet.

He locks himself away for three days and is desperate and stupid in his shame, and Patrick has to talk him down, out of it, his mouth getting tired of saying, "It'll be okay, Pete, we don't care, it'll be okay." What he really means is, I don't care. The people who matter don't care. It'll be okay.

Pete unlocks the door eventually, and he has punched a dent into the wall when Patrick gets inside. He sits on his crumpled bed and is furious and ashamed in everything he says, but most of all he is sorry, sorry that "we're always going to be that band, now, who." Which isn't fair, in Pete's head, it isn't fair that all of their hard work, all of the heart and soul and time and effort has been reduced down to this.

Patrick puts his arms around Pete's shoulders and says, "I don't care, I don't care," into Pete's neck. Whispers, "As long as we've still got you," and leaves out the, that's all that matters.

-

Pete doesn't stop having sex with girls; he just prefers to have sex with Patrick.

Patrick will say, sometimes, "I thought you were gonna go with that girl, you know," in a mild and amused tone, and Pete will shake his head and push Patrick back into the mattress or the couch or wherever, will say, "No, I wanted you, I want you," and the fight and flicker that cross Patrick's face makes Pete add, casually, "You're more fun, anyway. I'm sleeping here tonight, okay, so deal with it." He'll kiss Patrick to stop any protests that might escape, so that he never gets one. Not that Patrick would ever.

Pete sleeps with girls sometimes, and he'll even have relationships, although they are fast and mostly meaningless, but he will crawl back to Patrick's room in the grey early morning after it's all over. He will find himself apologizing, and Patrick sometimes won't even look at him, although it's not because he's jealous or hurt by it all. Mostly it's because he feels sorry for the girl, and he tells Pete that he "shouldn't do shit like that", because Patrick's like that, he's the good fucking guy, okay. Pete agrees and promises that it won't happen again, even though it's to the wrong person, mostly because when Patrick says it, it sounds like the voice of someone who has been fucked over before.

Pete, most of all, over everything, just wants to sleep in a bed where Patrick is sleeping, too.

-

Pete and Patrick argue over chord progressions and lyrical meanings and authenticity, and someone punches the other, the other punches back.

Patrick spits, "Get him the fuck away from me, I'm not kidding, get him the fuck away," and he storms out of the studio on the same breath like some warped angry, defensive version of himself.

"He's a fucking stubborn little shit, isn't he?" Pete says conversationally, as he dabs at his nose with his sleeve, then wipes his wrist across it in a wet sniff.

"So are you," Andy says. He hasn't moved from where he had perched himself on one of the black circular drum stools, the yin to Joe's fretfully hovering yang. "He makes a lot of sense, sometimes, you know. Don't be a dipshit. If you keep beating yourself up all the time you've gotta expect one or two black eyes."

Pete smiles a bit through his sniffs, and there's a stain on his wrist that is already turning from scarlet to a splintering dry russet.

Joe says, "Dude…" with a worrying glance, his eyes darting from the door to Pete to Pete's nose and back.

"It's okay," Pete says, reassuringly, a hand to Joe's forearm. "I'm okay. I'll give it five then I'll go make up. Just, take a break, for now."

He goes to leave, maybe up the corridor to where Patrick might be pacing, or to the parking lot outside where he might be leaving. Following him.

They are speaking again within the hour, but Pete nurses his black eye like a hickey, like a love mark. He kisses the place he hit Patrick, on the jaw, and that night he says sorry with his hands and fingers and mouth.

-

They go home, and Pete shows up at Patrick's house at what might be two in morning, three, who the fuck knows. He lets himself in, and Patrick is curled up in his bed, taking up too little room. Pete clambers in, fitful in his need for this, for Patrick, for someone. Anyone. He feels obsessed and feverish, overcome by the startling fear brought on by an empty house and an even emptier bed.

Patrick's half-filled bed looks less wrong, somehow, but the overinvested part of Pete's head tells him that that's only because it is half-full of Patrick, and that the space that is left is just right, just enough for Pete to slip his own miniature form into place.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just need…" he mutters desperately, as Patrick blinks up at him. Pete kisses Patrick's mouth, buries himself under the covers so that his hands are on Patrick's skin.

"What are you doing," Patrick mumbles, "What," and then Pete's hand curls around Patrick's cock in his boxers, and he moans a bit, breathless. "Pete," Patrick hisses, a hand against his face, and they should wake up like this every day, do this every night, Pete thinks.

-

They talk about it only when they're both adult enough about it to be reasonable, and even then it is a forced, unwanted kind of conversation. Pete still feels helpless about it all. He remembers the time when Patrick was sixteen and so in love with him. Patrick has grown up, and the way they are with each other is complicated and real in its stupidness, in the inevitability of it.

Pete looks at Patrick and sees his best friend in the world, and yet he doesn't understand what he's saying, why it feels like the end of something when it's still the start of everything. It is not a break up, exactly.

"You're going to get married," Patrick says, and he sounds like he's got too much too little breath. His eyes are sad and grateful, and he pushes at the bridge of his glasses, keeps them firm on his nose. Pete thinks, then, bizarrely, that he doesn't need Patrick's lips to brush his skin to know that he's smiling, but that it helps. "In some fucked up future, you're going to get married, and it's going to be the right person, and you're going to be so fucking happy, dude. Happier than you ever could be with me."

Patrick breathes out, long and slow, like a sigh, like resignation, and Pete is hyperaware of every place their skin touches. He imagines Patrick teary at a ceremony that sounds impossible, imagines Patrick proud, choking up on anecdotes and unhelpful advice. Pete wants the white picket fence as much as the next guy, but the distance of it all makes him want to shake Patrick back to reality, to the here-and-now.

And then the happier than you ever could be with me hits him, and Pete sort of wants to cry, or punch something, because he always falls in the intense overwhelming sort of way, and the way that sentence aches and devastates him doesn't make it feel like this is something to stop fighting for, yet. About now is the time for Pete to make some sort of violently honest proclamation, to lock the door and shout and throw things until his point of view and the inside of his head are out and agreed with. He has learnt over the years, perhaps, that you can't force someone to love you, but a part of him will always want to try.

Pete wants to say, I don't want anyone else. He wants Patrick to know that waking up and finding Patrick not in Pete's bed or squashed drooling half on top of him in his bunk is something that is alien even in Pete's head, wants Patrick to realize how hard Pete is going to fucking find this if this is what Patrick wants, and why does Patrick want this anyway, and why and what and why and why?

Instead Pete says, "You'd better fucking be there, then. I want you to be there," in a voice that is raw and honest. What he means is, I want it to be you.

Patrick laughs, his eyes getting small and his cheeks getting big. He shifts and tilts his head and looks at Pete. His fingers are cold when he touches Pete's neck, plays for a moment with his hair. "Well I'm going to be best man," he says, with a kind of wistfulness, "so yeah, okay."

Pete ducks his head and pulls a half-smile, all twisted at the edges. "Yeah okay," he says. He doesn't believe it.

"Hey." Patrick pulls him back up and frowns at him. He says, "You know that this is what we have to," and, "Do you understand, this is," and can't finish either sentence.

Pete doesn't let him, just kisses Patrick fiercely, a claim, a possession, in the helplessness of his face. His hands on Patrick's jaw and Patrick's mouth sweet and familiar against his, and he wants to say I love you, things could be different, we could make it work, I would make it work, I love you. I love you.

Patrick kisses him back just as hard.

-

They have sex with Patrick on his back, head tilted up and fingerprints pressing at Pete's shoulder blades. Pete mouths at the sweat of Patrick's throat, bucks his head against Patrick's shoulder with the pull and thrust and heat of it. "Fuck," he gasps, somewhere amongst all of it, between the mess that is them, "Fuck," his voice hoarse, his hands grabbing at Patrick's sides, spreading his thighs. Patrick sighs and wets his lips, his eyes tight shut and then open, so open and fierce on Pete, and Pete has to kiss him, has to.

(During their worst fight, after Pete kisses Patrick, stupidly, helplessly, when he shouldn't, Patrick will say, "Do you want a fucking mistress?" in a cold, hard voice. "Don't make me be that person, Pete. God, you stupid, stupid fuck. I won't be your dirty secret, not even yours, no."

Pete will wonder how Patrick could ever think of himself, of them, like that, will say, "Fuck you, no, of course not," in a hurt sharp inhale, but it will somehow come out like an insult, in a way that only Pete Wentz can. He wants to scream, we could have been something great.

Patrick won't hit him and no one will raise their voice, but it is the things they will say that will make it their worst fight.)

Patrick searches for Pete's mouth and their breathing goes all wrong, all desperate gasps and high little moans, growls of "fuck" and "you". Patrick gets a hand down and jerks himself off, and Pete doesn't know where one begins and the other ends, wraps his fingers over Patrick's and they jerk him off together. Patrick's mouth opens beneath his in a silent groan and Pete can't take this, can't, he says, "Patrick, I love," and Patrick tenses and comes over both of them.

He shudders, and somehow he has a hand in Pete's hair, pulling, and Pete is still kissing him, kissing his face, when Patrick's other hand moves down and splays over the small of Pete's back. There is light pressure there and light in Patrick's open trusting eyes, in the curve of the smile on his full young lips. "It's okay," he says in a voice that is breaking, and Pete fucks him, can't blink away from him, comes hot and tight and long into him, still.

This time, the last time, Patrick sighs, and Pete drops his head to Patrick's shoulder, breathes. Patrick's exhales are slow and steady into his ear, and his hand is deep in Pete's hair, keeping him close.

-

Patrick turns twenty two, twenty three, twenty four. They get older, and probably should be wiser. Pete falls in love and it is everything he could have ever dreamed of. Patrick falls in love and he is starry-eyed and helpless in a way that Pete can recognize. Both times it is with different people.

The problem is the comfort and easiness in which they fall back into the same old routines. Patrick touches Pete's hand thoughtlessly in the studio, and it shouldn't mean anything, but the wide smile and crinkle of his eyes, means that it does.

The strangeness of it is this latest element, the constancy and rush of newness, of adulthood, that comes with two old friends growing into two separate people with separate relationships. New lives, filled with dogs and shared houses, promises of the future; the typical stuff that they have lusted after for so long in its normality and expectation. It is the happy ending, in a way, that no one ever predicted.

Patrick knocks Pete's shoulder one afternoon, when they are sat in Pete's back yard facing the new swing-set-and-slide that Uncle Joe insisted on buying, despite the ramshackle mismatched ugliness of it.

"Who would have thought," Patrick says, and Pete laughs at him, laughs at the illegible instructions and never-before-used toolkit in the grass; at their ridiculous, perfect creation.

"He'll love it," Pete says, and the beginnings of lines around his eyes are fitting in the sunlight. "I fucking love it, dude."

Patrick laughs as well, and says, "I wish I was little again, dude. I wish yellow slides were fucking cool."

"You are little," Pete says, and gets up to give the plastic a testing shake, "And they are fucking cool."

Patrick squints up at him, as Pete fiddles to make sure the fucking thing is just about child-safe, says, "Yeah, I guess," with mildly amused skepticism. Rigby snuffles at Patrick's hand and he scratches her head, mutters, "Hey, buddy," under his breath.

Pete pauses in his tampering, watching with fondness as Rigby's drooly head lolls against Patrick, as he mutters stupid sentiments into her floppy ears. Patrick feels the stare, perhaps, and looks up with a sheepish sideways grin. "Can't believe she's all grown up, dude. I remember her as just a little pup." Patrick smiles down at her, and she wags her stumpy tail.

For a second, Pete lets himself drift and remember: remembers baby Rigs and even Hem when he was little, not so long ago, really, but in the sun of his family home with a swing set and two fully grown dogs playing with a Patrick who is almost unrecognizable from his teenage years, it feels like a long time.

"I was in love with you," Pete blurts, suddenly, and he feels blind in the sunlight, feels close and centered at the snuffle of Hemingway hunting through the sculptured plant beds, at the precarious-sturdy balance of the swing set beneath his forearm.

Patrick doesn't look at him but his shoulders go stiff, his fingers slowing in their tease on the crown of Rigby's head. "Okay," he says slowly, in a tight, denying voice.

"I just thought you should know that," Pete says, and it's strange how freeing it is to say it, how comfortable it feels as an admission. "I didn't ever really say, in so many words. But. You should probably know that I did. Do. I don't know."

Patrick gets to his feet, and Rigby sits back, looking up at him as he moves. Patrick looks at Pete and Pete wants to laugh, wants to tip his head back and laugh at the serious gaze of his face, at the uncomfortable line of his shoulders.

"Patrick," Pete continues, before Patrick can get in there first. He scratches at the back of his head and looks at Patrick with wistfulness, with surety. "I'm only telling you now because we're stood in my fucking backyard building a swing set. It's not like. It's just something that was, you know? We're all grown up. Look at Rigs, fuck. Don't get all freaked out."

"I'm not freaked out," Patrick says, and Pete can't quite tell if he's lying from the duck of his head. Patrick hovers for a moment, Rigby staring up at him adoringly, Pete watching him with something similar, with anxiety and history.

"I just," Patrick starts, and strides over to Pete, leans a hand against the ugly yellow edge of the slide. He hesitates, before enveloping Pete in a tight hug, tucking his chin just over Pete's shoulder. "I fucking love you, dude," he says, muffled.

Pete laughs, but there is a nostalgia to it, an ache at hearing it, and Patrick's skin feels hot under his layers in the Los Angeles sun. Pete remembers, and he squeezes tighter, Patrick's fingertips at his shoulder blades.

"How about we test this thing out, then?" Pete hisses against the shell of Patrick's ear.

Patrick laughs in a stupid helpless shake against him, and says, "Only if you go first."

x - x

ETA: Clearly, this was written before PStump changed his name D: I love the sound of Vaughn Stump (Von Stump \o/) but I had to have one last crack at the PMS joke, which WILL NEVER NOT BE FUNNY. ♥
Oh, and again, sorry about all this? Eek. *ducks*

you'd never exist if you wasn't generic

2008-11-15T21:45:11Z

Okay, so I don't know how popular or whatever Adele is outside of England, but I don't care, because I LOVE HER. I love that she is real and raw and talented and got heard of for her constant touring and was kind-of-sort-of famous before she was ever signed BECAUSE SHE IS SO AMAZING. I love that she is big and still successful. And this? Is her cover of Bob Dylan's 'Make You Feel My Love' and, okay, it's the official video, but it is A LIVE RECORDING OF THE VOCAL. That? Does not happen. People do not do that! I am in awe of her talent. *flails around*

Let's make this a music post because it's freaking Saturday, guys. I don't know, music transcends all emotions/mindfucks/weekends. I want you to post some stuff that has been blowing your mind as of late, as I am totally open to new things! And these are my offerings, bearing in mind I am on my laptop, which is not my music storage base.

First things first, album version of the above mentioned!
Adele - Make You Feel My Love

Flobots - Handlebars
I don't know, this song has created divides, man. Some people seem to think it is some kind of travesty against music. Which is okay. Except for the part where I disagree with my entire being. The lyrics! Please listen to the lyrics, just once. Literally, the metaphor and the message of the lyrics is one of the most perfect on-the-money FUCK YEAH THAT IS THE WORLD RIGHT NOW! (or at least over the past 8 years) descriptions I have heard in a long, long time. I want to applaud them and shake their hands for being political and not contrived. THIS SONG DESERVES REPEAT IMO.

Black Gold - Plans and Reveries
Wow, I am so late to this party, I should feel kind of ashamed, huh? But wow, A+, Panic, for choosing awesome musiciany friends who are actually REALLY GOOD. Catchy and awesome and unique and *hands* I LOVE THIS.

Cribs - Shoot the Poets
I don't know if over-the-pond people have been exposed to these guys yet? If so, expose yourselves! They are painfully cool with hilarious thick northern accents (that are fortunately not all that transfered into their music) but they produce good old-fashioned indie rock that is catchy as hell and just credible enough for you to feel a little bit cool while nodding along to your headphones. ♥!! I will shove them down your throats lots if you let me! Screw it, I'll do it now: Have their most famous song too!

And, okay, this is where my laptop based problems kick in. But you guys need to download new KOL and The Gaslight Anthem like last month, seriously. I shake my fist and simultaneously HIGHLY ENCOURAGE you to get on that. I can hook you up someday, guys. My love for both is large and irrepressible.

NOW YOU!

fic: can't get rid of me that easy

2008-11-05T21:14:53Z

Firstly: Yay! America! Thank you so much! Well done, I WANT TO HUG YOU ALL AND NOT LET GO FOR A REALLY LONG TIME. LAST NIGHT WAS SO NERVEWRECKING, OMG. Although big thumbsdown for some of the Props that passed :( I guess not all change can happen at once.

Secondly: This is some assholeish thing that should probably not ever see the light of day, but it is SITTING on my harddrive taunting me. It started when I realised how much I like dudes with tattoos, and how all dudes should have tattoos, especially on their arms, and then this ridiculous dudebro plotless thing happened. I don't know.

Can't Get Rid Of Me That Easy
Fall Out Boy gen, although P/P suggestion, as I am only human.
NOT REAL. DOESN'T EVEN HAVE PLOT, UGH. Also, I know absolutely nothing about tattoos. Like. Zero. I would like to reiterate that this probably shouldn't ever see the light of day.

"Fuck," Pete bites out, all gritted teeth and grimaces. He limps over to the couch, although the ink is totally on his arm so what the hell. "Tattoos fucking suck, man."

"You, er. You're going for a really great look there, then, Pete," Joe mutters, arranging shitty DVD cases and cushions until Pete's comfortable. "Ice pack? Doritos? You need anything at all?"

"Doritos," Pete says, pulling a face. "This really fucking sucks, man, what the hell. Did I mention that tattoos hurt? Because they hurt so much, dude, I can't even." Pete breaks off to prod curiously at the bandage on his arm and shoulder, only to crumple up in agony a second later. "FUCK," he hisses, "Oh, fuck, that was a terrible idea. This was a terrible idea."

Joe reappears with a bag of chips and settles himself comfortably on Pete's other side. "It's alright, dude," he says, comfortingly, his hand a soft stroke on Pete's back, "It'll heal in like, a while."

Pete's mouth is an orangey mess in seconds. "But I always forget, man, jeez. I'm like this, fucking, crazy sadistic little fuck, alright, because tattoos--" He spits the word a bit to add emphasis, and turns to Patrick, as if to make a point, "Fucking suck."

Patrick peers at him over the blue glow of his laptop. "What are you telling me for? I'm not the idiot getting shit burnt into my flesh or whatever."

"Right," Pete says pointedly, and looks at Andy slumped on the floor, topless as usual, fighting away on his games console, at Joe's inked sleeve leaned across Pete's own (good) shoulder. "The only one here, little dude."

"Whatever, fuck you," Patrick mutters, when he registers that accompanying look. White flashes across his glasses as he opens a new tab. "I don't want a fucking tattoo. And if I did I'd get it somewhere you couldn't see, so quit looking at me like that already."

"Where don't I see?" Pete asks, honestly curious. Then, "Fuck, watch it Trohman, there's a fuck off sling on my arm, could you keep clear?"

"Sorry," Joe sings in an amused lisp, and steals the Doritos back from Pete's open hand. "These need dip. Why don't we have dip?"

"I, unlike you, have a sense of privacy, okay," Patrick continues, a little heatedly, "and like, if I had something fucking permanent like that, it'd, I don't know. Have to be special or whatever--"

"Like after school special?" Joe chimes in, and Pete hits him with his good arm, snorting.

"No, asshole, and you guys would probably just make fun of me for it anyway, so whatever. Whatever, it's never going to happen, anyway, so just-- Fucking quit whining and go lie down or something." GarageBand determinedly floats up across Patrick's lenses.

"Huh," Joe says, through Dorito debris, "I think a tattoo would look good on you, man. Get like a fucking tarantula across your face or something."

Pete full on cackles, his laughter big and wide on his face, and he hi fives Joe, stealing a Dorito while he's at it. Patrick just shakes his head at their gross open-mouthed laughter and plugs himself back in to his music.

A week or so later, when the tattoo is still healing, but is there, real and forever and a part of Pete, carved like a promise into Pete's skin, Pete fidgets alone in the corridor between the back of Patrick's bus and the front. There's still another session or two to go to fill in the rest of the design, but he sort of needs to do this now.

Patrick doesn't yell at the quick rat-tat on the hollow wall near the head of his bunk. "What?" he says, instead, even though it's fucking late, and pulls the curtain across to let Pete in.

Pete just sits on the edge of the bunk, grinning this stupid fucking grin.

"Hey," he says. "So, I got something for you." And he pulls the protective covering back off his bad arm, lets the jet black of it shine against his tanned skin in the light. "It's for you," Pete says again, and Patrick can't say anything, because carved into Pete's skin forever is words + voice, and Patrick can't think of anything he can do or say to top that, really.

"Do you like it?" Pete asks, and his smile is big and helpless. "I wanted something permanent, where everyone could see. I know you probably won't ever get one, but at least you can sort of have this, right?" He sounds nervous, kind of, and Patrick wants to run his hands over the ink, the engravement of Pete's skin. Wants to make sure it's real. It's not healed, yet, though. This is still huge.

"Dude," Patrick says, because his mind is a total blank.

"I know, right?" Pete says, and he looks smug and excited and so fucking happy all at once. "This means you can't get mad at me for a really long time."

Patrick doesn't think he can ever get mad at Pete again, period, because that there on Pete's skin is them in their entirety, and it is thrilling and shocking and exciting the way that that kind of forever is so comforting in its sureness.

YEAH, I DON'T KNOW.

shared madness and things

2008-10-31T01:02:28Z

okay, so this just kind of sketched me out a bit. i was having a trawl through my memories, as you do, in search of inspiration and a good read and whatnot, and found a link from the oldschool days of damnyouwentz to a blogspot i was totally and completely in love with at the time. check out the freaking subject header/matter and whatnot:

Tuesday, September 11, 2007
folie a deux
sometimes the planets align
sometimes they dont
its like how part of my childhood was stolen when they took planetary status away from pluto
well be there one day
honestly i dont mind you saying fuck you to me-
when you included the "horse you rode in on"
it kind of went to hell
i am sick- like i cant ever get enough sleep or time or words
as this thing grows i become more and more insecure.
cant look anyone in the eyes-
i am paranoid- worried sick that i am not good enough for anyone who looks at me
i know how ridiculous this sounds
trust me
the new video makes me feel the big black sadness
folie a deux is the idea of shared madness- the scientific term for romeo and juliet
i have a feeling that we share that with eachother when you have your headphones on
currently working on: taking it easy-
dont mean to be so heavy just want you to know why i look so gray sometimes lately.

posted by xo at 1:23 PM

and like, okay, it means nothing, but i just find it REALLY WEIRD that that is the only blogspot link i have EVER saved, and like, those last few lyrics i have written in a journal somewhere, because i liked them so much. THEY ARE MY HEADER AND WHATNOT ON LJ. THIS ALL DOESN'T MEAN MUCH BUT IT IS BOGGLING MY MIND RIGHT NOW.

in other news: wow, the ryan seacrest interview + bonus p/p footage would have been the total highlight of my day due to the incomprehensible amounts of awesome, except i travelled 2 and 1/2 hours there and then back to see my favorite emmlar today, so. nothing beats that. we're going to go to americaaaa. <333

also, panic. bravo!! ♥!

i must confess i'm in love with my own sins

2008-10-22T21:37:01Z

So, fic-related things I am lusting after right now:

1) Fic where the parts of the I Don't Care video that were cut, were done so because, uh, they were very specific in their fight against Prop 8 (I srsly hope I got that right, haha), if you know what I mean. As in, Pete flipped out or was just really really enamored with the whole fight the system! thing and was just like, fuck it, and kissed Patrick (and it would be edited in to go either before or after the Patrick smile and flip off, y/y?) and Patrick was all, "Dude, what the hell are you doing?" and then Pete is all "No really! It is for the better good! Let's maybe make out more!" and it would be awesome. And Pete is really only pissed about it not making the edit because he wants the world to know about his not-so-secret gigantic mancrush on the Stump, and also maybe wanted it for his private collection, what.

2) I also want to be able to decide in what direction exactly the hooker!fic that I am so incredibly not writing is going in. Like, do I really want to go down the sadfaced, Patrick is only doing this to get money for college! and it really sucks and is horrible until Pete is really very nice to him, and won't stop coming back to bother him, and makes everything right and swirly and heartfilled again, route? OR. Patrick is just a total slut and wants the money, and completely blows Pete's mind in bed, until he becomes like a kept man ONLY REALLY THEY ARE BOYFRIENDS.

3) I want to get over my fear of writing het, so that I can write the fic I started craving the other night (which is 110% onneonlights fault, oh god) where Patrick is secretly (although not, look at him) COMPLETELY AMAZING at oral. Like, an oral god in human form. And he is either a) just totally putting it to good use all over the place at club FBR or B) (my favourite option!) he is the resident go to guy for orgasms. Like, the female members of FBR (who maybe haven't had so much fun in the past, because some guys just totally suck at it, or they just you know, don't come that easy, jeez) and so he is secretly just, you know, doing this good deed over and over, sort of completely surprised because he is just this guy, man! He doesn't do anything different! He just quite likes going down on girls, what. But then they are all on strict instructions NOT TO TELL PETE EVER, because the mocking and shame would be insufferable, but then Pete finds out and he is both horrifically jealous, mortified that Patrick has been doing this, SWEET LITTLE PATRICK, and also did I mention insanely jealous? And then he has oral sex with Patrick. Reciprocal oral sex. The alternative version of this is that Pete is always-a-girl and finds out Patrick's skills all for himself.

4) I also need to finish, or you know, properly start, the ridiculous Atonement AU I started (or thought about starting) just about forever ago. I don't know why I'm drawn to the whole tragic love story thing, but I am. Shamelessly. Patrick could be all fiercely defensive of Pete! He would fight for his honour! Pete is the most loyal guy ever! There could be bitchy fierce sexual tension at the start and then Patrick all wet in the fountain and then hot library sex! And then the doomed tragedy part where Pete has all these letters, writes all these words, and he's so in love with Patrick and they're a million fucking miles away and Patrick is all I LOVE YOU DON'T DIE IN THE WAR!! etc, and then there's death and sobbing. Although thinking about it, I'm not sure, because double character death is sort of terrifying, wow?

5) FULL VERSION OF AMERICA'S SUITEHEARTS PLS.

Also I wish I was in London at Wembley seeing FOB again right now, but alas I am lacking in transport, and therefore I am not :(

what a catch

2008-10-20T12:03:13Z

Okay, so I saw Fall Out Boy last night! Yay, etc.

Okay okay, so this is the fifth time I've seen them, so, like. I was still excited, you know? Because I also haven't seen them for like, a year, and that sucks, and I was excited because last tour they were playing The (After) Life of the Party and that is my favorite song forever, and it would pretty much be the best thing ever if I ever got to see it live. Which...didn't happen. But hey! That's okay. Really. Really.

I went with my friend Pete, who is my go-to concert buddy and FOB fan of choice, and we were kinda, not so up for it when we set off? Not in a bad way, just, we'd both been at work all day and then had to wrangle our way into leaving early and ugh, all this life stuff seemed to be trying to get in the way of the whole FOB thing. But then we moved on from The Quilt and had an epic session of new FOB songs and classics in the car on the way there, and oh, man, by the time we got to Birmingham, we were so on for it. We were like an hour late but apparently the NEC is slow at getting standing people in or something? Or people just felt like taking their goddamn time, anyway, because hey, it was Sunday, okay.

So, anyway, we were just chillin' down the front, feeling vaguely annoyed by all the screaming at the tech dude who looked...vaguely, and I mean vaguely like the Stump (although in the vague, MC Lars looks vaguely like the Stump kind of way), and reminiscing, 'coz the last time we'd been to a gig there, it was for motherfucking Blink 182 and we'd been 11 and 12 respectively. Oh, childhood. And then they started filling the actual goddamn venue up and we went oh shit this is the biggest place we've ever seen FOB at (Reading doesn't count), and reinvigorated ourselves for the rest of the wait.

You Me at Six played first, which I did not know was happening? But they were cute. I've seen them before, and they have definitely improved. They got the crowd going-- and okay, so at Reading Festival this year there was a mugging incident, and now I get freaked the fuck out at being out at night, in general, let alone in major cities, so Pete was under strict instructions not to even THINK about leaving me AT ANY POINT, oh god, and then a circle pit happened and Pete was all, "Come on!" and I was all, "You must be shitting me," and then he went "Come on," and eyed the stage which was a lot closer the other side of that pit, and we went for it, and I maybe broke my collarbone a bit, I'm not sure.

Boys Like Girls were okaaay. I've seen them before, too, and I don't know if it's just me but is the lead singer like, a lot annoying? He annoys me for reasons I can't pin down. Maybe it's his creepy eyes, I'm not sure. Anyway, Thunder indulged us in another nostalgia sesh, as Annoying Dude made everyone hold up lighters/mobiles etc, and that totally happened for I Miss You way back in the Blink era of yesteryear, only there were chandeliers back then, and me and Pete "aww"'d and got misty-eyed a bit.

And then surging started, because it was gonna be FOB, and like, I can deal with that, you know? It just pisses me off. And I do not understand why girls with long hair go to concerts and do not bring some kind of headband. There is no logic to that! It is going to be hot and sweaty! Your long frizzy hair is going to be stuck to my skin all over! It is going to be itchy! It is going to make me want to rip the hair from your head! Just bring a hair-tye, please. It is all that I ask of you.

And okay, so FOB did the whole white curtain in front of them thing, which I LOVE. And they were totes hanging out just behind the stage, because the people in the seats nearest the stage screamed so loud just before they went on, and like frogleaped down to take pictures, it was sort of hilarious. But it's okay, because FOB WERE AWESOME.

Me and Pete had got separated by this point, but we were both only a couple rows from barrier. I was Wentz-side, he was Troh's, but we could sort of wave to each other if we felt the need. This did not last long. The surging. Oh god, the surging was ridiculous. People of Birmingham, you can surge for the first song, that is fine. You want to get to the front, I want to get to the front, I get that. But when you are pushing short young girls over and then not helping them up, and then treading on them, that is not cool. Please find some concert etiquette somewhere. Pete Wentz himself had to make everyone step back because people were getting crushed, and I sort of decided four songs in when the surging had not let up, that you know what? I am okay going a few rows back to avoid assholes.

I would like to say now that Patrick was on absolute form. Like. Well played, young man. I want to shake your hand, and then hold it for a while, or something. And he seemed a lot more relaxed! He was totally cool with Pete leaning all over him, went over to him for some good old fashioned cheek-to-cheek guitar-to-guitar soloing. He sang American Boy pitch-perfect. He started singing the --TopGun, maybe? I forget-- theme before Beat It to get people dancing, and then proceeded to talk to Pete via microphone about, maybe, I could just be imagining this, but women. Or not, whatever, HE SPOKE OKAY. My ovaries exploded around then, I think. Look! He even tried spinning a bit!
EDIT: Evidence of leaning all over is needed, I think, and therefore I have stolen these off ytube (not mine!):
Please note 1:50 and the entire end of the song. It was like that the whole time. \o/!

Also, the Joe Fro is epic, now. Like, in pictures it is epic, but in the flesh it is epic. Pete was earnest and lovely throughout, and made me want to hug him a lot with his Dennis the Mennis-esque outfit and heartfelt little proclamations, and I need to not think so much about how hot tattoos are on dudes and especially dudes arms when said dudes are playing their little hearts out and I should be noticing that instead.

Me and You gave me a lump in my throat, for the PeteandPatrickness of it, and the crowd was singing it so loud, Jesus, I did not expect that. My favourite of all, though, was the end, for Saturday, when Pete literally threw himself across the stage, like, he actually rolled along the floor, and Patrick smiled and pointed to Pete for 'me and Pete' and then Pete was in the crowd and MOTHERFUCKING SPRINKLERS WENT OFF. Like, you cannot do that to me, Fall Out Boy. You cannot have Pete Wentz scream his little heart out a metre in front of my face and Patrick sing his little heart out like a fucking rock god just behind, and Joe and Andy rocking the fuck out, only to add in sprinklers. That is the kind of thing that kills me, and maybe puts a lump square in my throat. Sprinklers, you guys. Just, oh.

I loved it. My only complaints are that the crowd were kind of assholes, pushing too much at the start and then too little at the end, and no Golden or After Life or Headfirst, and the venue ran out of water at the end, what the hell, so me and Pete had to walk miles back to the car park, bedraggled and dehydrated, at night in Birmingham where I was freaking out anyway. But I am in love with Fall Out Boy. A lot. Like, as people, as a band, as songwriters and musicians. And they inspire me. Watching them play like that onstage inspired me a lot. I am chuffed to pieces that they can reignite that feeling within me. The wordless, huge, I-can-be-anything-I-want-to-be, kind of feeling.

I'm gonna say I preferred seeing them in Bournemouth last year, just because that was right after Infinity dropped and it was amazing, and they played all the new songs that I loved, but it was not them that made this concert just a little lower than that on the scale, it was outside things. I can't wait for Folie to come out, is all I can say. They have some fight in them yet.

Is it bad that I am considering going to Chicago to co-inside with the tour when it starts? Because I totally am. /geek.

ETA2: And okay, so as i'm going through watching videos from last night, I saw a video of the Meet and Greet that apparently happened?? Did not know of this, but whatever. Oh man, it was so awkward. Just everyone going "Hi" with maybe a "How are you doing?" and then *awkward pause while [insert band member] signs shit* and then either an awkward handshake or a forced little hifive. Are M&G's really like that? Like, can you not have conversations with them AT ALL? Because I've only ever met dudes from bands either at the merch stand, chilling by the bus or on the way to do some serious drinking, so the lack of conversation is really...weird, to me. And if I ever met FOB, touch wood, I have things to say to them. Like, not even creepy things, ACTUAL things about music and experiences and stuff. It makes me sad when the only real chance to do that is through an M&G, and even there you don't appear to be allowed to do that?? ENLIGHTEN ME, PEOPLE.

fic: this ain't no hot line

2008-10-18T09:50:59Z

Om nom nom. A fry up after a night out is one of my favourite things. Another is being on lj at 10:30 in the morning, hungover and reeking of cigarettes, knowing that I have nothing else to do today except sleep it off. I am excited to forget last night!

ETA: I'm looking for someone willing to beta some things for me? Like, any help at all would be appreciated, from plot suggestions to OH GOD PUT IN A FREAKING FULL STOP ALREADY HOW LONG DO YOU WANT TO MAKE THAT SENTENCE? kind of thing. That would be cool!

Oh, another thing:

this ain't no hot line
R/NC-17 (i have dodgy morals, okay), 1512 words.
Pete/Patrick, uh, phonesex? Only not.
a work of fiction. the back button is your friend!

this ain't no hot line

"I'm not going to have phone sex with you."

Pete makes a frustrated sound, tinny and faraway. "But why," he whines, "Seriously, it is completely okay, I don't get why it's such a big deal--"

"Pete," Patrick interrupts, "I am not going to ask what you're wearing at any point during this conversation, so you might as well just give up. There are hotlines for that kind of thing."

"You're a hot line," Pete says, mildly petulant.

"That doesn't even make sense," Patrick sighs, with vague disgust. "I'm saying goodbye now. So goodbye."

Pete makes a protesting sort of grumble and Patrick hangs up, stretching out in the too-large bed. The comforter is a cheap imitation satin, and everything is beige and this side of not-right. Patrick really hates being on opposite sides of the country. He still keeps his razor and toothbrush on his side of the sink, even when Pete's not there. Which sort of sucks.

Patrick jolts at the sharp intrusive vibration of a text, his cell beeping loudly against the wood of the bedside table. The ID flashes No.1 Dickwad!, because Patrick didn't think to change it from when Joe got all mad about Pete pissing in his Nikes.

The text says: just so u know, i'm not wearing anything at all.

Patrick snorts out a laugh and hits reply, says, I don't care, although he does. Not interested, although he is.

Pete calls him back immediately (something about a separation complex), and barks out, "No but really, I am."

Patrick grins and rolls his eyes all at once, balancing his cell between his ear and shoulder as he rearranges himself on the bed. "I thought I said that this wasn't going to happen."

"But I'm naked," Pete says in a laugh-ridden whisper, and Patrick's not so sure he's joking. "And I miss you," Pete adds, seriously, and Patrick is certain.

"You know," Patrick says, thoughtfully looking at the magnolia of the ceiling, "Phone sex is like, fifty percent masturbation, anyway."

"Yes, Patrick, well done, you understand the blueprints," Pete says, laughing. Then, voice lower, "Although I like where you're headed."

"Make that eighty." Patrick unbuttons his jeans.

Patrick can hear Pete's lips purse, pausing. "Tell me more about this masturbation fad," Pete pushes, voice a little lower. He pauses again, "And, okay, so I'm not naked, but my jeans are totally undone, if you know what I mean."

The imitation satin is also itchy on Patrick's back, on his forearm where it scrunches. He imagines Pete laid out, like this, in a mirror hotel a few hundred miles away. "It's all the rage," he says, conversationally, and waits until his hand is in before realizing that Pete, Pete bought him these boxers. "All the cool kids are doing it, and I--" Patrick leaves it hanging.

"And you?" Pete finishes, expectantly, and there is a strain in his breath.

Patrick smirks. "…And I am not doing this with you, Pete, so quit it, already."

"Oh my god." Pete exhales in a jumble. "Oh, dude, the hate I have for you is like, is like a total and complete cock block of gigantic proportions, right now. I almost thought about getting a hard on, there, for a second."

"Foolish," Patrick says primly, and the picture, the mental image of Pete, in his head, in his hotel bed with his jeans pushed down, his hand deep in his boxers, eyes shut to the sound of Patrick's voice -- It's exquisite. "The high hopes you have for this are just waiting to be shot down. Are you naked, yet?"

"No," Pete says quickly. "But I could be."

Patrick ignores this, sort of. "I think periods of, what do you call it, chastity, are good for couples," he continues, mildly. "I think this will make us stronger." He tightens his fist, and his dick is definitely hard now, swollen at the image, the thought of Pete twisted in sheets, moaning, licking his palm and grunting at the first satisfying pull.

"I call bullshit," Pete says. "If you were here right now, I'd fuck you. You know that, right? On your hands and knees. This bed is too big for just me. We could spend a lot of time in here."

Patrick bites his lips and says, "Yeah, I'd like that." He jerks himself a little faster, just this side of too-rough. "Phone sex is still not happening, by the way."

Pete's voice is heavier. "It is on my end."

"Not on mine," Patrick counteracts, although it so, so is. Pete's heated eyes, those little grunts he makes when Patrick sucks him off, tight heat and pulls of his fist, slow, then fast, then off, then back down, hands on Pete's thighs to spread him and keep him down. He grunts a little, and says, "I think we shouldn't have sex for a very long time. I think we should have a hands-off at all times policy."

"I think you should have my cock in your mouth right now," Pete says, sudden and harsh, and his breathing is definitely getting ragged. "I love to watch you suck me off. Your lips."

"I hate it," Patrick says quickly, although he doesn't, he loves it, loves the thickness and fullness and wetness of it, Pete's fingers tight in his hair, the sharp jut of his hips against Patrick's hands. "I prefer to take care of myself," and it's such a lie, Pete laughs and grunts at the same time, a strange high-pitched soft combination.

"I'd like to watch," he says, voice deep, and Patrick would like that, too, gasps a little at the thought of it. "Mutual masturbation is a healthy part of any sexual relationship. Would you like to watch me jerk off, Patrick?"

"I'd like to jerk you off," Patrick says, light, on a soft desperate exhale. "Are you touching yourself?"

"No," Pete growls, falsely, with a little moan. "Yes. I'm thinking about fucking you. You close your eyes, sometimes, and I just want to lick your neck when you make those noises, you know. And. And I, fuck, I really like to spread your thighs and suck you off while my fingers are inside you."

Patrick feels maybe like he's caught on fire, like every place his skin is in contact with skin is scorching hot, burning. He murmurs, "Pete," and imagines it, remembers it. "Please," not sure why, just need it, need the contact, need touch, need Pete.

"Would you like that?" Pete is saying, his voice low, but the words quick, and his breathing is ragged. "And afterwards I'd fuck you, so hard you could feel it the next day, and I'd wake you up in the morning with my mouth on your cock, all hot and wet, and-- Fuck, Patrick."

And Patrick thinks yes and please, grunts out a tight, "Pete, fuck, Pete," and his hand is so hot, all sweaty and slick, and he wants to come in Pete's mouth, yes, he does.

Pete is saying, "I want to see you come, oh god, I just want to watch you come right now Patrick, your face," and Pete should do this for a fucking living, the low gravelly drawl of his voice, the way his breath goes up and down, hitched, obvious, and Patrick says, "Yes, yes," and comes hot and hard into his own fist, his hips rising off the imitation satin, shuddering for a long, blissful moment.

"Oh my god, you just came didn't you, oh my god Patrick," Pete is hissing, and he sounds delirious and also kind of hilarious, but Patrick can barely breathe enough to laugh at him, just sighs into the phone. Pete groans, "Fuck fuck, Patrick, I'm," until there are far off strangled noises and grunts and Pete's breathing goes all to shit. Patrick listens to him come.

"Well," Patrick says into the silence that follows. "That was educational." His hand is sticky with his own orgasm. He wipes it on the comforter with something that feels like victory.

"I want to see you," Pete says, and he sounds quieter than before, calmer. "I can't wait 'til Tuesday, Patrick. Patrick."

"We are having a hands-off policy," Patrick says, with a tease to his voice. "But until then-" He pauses, pulls his boxers back up, which is sort of gross, but is also kind of nicely familiar in the Peteness of it, "know that I, I miss you, too." He is quiet, almost hesitant when he says it.

Pete smiles, and it is loud and large and unavoidable even from hundreds of miles away. "Patrick?" he asks, coyly. "Are you sure phone sex isn't allowed?"

Patrick smirks and stretches out further, filling all the spaces where Pete should be. "Completely and utterly banned, I'm afraid."

"Huh, okay. I'll go call that hotline now, then."

Patrick laughs, "You're an asshole."

Pete laughs back, his voice low and throaty. "And you should think about changing careers, if you know what I mean."

Patrick hangs up, and feels less alone for it.

darling i know what you're going through

2008-10-07T15:16:27Z

i missed the feeling of hearing your new favourite song for the first time. ugh, i'm in heaven. i wish there were pretty words for this feeling, but all i have are garbled noises and squeaks.

I AM SO EXCITED TO HEAR PATRICK'S SOOONG. ugh, this stupid BAND ♥♥♥

fic: so i could pin it to my sleeve

2008-10-06T20:54:45Z

Oh hey, so I wrote something!!

so i could pin it to my sleeve
Pete/Patrick, 1,760 words.
tame! yet oddly untrue.
a schmoopy attempt to break writer's block.

Pete is not sleeping even though the windows are reflecting the blue-black of night back at him, when Patrick thwacks him round the head with a rather large, heavily-bound notebook.

"Hey!" Pete glowers as best he can from his half-slump. "Uncalled for and ow. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Patrick glowers back and throws the notebook into Pete's lap. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" he counteracts. Patrick looks determined, like he means business. Pete wonders if one of them is about to get strangled. "These lyrics are more morose than usual. Like, all I'm getting is Minor chords from this shit. What aren't you telling me, Wentz?"

Pete blinks and shuffles upright, gathering together a few of the overstuffed pages covered in scrawl that have come loose. "Wow, you're actually assaulting me over this. Wow. Wow, that's low, dude. Low."

"I don't care. What's up?" There is a brightness in Patrick's eyes even as he plants his hands on his hips and attempts to stare Pete down. The frown and the worry are there in the square stern set of his jaw, and his fingers keep fidgeting in their placement on the seams of his tee.

Pete keeps Patrick's eye contact for a long moment of silence, and Pete can feel the air sizzling with all his neuroses and headfuckery, all those dark little questions and fears mocking him, taunting him. Patrick's eyes soften at the edges and his eyebrows quirk up in earnest concern. "Pete?" he pushes again, softly, and Pete drops his head, looks at his hands, large, on the brown soft-leather covering, and just can't.

"Nothing," he says, and his voice sounds flat and false even to his own ears. "There's nothing wrong, Patrick. Quit worrying about little old me. Bother yourself with big things like, fucking, world hunger."

Patrick deflates, shaking his head. He pauses, goes to gesture something offensive and changes his mind, settles for a simple, bitten, "I don't believe you."

"Yeah, well you need to stop reading into things that don't concern you, okay?" Pete says fiercely, gesturing at Patrick with the hand still clasped firmly around his words, his thoughts. He hadn't planned on letting Patrick into his head, on letting him know all the heavyhearted whisperings, not this time, but he hadn't thought. He'd spent all those countless hours scribbling, not sleeping, and he'd handed his head over without thinking. What a fucking idiot.

Patrick's jaw is square and his eyes flash like he's about to say something, something real and heartfelt and grounding. Pete thinks, I'm in love with you. You.

But Patrick is pissed off and hurt when he spits, "Of course it fucking concerns me," at Pete, at him, with heat in his eyes. A little part, a large part, every part, of Pete agrees, deep down, he agrees that of course Patrick should fucking know; Patrick is the voice, the sense behind his conscious, the reason behind every stupid idea or manic episode.

But Pete never tells Patrick this, merely clamps his mouth shut in stubborn assfuckery. Patrick leaves without finishing the argument, leaves the fight to Pete's head, where he wants it, where it belongs.

The lyrics never do get used.

-

Pete falls asleep at the breakfast table, and it isn't unusual, but the rude awakening is still annoying when Patrick slams the door shut behind him and sits down with a clatter opposite. Pete doesn't lift his head but raises his eyebrows instead, just visible over the curve of his forearm.

"I said 'fuck' approximately twenty-four times in that last interview," Patrick says with wonder, his fingers rat-tat-tapping on the table and reverberating over Pete's face, his lips, shaking into every dark little corner of Pete's head.

"Mmf." Pete raises his head a little. "You're a foul-mouthed sailor and you should be ashamed. Oh, I'm asleep, by the way."

"Uh huh uh huh." Patrick looks perplexed, still, gazing into the middle distance with a slight change in tempo to his rat-tatting. "Mom would be proud, huh?"

"Sure. Yep, definitely." Pete rolls his head onto the other arm and makes a loud deflating noise. "I'm ignoring you, though, right now, because I'm pretty sure I'm asleep, and all."

Patrick hums. "Yeah, yeah," he says, distracted, "But doesn't it make me sound just, you know, like a complete fucking asshole? Like I have to shoot my mouth off so anyone will bother to listen."

Pete coughs, rough, and scratches the back of his head. "You learnt to talk like that from somewhere. And as your legal guardian, I apologize for any influence I may have had." He winces a little, and rubs a hand over his face, because there is definitely no ignoring the fact that he is certainly, miserably, awake now.

"Shut up," Patrick says half-heartedly. He shoves at Pete a little, but in that friendly-annoying sort of way. "We were all quiet this morning so you could sleep, but it's half one now and I've stopped giving a fuck. You're awake." He smiles.

Pete groans and drags himself upright. "I hate that you're so perceptive."

Patrick looks him dead in the (crusty, sleep-deprived, purple-ringed) eye and says, "I hate that I know when you're not sleeping, and that it makes me not sleep, too."

It's not a revelation, but when Pete looks at Patrick, hard, looks at him looking back at that infuriating middle distance, he has to force himself to yawn the shiver and the tiredness and the feeling away. It is not the first time.

-

Pete is asleep, which is unusual, and is in his own bed, which is even more unusual, when he is woken by a soft, whispered, "Pete?" It is Patrick's voice and Patrick's fingers pressing into Pete's arm, gently pushing into him, and Pete shuffles away, groaning. "Pete," Patrick says insistently, louder, "Pete. Pete."

"What," Pete hisses into his pillow, although what actually happens is a lot of vowels and a bit of dribble comes out. "The fuck, Stump, why are you in my house at ass o'clock? You picking up tips or shit, god, go away."

"Wow, I actually had something kind of important to say," Patrick says, and stops prodding Pete. He sits on the edge of Pete's bed, facing the opposite direction, making Pete twist and move. He turns on the bedside lamp and his entire face floods golden. "You're kind of a douche even when you're comatose."

Pete pauses a moment, mouthing away the cotton coating his tongue. He swipes a hand over his face and realizes what this means. "You're actually in my house right now. Am I dreaming? Are you really here, little ginger dude?" He pinches Patrick and Patrick snaps "asshole" and pinches right the fuck back. Pete should have learnt a long time ago to keep his fingers to himself.

"You know what," Patrick mumbles, when Pete has stopped with the early morning asshole routine. He stutters a bit on his words, looking at his hands in his lap, then back to Pete, who having given up on douchery has fallen to rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Um--don't worry about it. Okay, actually, bad idea, you know? I'm gonna just. Uh."

"Patrick." Pete interrupts with an uncharacteristically soft tone, and Patrick does this half-shoulder-roll kind of a thing, as if he knows what is about to come next. There is something changing in the air between them. Pete is sure that he is not entirely okay. "Dude," Pete says, kindly, "Dude. Dude, I play that card, okay, and you know that it is completely uncool even when I do it, so. Spit it out, okay? I like the whole big romantic gesture thing you've got going on here."

Patrick shrugs again, and he turns and looks at Pete blinking into the brightness of the light. "I just had to know that you're okay. I mean. I know that you're not okay, because everyone on the fucking planet knows just by taking one look at you, but. I just wanted to come here and ask you myself one last time, if you're okay." Patrick's eyes are beetle black in the half-light, and he looks so fucking concerned, god, Pete is doing that to him, what the fuck, what the fuck. Patrick is thinking about Best Buy, which he should know not to do, but it somehow matters that he is.

Pete wants to run his hand over the dark curve of Patrick's shoulder where the light doesn't reach, wants to kiss every place where he's tinted golden, wants to press his mouth to Patrick's neck and know that every butterfly-making stomach-churning big feeling overpowering him is not alone in its largeness.

"I'm in love with you," Pete says, "and I mean that in the not friend way."

There is a pause, a moment of complete silence in which Patrick's eyes do not widen and his lips do not purse; he doesn't falter, he just sits on the edge of Pete's bed with his legs dangling off the edge and his fists all balled up in the comforter, and he looks at Pete in a way that says he believes him utterly, and that he is not surprised.

Then Patrick tilts his head back, and he laughs.

He laughs and sniggers and there are crinkles at the corners of his eyes, oh god, and then he is leaning down and he is pressing his laughter into Pete's, over Pete's. He smothers him with it, surrounds him with it, and Pete is laughing too, laughing at the hugeness and smallness and sameness of it. It is the best sound that Pete has ever heard, the sound of them laughing like that together.

Patrick kisses him, hands cupping Pete's face. He says, "I know I know, you idiot," over and over in this disbelieving stutter, as if Pete should have known that or something.

"I'm sorry that I'm sort of crazy sometimes," Pete says between kisses, and Patrick makes a frustrated sound at the fact that Pete is still attempting conversation. "But I'm also sort of crazy about you, so."

"Sometimes," Patrick says, and he pushes Pete back hard on the bed, fists in his shirt, "I really wish you'd just shut up."

And Patrick's mouth is on his, firm and wet and perfect, but Pete cannot help the asshole in him that makes him say, "Done." He smiles and smiles, and kisses Patrick, hands up his shirt, and he has hardly ever felt so alive.

Also I think there should be more phonesex fic, y/n? ;)