My pen is the barrel of a gun...

Amenities are awesome.

2009-11-09T05:25:57Z

Title: Surprises Can Leave You On The Edge of Your Seat
Author: pb_n_jellyfish
Pairing: Mark(+Tom)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Aluuuminum or alumiiinum? And just so you know, Tom dislikes overtly long showers.
Disclaimer: Not real, I have nothing you'd want if you sued me.
Warnings: toy use, masturbation.
Author's Notes: Apparently there's a company that manufactures a line of adult toys... and they used to be members of the aircraft industry? Wow. All I'm saying is that I'd certainly appreciate the thought, even if I was the only other reason for my guy to get it besides "That's wicked cool." Thanks to my betas, and huu. ♥ Word count: 1424

He waited patiently for Tom to gather his things and head into the bathroom before getting up and scouring the room. Mark liked surprises. But the problem he had with them was in being told he'd be getting a surprise. Because then he'd have to wait for it. And while he was good at waiting, he didn't care much for it.

But with Tom in the shower, the hunt was on. And within moments Mark had found it--in a little case that looked like it was supposed to be used for a microphone. He thumbed up the latches and cracked open the lid. Shining back up at him in the dim light from over the table was a pretty little hunk of metal. It was bright pink, and when he picked it up out of its case and felt it over, he was very pleased to find that it was made of metal. The inlay of the case read that it was aluminum. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and his spine tingled.

There were two other pieces in the case--interchangeable pieces! rad!--and after a moment's thought, he removed the one with the plain bulb tip on the toy and then screwed the little triple-ridged cap back on tight and turned the vibe on, testing it. Nothing. And then he noticed that the batteries were packed on top of the little instruction card, and so he installed those, looking at the little card for help. It had no text, only drawings. With the batteries in it now it felt very weighty and nice in his hand, and it hummed quietly. But he ramped the dial that made up the other end of the vibe and it buzzed thickly. He laughed to himself, very excited.

He turned it off for the moment and hastily stood up to kick off his shoes and undo his belt and pants. This was gonna have to be quick. The sound of running water and Tom banging his bottles of shampoo and conditioner around were his only timers.

He eyed Tom's overnight bag suspiciously, half-wondering if there might be any lube in there and half-not wanting to root around in it at all. He stuck a couple of his fingers into his mouth, thinking, and then realized that the bathroom held his answer. He knocked on the door really quick and when Tom answered, he said he needed his toothbrush. After a moment he returned back to the bed with one of the little amenity lotions.

Mark took a second to hike his shirt off, opting to just get a quick shower in when he was done anyway, and climbed back onto the bed, pushing pillows up behind him and settling down on them, taking the jewel-colored vibe back into his hands and covering it liberally with the lotion. He took care to especially cover the ridged shaft of the toy, feeling each little bump with his fingertips and the pad of his thumb as he did so.

He put another dollop of the lotion on the head of the toy, and then smeared what was left over in his hand onto his already growing cock, and leaned back, planting his feet on the bed and spreading his legs a bit.

It was at this point that he noticed he could see himself in the mirror over the little set of drawers across the room.

He grinned, and his reflection grinned back. This was awesome. It made it a little easier for him to see what he was doing, too. Like how he was forgoing fingering himself and went straight at his hole with the vibe, that little gob of lotion spreading out and around and in, but just a bit. He exhaled, and in went the little bulbous head. When he was content with the fit of that, he pushed the toy in further--it wasn't much wider than that first bit and it still felt really good, even if he wasn't completely prepared. With his free hand he played with and pumped his dick slowly, waiting for the toy to drag across that little spot up inside himself, and then he squirmed. This thing was so solid! And the ridges! Holy fuck, he kept thinking, over and over to himself, holy fuck this is amazing!

It didn't take him long at all to work up a quick, steady rhythm, but the angle was wrong. He arched his back, he rolled his hips, he brought himself down off the pillows and lay flat, knees in the air. He was full, but this wasn't enough.

He sat up, bringing his legs under him and tried to ride it like this. A little better. Not quite, though. So he leaned back again, this time on the edge of the bed, and put his feet up against the wall. He could hear Tom singing something to himself through the wall. Something fell or was dropped, and then Tom must have hit the inside of his stall because there was a loud THUD noise. Mark paused in his play, bringing his feet away from the wall and staring at it curiously. But the water was still running, and soon Tom was singing again. Mark rolled onto his side, and tried to maneuver this into something comfortable, but found that it only made his arm and his back and shoulder stretch too awkwardly. He sighed, laying there for a moment, dick in his hand and frustration beginning to set in.

He settled for wrestling with the pillows on the bed for a minute, and then resting into a face-down position, on his knees and with his ass in the air. And it felt great. He played with the vibe a bit, pulling it in and out and was happy with how it pressed down and into him much more naturally. This was good. This was perfect.

His fingers played with the dial on the end ever so slightly, turning the vibe itself on. Mark swore he could feel his teeth vibrating. It wasn't even on at full speed yet. He pulled a pillow in closer and buried his face into it, trying to keep from yelling out as he worked himself with the toy and by hand. Fuck, this is incredible, he thought. He wondered exactly where along tour that this had been picked up but that was abruptly derailed when the vibe's speed began to hike. When he reached for the dial he felt another set of fingers, and a hand, and a wrist. Belonging to Tom, easily judged by the wet bracelets. He didn't have time at all to register his shame over being caught, though. Tom wouldn't let the dial be, and before Mark knew it, he couldn't even rub his own cock--he was flailing about, making all sorts of odd noises, and suddenly at Tom's mercy with the toy.

Tom pressed the vibe in a little further, eliciting a strangled cry from Mark. And when he began moving it in a slow circular motion, the bassist only seemed to want to dig into the bed. His back muscles flexed with each arch and thrust of his hips, his arms strained against the comforter and pillows. Tom tightened his movements, and soon it just became a constant thrumming and pulsing against Mark's prostate.

The older man gave up, making a very loud, embarrassing, moaning sound into his pillow, jerking and twitching, spurting.

Tom turned off the vibe and slowly pulled it out. Mark gasped and heaved at this. "Well," he heard Tom say. "I guess it works great. I was kind of worried. It looked intimidatingly cool."

Mark wiggled a few fingers, and then waved his hand. Even if he had words to say about it, he didn't have the breath.

"Though now I gotta pick up a new one."

Mark managed a sound that was somewhat inquisitive at this.

"This was for Jen."

The next sound that issued from Mark's throat was one of slight panic.

"Your surprise was actually just going to be a face full of shaving cream, but I walked out here and couldn't bring myself to stop you." There was a loud sound of shaving cream being dispensed from its can, however, and Mark was useless to fight Tom when he realized it was being sprayed onto his bare ass. "I guess it still worked out for you, though." Tom spread it around a bit and smacked him hard, laughing.

Definitely wasn't beer.

2009-11-04T17:44:30Z

Title: Posturing
Author: pb_n_jellyfish
Pairing: Tom DeLonge/Mark Hoppus... and Pete.
Rating: NC-17 for sex and Pete Wentz.
Summary: He really should have thanked Ryan Ross.
Disclaimer: Not real, I have nothing you'd want if you sued me.
Author's Notes: There was a comment a while back on icecreamhdaches by matchsticks_p that made me laugh really damn hard. "I feel like Tom is always seconds away from territorially peeing on Mark whenever Pete's in the room." So I guess this is kind of that, but without the peeing. Much thanks to sleepherealone for being the you-know-who to my oh-that-guy, and also to martydressler for the beta. Word count: 2783

"I'm not completely comfortable with this. I like you and I think you're a great guy, but honestly I would enjoy it a lot more if you weren't here. Since I get the feeling you're probably not going to leave, you can sit there," Tom said, pointing at the chair in the corner, "and let me pretend you're not here."

Pete put his hands up and nodded, flashing a grin. He almost fell over. Whatever they were being served at that damn party either had to have been strong as goat piss or it was watered down and put out faster than they thought they knew. Whatever Ross was giving them to smoke was most likely not helping, either. "It's okay, I understand. Thank you."

From over Tom's shoulder, Mark smirked at Pete. His face felt so hot against Tom's neck. "Thank you," he whispered against the soft fabric of the taller man's shirt. Tom just nodded, and turned back to the bed, taking that soft shirt off and throwing it to the floor. Mark gave Pete a good long stare before he did the same. Pete settled down in the chair a little clumsily, but then was cool and collected. His heart, buried under the layers of shirts and hoodie, though, was beating miles a minute. His eyes followed Mark for a moment as the stumbling man struggled with his shoes and jeans, finally opting just to sit on the edge of the bed and take them off. He wriggled out of his boxers as well and leaned back a little to stroke at himself, already half-excited. Pete could feel his own pants tightening just at the sight of this.

On the other side of the bed, Tom shuffled through his overnight bag and produced lube and condoms. "Woah," came Pete's voice. Tom shot him a serious look, but the little bassist went on anyways, "Twenty years and you guys still sleeve it up? I would have thought you were past that point eons ago." He would have caught a shoe to the face had Tom not noticed Mark sliding down on the bed, coming to rest on an elbow. The taller man stood there in his underwear, watching this, the little ziploc baggie hanging from his hand, the scrawled sharpie words "LYSOL THIS SHIT" in Mark's fucked-up handwriting faded and crinkled in Tom's grip. The hand Mark had used to write that, months ago, was currently busy again, now.

Pete seemed to be occupied with this as well, as he had gone deathly quiet, too.

Mark lay there, hand wrapped around his stiffening cock and his toes curling in and the bedspread being gathered in his other fist. He had his eyes shut--not tightly, but still closed. Like he was singing on stage. Tom sighed quietly at this exact thought, watching Mark's lips quiver and purse and open slightly again as he inhaled, exhaled, and twisted his wrist a few times. He watched Mark work himself hard, hard, hard, and then once slow, hard, hard, and then again slow. He was a grabber, not a glider, and for a moment Tom almost wished he was going to be the one taking it tonight. And he wanted that thick cock in his mouth, in his hands. He wanted it inside him too, but he also had been waiting for a good opportunity to ask Mark to bottom instead.

This was pretty much going to be that opportunity. The last time on the tour he had seen Mark high was when he came back from Joe and Pete's bus, and the last time he'd seen him buzzed was the night before last, but he'd yet to see him a bit of both. He was that close to thanking Wentz but he easily decided against that and opted for sliding onto the bed and joining Mark. He made himself relax, told himself to forget that Pete was there, forget all that and know that Mark was right here and that Mark was his. He ran a hand up along Mark's chest, and the older man turned a smile on him that was so fantastically wide and happy that Tom almost didn't want to kiss him and force it away.

But he did anyways. He leaned in and he and Mark locked lips so gently, yet it was enough to distract Mark's hand for the moment. Tom felt his bassist's arm miss a few rhythmic pumps and then pause altogether, and he was just so excited for this that he moaned softly into Mark's slightly open mouth. Mark sighed back at him, and that was pretty much it. Tom pushed him down flat against the bed and brought a leg in between Mark's, feeling that hot cock against his thigh and drawing a short sound from Mark that made his spine tingle. This was always his favorite part. He always felt like he could kiss Mark for hours. It took him back to the days when they had, laying on the floor of Tom's bedroom, all hands and lips and quiet laughter and just touching. He also remembered laying in the grass in his backyard some nights around two or three in the morning, staring at the stars and losing his mind over losing that. Losing all of that. And wondering how much of not mentioning a girl specifically in his new work he could get away with. There wasn't much further to go from those nights after Mark's lectures and classwork, it had seemed. From touching to touching. But after not having that for a handful of years he was rethinking that. He was so glad that they were at a completely new level now. Mark shuddered under him as his fingers played with a nipple. Tom tugged a little at the small piece of jewelry and Mark's back arched sharply, turning his head and pulling his lips away from Tom's. He cursed under his breath and moved his hand in between them, rubbing the back of it against Tom's growing erection and getting a like reaction from him out of it.

Mark ran the fingers of his other hand along Tom's thigh, up along his side and over his back, and Tom rested his face against Mark's. Tom let one of his own hands trail down some, ghosting the inside of Mark's leg and brushing up against his balls. This managed to get a long, gravelly groan out of the bassist, which Tom liked so he did it again with a little more pressure. Mark turned his face to Tom's and their lips met again, as did their tongues. Tom's errant hand was having a little fun, and Mark's hips were rocking so slightly when Tom's fingers would stop and hold their place, teasingly. When his movements became a little more exaggerated, Tom pulled away and reached around for that little baggie. In his peripheral vision there was a short movement from the chair in the corner that his mind registered as the curtains moving, and he sat up to fight with the cap on the little tube for just a moment before it opened and lube spattered out onto his hand and the bed. He cursed, and wiped enough of it off to get a good start with. His partner jumped as Tom made no graceful move to keep from dripping or getting the lube everywhere else on his torso and waist, and on the insides of Mark's thighs.

Mark brought one of his legs up, his foot flat on the bed, and Tom hugged that bent knee as he rubbed and played at Mark's entrance. The older man moaned, sucking his lower lip in and then exhaling loudly. His other leg came up and relaxed to the side, bent slightly, toes wiggling. "Two," he said, his voice low and needy, his hips twitching up and from side to side. Tom smirked and obliged, sending Mark into a small fit of grasping hands and short jittery moans as he curled and uncurled his fingers, spreading and moving them around. He heard a faint sigh behind him and he stopped, and added a third. Mark took a moment to adjust to this, crying out, but as Tom worked him rhythmically, gently, he had relaxed quicker than Tom imagined he would.

It wasn't until he sat back and began to take off his boxers that Tom realized Mark had wriggled his way up most of the bed, to the headboard. The man was holding onto pillows, his chest rising and falling sharply, thighs and cock twitching. It didn't take Tom long to get a condom on and make even more of a mess with the lube. "I don't know where you're trying to go, there," he said quietly. Mark looked at him, then down at the foot of the bed, and then back over at him. Tom saw his eyes flash over to what he was sure would have been Pete had he looked too, and annoyance welled up in him again. He took hold of Mark behind each knee and pulled him closer, the older man laughing and dragging a pillow with him as this happened. Mark pushed his hips up and settled on top of that pillow, his erection rubbing against Tom's stomach. "God, I've been waiting for this," he said, scooting closer and lining himself up against Mark.

Mark only closed his eyes, his head tilting back and his jaw clenching at first as Tom pushed in but then going completely slack as the rest followed. Tom let out a throaty yell, cussing, and Mark managed to give an unintelligible mumble in reply as Tom's hips met flush with his. He exhaled, loudly, and grabbed at Tom's arms, which the guitarist had planted on either side of Mark's head, fingers splayed out. The two stared solidly at each other for a minute or so before Tom rocked his hips up and forward. Mark tightened his grip for a second, his breath hitching and his eyes fluttering shut and then going wide open again, the bright blues of his irises thin little slivers of color around his dark pupils. Tom was getting lost. He finally forced himself to move again, a little faster and a little more sure of the position they were in, and Mark half-whispered his name, bringing his hands up to cup Tom's face and play with his hair. He nodded, giving a long sigh, and Tom smiled at him, and leaned in to kiss him again.

They moved like this for a while, content to just tangle up in each other and kiss and neck and lick but Tom could feel that Mark was beginning to move past his drunkenness and his high and work back at him, tensing more with every push and feeling around more of Tom with his hands intently. When he brought his knees up and tried locking his legs together at the ankles around Tom's waist, Tom had to pause--Mark's hips were in the air the furthest they'd been yet and they didn't seem to be coming down again like before. He squared himself away, rolling his own hips to settle his position on the bed, and Mark moaned loudly. Tom took a second to readjust Mark's legs so that he could pull himself out a little ways and thrust back in. Mark cried out again, sucking in a breath and holding it as Tom did it again. There wasn't much resistance from Mark's body any more, so Tom began to take his strides a little further out and a little quicker in. He ran a hand along Mark's thigh and stomach, bringing out new noises from the man, funny little gasps and sighs and little one-syllable sounds that weren't really planning on becoming actual words anyways. Tom watched his features, how Mark's face went from a very round mouth to a taut, bit lip; the muscles in his neck and shoulders contracting, expanding with breathing and groaning, reaching and pulling, pushing and holding. He loved this. He loved watching Mark like this. It was gorgeous.

Slowly one of Mark's legs began to hike up on each inward thrust, and so Tom gave Mark a moment to situate and get that leg hooked over his ink-covered shoulder, the little satellite dishes peeking out from behind Mark's knee and the blue and purple arms of the different galaxies so dark against the paler skin of his thigh. His vision blurred for a moment and those little white stars on Tom's arm blinked as if they were real when Tom came down on the next thrust. He yelled out, his back twisting a bit and his other leg squeezing tight around Tom, who paused, exhaling heavily. His head spun. Tom asked if he was alright. He nodded, wriggled around a bit, and then reached for his dick. Tom made a surprised sound that might have been a laugh, and quickly grabbed Mark's wrist, bringing it back up and then down, holding it to the bed. Mark tried again with his other hand, determined. But Tom was also determined, and pinned this arm down as well. In semi-protest Mark bucked his hips, garnering a soft "Ahh!" from Tom and more of a strangled one from himself.

There was a mumbled curse and a quieter groan from behind them. It caught Mark's attention and he turned his head slightly to look over at Pete. Tom grunted and gave a hard thrust, getting a startled cry out of Mark and his attention back on the matter at hand. Or rather, not at hand. The head of his cock was still coming up and rubbing against Tom's stomach, only now the angle was such that a lot of the underside was dragging along too. It was driving him mad, and now he couldn't do anything about it. He was hoping that Tom would take it upon himself to help this. He said something that sounded like other noises he was making and Tom only came out and came in again, even harder. Mark cried his name, his hands clenching into fists and relaxing, fighting to grab at the bedspread, at Tom's own wrists, at anything. Tom only carried on, rocking his hips up and down and pulling out almost all the way to the tip of his dick before driving it back in. Mark grew louder, a mix of addled sounds and Tom, Tom, TomTomTOMTOM.

And then Tom came to a pause--almost all the way out. He watched Mark's eyes widen, squint, blink a few times, and come to rest, staring straight back at him. He looked for anything in those eyes that recognized the reason behind this fucked up evening. And there wasn't. He pushed inward into Mark, slowly, angling himself upwards and fairly sure he was hitting the spot he needed to because Mark keened, tensing and pulling his knees in towards himself. Tom settled in and came forward to close that gap and hold Mark's leg up where it was between their bodies. He continued on in this manner until Mark was nothing but a wailing mass of energy, thrashing against him and pushing back and shaking and wriggling his hips any which way he could. Finally after a thrust that drew all the breath out of Tom, Mark exploded in a spasm, spilling all over Tom's and his own stomach. Tom finally couldn't take it any longer himself, and he let go, shuddering and moaning, burying his face in the crook of Mark's neck.

Mark slowly let his legs relax and as he and Tom lay there, heaving and sighing and coming down off of it all, he worked his arms out from under Tom's and wrapped them around the younger man. Tom, though, had turned his face, and through his heavy-lidded eyes, was watching Pete. The slightest smirk was tugging at the corner of his lips.

Pete stared back at this scene, one hand down his pants and the other in his mouth. He was biting at a knuckle, and he felt a little embarrassed and somewhat disconcerted by the look on Tom's face. Pete swallowed hard and stood, the bulge in his jeans a little too obvious by the way he walked as he left the hotel room quietly and very quickly.

Tom kissed Mark's shoulder and they lay on the bed like that until Tom couldn't stand it any longer and had to pull out. Mark purred something into his ear about vodka and he nodded, guessing earlier that it hadn't been beer and now confirmed.

Among other things.

coffcoffcoff

2009-10-29T09:07:46Z

Title: Expediting
Author: pb_n_jellyfish
Pairing: Gabe/Patrick
Rating: NC-17 for sex and Pete Wentz.
Summary: Can it really?
Disclaimer: Not real, I have nothing you'd want if you sued me.
Author's Notes: HCT '07. Thanks to sleepherealone for the beta and also for the time and overall just being a really awesome sounding board for when I need to just throw things out to see how they work. This is for you, bb boo. ♥ Word count: 1827.

So the whole point of having Patrick stay on the bus with Cobra was to keep him away from the sickbed that was both of the Fall Out Boy buses. That didn't work, though. Halfway through recording a track for the song they were writing about paparazzi, Gabe noticed the kid had been moving a little sluggishly. And when he had to sit back from his Mac, Gabe knew something was off.

"You alright, there?" he asked, moving a pillow on the bed and then moving the computer itself. Patrick didn't even balk at that--usually he was all over anyone who came near the little notebook, always afraid of losing something he was working on with an errant keystroke. Gabe didn't even catch himself doing this until it was already done and there was no reprimand for it.

Patrick only shook his head, rubbing his face a bit and knocking his glasses all over. "I think I'm done for a bit," he said after Gabe stared at him long enough to force the answer.

"For a bit or for a few days? Do I need to let the boss know?"

The tiny singer thought about this thoroughly. "Yeah."

Gabe nodded.

"I should probably hole up in my bus for a while," Patrick added. "Don't want to get you guys sick, now."

"Aw, no, it's okay. We're really good at sharing things around here. Sometimes you got to share the bad things with the awesome things, though. Can't imagine the rest of the show wouldn't be the same. Except Hoppus. Only thing he shares is hand sanitizer." This got a small smile from Patrick.

At the next rest stop, Gabe left the bus for a bit, and came back with Pete. Patrick had reclined against the pile of pillows. Pete approached quietly, unsure if he was asleep or awake, and unsure as well whether or not he should disturb him. He cleared his throat, which made him cough. Patrick's eyes opened and he shifted slightly. Gabe couldn't stop looking at the round little face under the brim of the crooked hat. He felt bad for the kid. Being sick sucks.

Pete climbed onto the bed and wiggled up to his singer, all flailing hoodie and jeans and retarded shoes. "Gabe thinks you should stay here anyways," he said. "And I want to agree. Andy probably wouldn't appreciate getting sick again just as he's getting better."

Patrick nodded.

"Also Joe and I would probably keep you awake with our coughing. I want you to get rest and get better quick."

Patrick nodded again.

A while later, Gabe stepped off the bus after Pete. "Okay, here's the thing," the short bassist said, sniffling loudly and shoving his hands in his pockets and producing a little fucked up wad of Kleenex. "This evening. No singing. Keep the talking to a minimum. Make sure he gets water and sleep. He's got to be able to play day after tomorrow. I'm gonna let staff know but you gotta take care of him."

Gabe kicked a rock. "This one time I brought a sick baby bird home and my mom kind of said the same thing. I don't think Trick will fit in a shoebox though."

"I don't want him in a shoebox."

"I was just saying."

"If he needs anything let me know, we've probably got enough stuff in his and Andy's bus to get him through to the next time we can get to a store, but don't hesitate to get us to pull over for it."

The buses hit the road again and this time the rest of Gabe's band was somewhat up and moving around. He explained to them that Patrick hadn't been feeling well.

Victoria frowned. "I knew he looked a little weird this morning. That sucks." She pulled the curtain on her bunk back a lttle further and looked down into the end of the bus, where she could see Patrick's sneakers hanging off of the edge of the bed.

Gabe nodded. "Okay. So. I'm gonna keep watch back there in case he needs something, he doesn't need to leave the bed or anything. I'm on hand and foot for this little guy. Try to keep it short and important if you need me."

"We'll be here," Alex said from behind his curtain.

Content with the fact that everyone was there for everyone else, Gabe retreated back to the big bedroom-style bunk at the back of the bus, closing the door behind him and taking off his shoes.

On the bed, Patrick made a sound.

"It's me," Gabe replied. "You're sticking with us, little dude. Captain's orders."

"Oh," was the small response.

"Let's get your shoes off and get you under the covers. Gabey'll help you."

"It's only 4:30," Patrick said. And Gabe replied that yes, it was, but that wasn't much to worry about. Shoes were, and shoes needed off. And then hats and glasses were, and Patrick didn't even fight. This was kind of really hard for the tall frontman. He took off his own flannel overshirt and climbed into bed next to Patrick, and he finally felt how flushed the younger man was. It probably would have been a good idea to at least get a temperature reading but it wasn't going to tell anything new. Kid was sick and it was coming on fast.

Gabe hoped it would leave fast, too.

He was ready to start telling Patrick some sort of story when the question was asked suddenly but slowly, "I heard sex can break a fever, is that true?"

Gabe lay there, his mouth open, not sure what to say to that.

"When Pete first was sick he asked me. And then he was like, 'no, nevermind, I don't want you sick too.' I guess that was short-lived."

"Pete doesn't want you talking a whole lot, either, man, you should probably just try to take a nap for a bit now." Gabe wasn't sure if he should laugh or what. The idea of Pete saying this to Patrick... fuck, if that weren't Wentz right there.

"Well, no, like. I'm just curious." He blinked, clearing his throat and sighing.

"I'd imagine it would," Gabe said carefully. "I don't want to say it's better than a 'script or anything."

"You don't have to say that."

Ay dios mio, Gabe thought to himself. But the thought wouldn't leave his mind, either. He looked at Patrick, aware that this kid was anything but innocent, and he fought really hard on how this should be approached.

It was just that... well... those soft little lips.

Finally, he answered. "It might not hurt to see if it would help or anything."

The corners of those soft little lips turned upwards.

"But you can't tell Pete."

Patrick had already started trying to wriggle out of his shirt. "I won't."

"And you can't be loud."

"I'll try."

"No, you can't be loud. Pete said you have to keep your mouth shut."

Patrick stopped, his tired eyes lighting up a bit. "Oh. So."

And then Gabe caught it. "Maybe we shouldn't."

Patrick looked at him pleadingly. Or. At least he hoped it was pleadingly. Because the kid absolutely looked so drained that Gabe couldn't even imagine that he was getting ready to do this for him. Under the covers the short singer's hand searched for his, and Gabe figured it was happening anyways, regardless.

He said he would be content with just a handjob and while Gabe wanted to do so much more to him, at the same time he didn't. Having a very pliant Patrick spread out on his bed, his alabaster skin now slightly pinkish and hot to the touch, the long-limbed man tried his best to keep to the plan. Patrick was doing very well at this, also, forcing his breathing out so slowly and managing to keep quiet. Before too long he was full and filling Gabe's eased grip, and the lube that Gabe had gone with was feeling very warm and slick and good. In each of his own fists was a bit of sheet and clothing and whatever else he could grab to dig his fingertips into whenever Gabe let his thumb come up and circle the head of his dick.

Gabe was getting hard, himself, watching this. Watching Patrick's thighs shake with each downward twist of his wrist, watching Patrick's hips tilt up with each soft pull. Watching Patrick's forearms flex with each minute movement. He really liked the way Patrick was breathing, however. This was so much more intense than the usual hollering and gasping and Gabe couldn't quite get past those lips.

They pursed, and puckered, split open so slightly with exhalation, and the tip of his tongue would stick out every so often to wet them before they came together again. Every so often Patrick would breathe in through his mouth and not his nose, and his bottom lip would come in and be trapped by his teeth. The soft sucking sound from that would almost draw a sound out of Gabe himself.

Eventually Patrick started looking for purchase with his feet on the bed, his back arching up higher and his head tilting back further, his chest expanding, contracting, the muscles in his neck tensing and relaxing. Sweat was shining across the soft curve of his belly and down across his face. Gabe started pumping his hand a little faster now, and tried to match his own breathing to Patrick's. And Patrick managed his rhythm well, even if it sounded a little shaky and he set his jaw with every breath inward now. He shut his eyes tight and was beginning to see little dots of light flashing and fading, and finally on one long drawn-in breath he let go, gasping in and then out.

His back contorted and his arms twisted and he felt Gabe trying to steady his legs and hold him while he came, brilliant heat flooding his system and electricity sparking in each of his sore joints and up his spine and making every nerve tingle and resonate.

His heart was pounding in his ears and he felt Gabe's hands on his thighs, on his arms, and around his face, and then Gabe's voice over that thrum-thrumming sound. "You're so hot right now."

He licked his lips and nodded. Yes, he was, but it felt good.

"You're so hot, I can't, God, Patrick." Gabe's hand rested on Patrick's forehead for a moment, and then brushed away his sweat-soaked bangs. "Hard to say now if it worked."

Slowly his body was relaxing, and he was able to completely feel and hear and see his surroundings again, if a little delayedly. "Maybe Pete was right."

"Maybe."

"Well I feel bad that he missed out, then." Patrick sighed.

Gabe stared at him, shook his head, and relaxed. He was okay with taking care of Patrick this way. It was alright.

durf.

2009-10-17T19:48:29Z

"Do you want me to get this going or do you want to do the honors?"

Mark looked up from where he was sitting. "Fuck you," he said, and then after a moment he asked, "Can't you just burn part of it?"

Tom looked at him earnestly. "And do what with the rest?"

"Well, no, I only meant some. Because we'd need more in case they don't see us and someone else comes along." He got a very skeptical look at this. "Oh, I forgot, you guys don't have to deal with pirates. No political affiliation, I remember now."

"What are you getting at?" Tom turned to him completely, match in hand and ready to set the wreckage on fire.

"Only that in the past two months no one has been responding to wrecks without continuous mayday signals."

The taller man gestured at the little hand-crank radio by the rocks, its cable stretched up and into the nearest tree.

"We have no proof that it's being heard."

"Maybe that's why they're in the vicinity. Look. I'm just asking you if you want to do this or not. It's your ship."

"And I already told you what I want done."

"You're more than welcome to start hacking off what you want to save but you'd better do it quick,, we've got to get something lit before nightfall or before they can't see it," Tom said, suddenly sad that he had to have Mark make this decision. "You know it makes sense, man. We're not getting found without it, and we sure as hell aren't getting back home on it, either. Maybe there's something or someone inland enough to come for us. Maybe that ship will hail them or come for us themselves. And if we need more to burn there's the trees. I'm just not going to try downing any right this minute, it won't help." He looked back out at the craft on the horizon, and then at the Josie, and then back at Mark.

Mark coughed wetly.

"So."

There was a quiet moment where they mostly stared at each other, and Tom could see the gears in Mark's mind shifting, clicking, grinding, as the older man moved his attention to the broken ship covered in lantern oil and ready to be burned. He held his breath as Mark opened his mouth and said, "Hand me the matches."

And when Tom did, he wasn't expecting a punch to the face in return.

Knocked flat to the beach, he lay there for a second. Mark knelt down to meet him, a match in hand and the box in the other. He struck one, let it burn, and blew it out. And did it again. Tom watched in confusion, but by the fourth match burnt he realized what was going on. He grabbed Mark by the shirt and yanked him forward, throwing him off-balance and face first into the sand. Tom scrambled for the matches and the box, and yelling out when Mark began flailing about and kicking him in the arm and shoulder. He wrenched himself just far enough to grab the items, but was mostly stuck right where he was because he couldn't get his back to work the way he needed it to. One of Mark's feet hit him in the head. He started yelling for him to stop.

"Fuck... what the fuck," he said to no one in particular, hands full of wood and sulfur and sand, eyes squeezed shut and breath hitching hard in his chest.

"I hate this," Mark managed to say. "I hate this and I just want to be back home with Travis and our families."

Tom was determined not to let this make him feel like any of it was his fault. Or Mark's, either, really. "We have to do something, Mark. Josie's beyond salvaging. She had a good run but now she's only useful for this. I want to see Travis too. You have no idea."

The older man coughed, wheezed, and sighed, sending sand everywhere. "I do. You were dumb enough to go through the trouble of coming up here in the Siren."

"The Valkyrie can't leave port, she has orders."

"And where was her captain going?"

They fell silent again, breathing roughly and neither one really moving at all. "It hurts, I think," Mark finally said after a while, "because this was us. That ship was us."

"The only thing she's symbolic of now is survival."

"But will we make it?"

"We've got to try."

"Fuck this," Mark said.

**
This whole idea is beginning to look like a running gag type deal. I'm tempted to do more of these and not really let you all have the real version just yet. LOL.

Woah.

2009-10-04T04:46:42Z

Dusting this thing off.

Have a discarded snippet from what I'm currently working on.

Tom opened his eyes the next morning and was surprised to see that the sun was well past the zenith of a normal waking hour. He was also very surprised to find the radio crackling lively, but no Mark. After stretching carefully, he managed to hobble out of the crooked quarters, grabbing at a shirt hanging haphazardly from one of the gear hooks and shrugging into it as he fought the few steps up and out of the boat. He was certain now that his ankle would definitely be okay, but it was quite possible that the pain along his ribs was more than just bruising. There wasn't anything that could be done about that, at least until they made it back. Matt would likely take one look at him and confine him to his quarters on the ship, forget reclaiming post of the vessel through til home port. He came down onto the soft sand from the wreckage, thinking about Jen and his children, and sighing half in frustration and half in pain at putting weight on his left foot without support. What appeared in his sight upon coming around the far end of the boat's remains, however, drew more sudden confusion from him than anything else.

Mark stood on the shore, the waves rolling in and swelling gently at his feet; he had his hands on his hips and he looked very preoccupied by the ocean. Tom couldn't fathom just how preoccupied he'd have to be to be standing there naked, though.

"Good morning," he ventured upon his approach.

"Hello," Mark answered, tilting his head back a bit towards Tom but not really turning his attention from the sea.

"You know, it was hard enough catching fish the past couple of days, right?" And when Mark nodded, Tom continued, "Why are you frightening them back into the currents?"

Mark looked down at himself, and then finally up at Tom, and he smiled. "I don't think eating today will be too much of an issue, honestly. And besides, I don't think the fish would mind at all. They're fish." Tom tried his best to maintain eye contact, so when Mark gestured out to the open water, he only blinked and crossed his arms over his chest. The naked man chuckled and closed the gap between the two of them, pointing back out to sea with one hand and bringing the other up to forcibly turn Tom's head in that direction. There, against a small column of stark white clouds, was the Valkyrie.

"Oh my God," said Tom. He took a few unsteady steps back.

"What, do you think they would mind?"

"Oh my God, you're a dumbass," he replied. Tom hurriedly limped back to the wreck to collect items so he might burn a beacon.

Behind him, Mark laughed and called out, "I love you too, man."

I'm doing Science and I'm ~

2008-06-30T01:59:30Z

"I miss the daytime, Joe," Pete said, his feet idly kicking against the wall.

"You never saw it anyway, before you..." he trailed off, watching the laces of his own shoes fluttering in the light breeze.

"Yeah, pretty much."

The pair sat quietly, watching the white, swollen moon as it passed behind some thick and rain-heavy clouds.

"...It's like something out of the mind of Joel Goddard," Joe finally said after almost a full twenty minutes of silence between the two of them. "What hits me the hardest about it all is that these... these things--" he hesitated, gauging any reaction from Pete before continuing, "these things were once the people who were right there with us. Our friends, man. And how they just changed."

"It's the bloodlust," the hooded shadow next to him said with a soft chuckle. "There are times when I wake up and i have to get out of here before I... well, before one of you..." he trailed off, his feet stopping.

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Not that I would," Pete said quickly. He added, "I'd die first."

Joe frowned at the ground far below them. "We know."

Patrick wanted to punch him.

Pete stared calmly back at his foggy reflection in the mirror; the features of his face were barely discernible, even though he was much, much closer to the glass than his friend. It took a few moments, but he finally spoke again. "I'm serious, 'Trick, I have to go. Beckett's going to kill you."

He was going to fucking punch him.

"I have to."

"William will kill you, too." The mess before him lowered its head, scoffing quietly, spraying a little bit more of the blood on its lips onto the mirror. It reached up a hand and smeared it. "He'll kill you, Pete. And then what will we do?"

"It was my fucking fault, I need to fix it," he replied quietly, rubbing his fingers together before bringing his arm up to wipe at his face with his sleeve. His little empire was collapsing out from under him and the only thing keeping it afloat was Patrick.

At least, that had seemed to be the strategy in the brooding vampire's mind.

And Patrick wanted to fucking punch him for it.

"Oh for fuck's sake, Stump, stop. It's so indignant," William grumbled. "I have news to share with you, first, and all you're worried about is Wentz and Hurley." He eyed the angry hunter before him, waiting for him to calm down before going on.

"Now, before I tell, you, you have to promise me you won't tell Wentz the next time you're within his proximity. I want to be the one to relay the bad news."

Patrick made a face, but laughed a little after a moment. "No amount of bad news from you can shake him now that he knows you've got me, William."

"Surely he won't mind, then, when I tell him about his allies, the Ways, and their little group's unsuccessful endeavor, I should say."

"Oh," Patrick lilted, baiting. He shifted, his arm straining.

"Yes. The Clans are at the end of their era. The Black Parade is dead," the vampire said smugly.

The hunter on the floor stopped his squirming. "Oh."

sorry for the disappearance.

FF50 - .005 Pool

2008-04-06T19:34:19Z

Title: No Lifeguard On Duty
Author: pb_n_jellyfish
Fandom/Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Patrick studied the little sign quietly for a moment, the big red circle with a slash through it a too-late warning for the stick figure already halfway over the too-shallow water.
Disclaimer/Warnings: Fake. Not real. Made up.
Word Count/Author's Notes: 2,360; prompt, word: pool

"I told you to bring your own fucking swim shorts, you ass, I'm not lending you mine. Not that you'd fit in them."

Patrick and Pete lay on the edge of one of the hotel room beds, staring up at the ceiling. Pete's head hurt something terrible, and Patrick's eyes couldn't take anymore melody making on his Macbook, which was settled on the pillows above their head, the screen glowing it's bright bluish light onto everything, casting shadows. The lights of Tallahassee (Pete had asked Patrick how to spell this city's name at least eight times for one of his blogs and he still didn't get it right so he gave up on the entry altogether) tried to reach their window, invited by the open curtains.

Had it not been for the Mac, the room would have had a greenish tint instead.

"That screen would be nothing to pop out or put back in," Pete offered, lacing and unlacing his fingers together and apart repeatedly.

Patrick only felt slightly uncomfortable with the fact that he couldn't keep his lyricist busy and focused enough, but when he heard that, he forced himself to sit up and look sternly at Pete.

"You're not jumping four stories down into the pool, you idiot," he said.

Pete merely grinned--that grin that says, 'You can tell me I won't but that doesn't mean I can't.' And then he began undoing his belt and pants.

"Pete."

He stood up, shimmying out of the tight black jeans, revealing a pair of heather gray boxers with a hot pink bat-heart on one of the legs. Vaguely, Patrick wondered if this was something new for the spring line, and he looked up at Pete in a moderately disapproving way. Laughing at the ridiculous boxers wasn't going to help, it would only encourage. Off went the shirt and the necklace of charms around Pete's neck, and he tossed both of these items into Patrick's lap.

The singer's tone was never concerned enough when it came to Pete, unless he was grabbing him by a shirt collar or a hoodie sleeve and forcefully making him pay attention when it wasn't being given. Patrick frowned, his green-blue eyes darkening as they followed the gray underwear, white socks, and tanned and inked skin across the room to the window. Arms went up to wiggle and pull at the screen-frame, and Patrick finally gave up on trying to use his mind to set Pete's hair on fire, boxers on fire, socks on fire--anything to interrupt the level of determination that had taken hold of the older man.

The resulting "PETE," and its accompanying slap on the shoulder made him pause, though. The bassist faced his friend and smirked. "It's okay, I got this."

"You've got what?"

"The pool is right there--"

"You've got what, Pete?" He stared him down, knowing that he was being the asshole adult to Pete's playful child. Reckless child. And he knew that Pete would probably renege on him for it by doing this anyways. At least, if not doing this, by something like jumping off of a speaker or into the crowd or something. It didn't matter to him, though. All he saw down there was concrete. Concrete and patio furniture. Concrete and patio furniture and a few badly punned newspaper headlines the next morning.

"You're going to get us kicked out of the hotel, please, don't."

“Look, it’ll be okay. If I die you can just tell people that you got pissed off at me for telling you how to write music.”

“Yeah, that’ll go over even better.” The screen made a popping sound and Pete let loose a loud laugh. "Pete," he tried, one more time.

To no avail. Before Patrick could grab him and wrestle him back down into the room, the demon Wentz had left, howling on his way down.

When Patrick had gotten down to the lobby the night porter greeted him with a smile, for the most part obviously unaware of the massive cannonball jump that had sprayed the door to the pool/patio area with water, he had arrived just in time to see Pete do a half-assed backflip off the edge of the pool. When the bassist surfaced, his jet-black hair plastered to his head and then going about a hundred different directions as he shook it, he looked up and seemed genuinely surprised to see Patrick waiting for him against the exit ladder's railing. "Where's your swim trunks?" he asked, paddling over, lazily.

"I didn't come down to swim with you. I wanted to make sure we weren't going to have to talk about your swan dive on our Behind The Music special years from now."

Pete pointed at a sign on the wall to their left. "I jumped feet first, I didn't dive. I'm not that crazy."

Patrick studied the little sign quietly for a moment, the big red circle with a slash through it a too-late warning for the stick figure already halfway over the too-shallow water. He jumped back with a yelp as Pete splashed his pants and shoes. "What the fuck, man?"

Pete simply smiled wider. He cupped his hands together and brought them up against the surface of the water, ready to send another wave at his glaring friend. They stared each other down for almost a minute before Patrick was toeing his sneakers off in resentment. His socks, belt, and jeans came off, too. And then his glasses, and his wristwatch. Pete beckoned with a little, tiny splash up over the edge. He barely had a second to hike up his wandering boxers underwater when Patrick came flying into the pool.

His hat rode the waves until Pete grabbed it, slapping it on his own head as Patrick bobbed up to the surface, exhaling loudly, the longer pieces of his hair sticking to his face. Blinking, he made a grab for his hat, but Pete pushed away, using the wall as leverage and shooting out into the middle of the lit pool.

"Give it," he said, following.

Pete laughed. "Proper swim attire, come on, now. Off with the shirt and I might think about giving you the hat."

Faced with the daunting decision, he figured that as long as he was under the water most of the time it wouldn't matter. "You know, boxers might not be completely legit swim attire," he muttered as he fought with his sodden navy tee. He suddenly wished he could take it back, because the moment he threw the shirt out towards the pile of the rest of his clothes, Pete plunked the hat down on his head and snaked his quick fingers between the elastic band of Patrick's green shorts and his skin.

“You fucker, anyone could be watching!” he hissed, holding his sopping wet hat to his sopping wet head as he turned to face Pete, to wiggle the hands off of his hips. He glanced up at the windows over them, picking out each and every one with open curtains and lights turned on. Towards the very top of the building was the window to their room, the curtains hanging out over the ledge in the dead, humid air.

"And?" Pete's strong, inked arms encircled him tightly, snapping his attention back and holding it. He leaned in close, feeling Patrick tense, feeling the heat of the younger man's flushed face suddenly flower in his grasp. "And if they were?"

Patrick only made a face.

"Too slow," said the lyricist. "It's dark-thirty and I'm fairly sure that whoever is up in this place is not even going to notice this." He pressed them both up against the wall, and delighted for a moment as Patrick wriggled against the slightly raised texture of the tile, their thighs ghosting against each other like shy but curious fish under the water's surface. As Patrick muttered something about the actual time, he leaned his head down and kissed lightly at the pale juncture of shoulder and neck, a little sad that the water smelled so strongly of chlorine, ruining the earlier thoughts of muggy-weather skin and salt he'd had running through his mind at a million miles per hour up in the room, on that bed.

Hot days, sticky nights and damn, but he couldn't wait to get out of this country. West to Biloxi the next day and a show in New Orleans but for tonight it was the panhandle in all it's wonderful summer glory. It made him want to go crawl under the bus but then Patrick had managed to keep him tied to that room.

Even if the air conditioner wasn't all that amazing (Patrick refused to sit around covered in wet towels, so the only other option was to crack the window and let the air circulate better than with the fan alone), the sudden "Oh, hey, listen to this," as they mulled over the selection of DVD's in the wallet case was all too inviting. When it was clear that Patrick meant a track on Garageband instead of simply sitting there allowing Pete to hear him breathe or hear his heart beat to the rhythm of the blinking lights and sounds coming from the laptop, Pete resigned himself to going over lyrics and poetry and blocks of prose and the splitting of a hamburger and fries called up from the restaurant in the lobby that he didn't even notice having eaten until he and Patrick were fighting over the pickle spear.

Patrick made a loud noise in the back of his throat, and Pete came crashing back to the matter at hand--in his hand. "Shh," he warned, with a chuckle, half to sooth his own startled self and half to make sure Patrick's worry wouldn't manifest itself in the form of other hotel patrons or the staff. The singer nodded, lip bit and eyes dark and heavy-lidded, body tense and hands gripping the edge of the pool. There was a few moments of purred coaxing before Patrick gave up against trying to keep his modesty at the top of the list. Legs were brought in close and around, tight, crooks of the knees matching up against hipbones, Pete's hardening cock fitting in just the right place, just the right way.

For now, at least. Wasn't time, yet. No, there was this. This had all the attention at the moment. He needed to make Patrick squirm, wanted so badly to make him sing. Pete was focused now. Movies might have held his attention better than the work had been but this was really all he was sure he wanted to do--watching Patrick's round face in the shadows and lights, the way his nose scrunched and his brows furrowed and the little gasps and 'ohhhoh' sounds now issuing past his lips. God, those lips. Pete gave those a little attention, too. They needed it.

He explored with the fingers of his free hand, which, before that moment had been supporting the humming guitarist at the base of his spine. The low, guttural moan this elicited was louder than Patrick had expected it to be, and he twisted as his hips bucked into Pete's hand, trying to keep away from the touch that dared him to quit the quietude.

The sudden crash of someone throwing a bag of glass into a dumpster not so far away brought Patrick just as suddenly; with a cry that came out silent of it's own accord, he brought his arms up off the edge of the wall and around Pete's neck, his hands grabbing fistfuls of that dark mop of hair... He was worried, but too far gone, far too quick.

Pete gritted his teeth, leaning to try and lessen the pain in his scalp, whispering and shushing into Patrick's ear. His own erection strained against the movement and Patrick's ass as they both came to the wall again.

It was quiet again, save for their breathing; heavy gasps and short, shallow ones shared between them.

"...'Trick," Pete managed after a minute or two of watching his composer try to regain his composure. The grip on his hair loosened, a hand coming down to rest on his neck, the other going down into the water with a light splash.

"'Trick." More urgent.

"What?"

"I think we need to go back to the room now."

Patrick snuffled a bit and sighed. "Okay."

They untangled themselves from each other and made their way out of the pool, tugging at waistbands and sweeping wet hair away from their faces. Patrick picked his pants up and handed to Pete, who didn't bother putting them on, simply wadding them up and hiding himself behind them. He took a moment to gather his thoughts while Patrick put his glasses back on and stuffed everything else into a shoe.

Sheepishly heading past the front desk, leaving a drip trail on the carpet, they waited for an elevator. Pete looked around, wide-eyed. The night porter was on the phone, busy on the computer. Probably taking a reservation or something. Once they were in and the doors slid shut, he attached himself to the soggy singer with a grin that reflected in the shiny doors of the elevator. Patrick lazily pressed the button to their floor and sighed again, happily, kissing one of the many tattoos wrapped over his shoulders and chest. "I told you someone might see us," he said quietly.

"No one did," came the assured reply. "I was just worried about your safety."

Patrick pursed his lips together, confused. "What?"

"There just wasn't a lifeguard on duty. I didn't want anything to happen," Pete purred into his ear, all hot breath and hot tongue. "The sign also said 'No Rough Play.'"

"Oh, huh." Patrick simply grinned, content to let Pete press against him from behind for the moment. They'd get to the room soon, where the only rules they'd have to follow were 'No Smoking' and 'Don't destroy the fucking room this time, Wentz'.

And 'No more window diving', but Pete would be too busy to even have to worry about any of those.

FF50 - 025. Snow

2008-03-25T18:33:10Z

Title: The Prattle of Hoth
Author: pb_n_jellyfish
Pairing: None set yet, but the way it's leaning in a continuing piece, Pete/Patrick.
Rating: PG-13, for mild swearing.
Disclaimer/Warning: Based loosely on real time events, but get a dictionary and look up the word fiction, just to be safe.
Summary: prompt, word: snow.
Author’s Notes: http://www.atomfilms.com/film/battle_hoth.jsp (about 13 or so minutes long but if you like Ken Burns or Star Wars, you'll love this.)

Half-asleep and not quite ready to spend the rest of his day holed up in the hotel, Patrick glared at his eggs. He glared at his coffee, the silverware, the napkins. He glared at the table. He glared at the salt shaker.

They should already be done with breakfast and preparing the last of their personal belongings, ready to head to the airport, bundled up in a ridiculous amount of thermals. He glared at his eggs a little softer than before, suddenly kind of thankful he wouldn't have to sit around in five layers of clothing until the next day.

Pete obviously should have gotten that memo, and Patrick wanted to tell him something, but the guy was busy pouring half the contents of the sugar carafe into his own coffee mug; under his hoodie, the bright little dinosaurs on his terribly blue thermal shirt danced as he moved about, stirring his drink, cracking open his notebook, and uncapping his pen with his big shiny teeth.

Patrick glared at him, and blinked lazily. He wished he hadn't rolled right back over in bed to sleep out the disappointment of that possibility made real by whatever godly or environmental forces that were challenging the Wentz. He made a mental note to call his mom later. Another one to call Travis. And then one to punch Pete in the face for talking him into all of this.

Bob muttered something about the flight he and the others had almost missed the day before, out of Santiago.

James joined the table, declining a menu from the staff in favor of a coffee and a juice, and sitting next to his proclaimed "walking headline"--"Pete, what the hell is up with those eyes, man?"--with a laugh and a handshake.

A loud, wookie-like noise entered his range of immediate hearing. In his line of vision appeared Joe's hair, and then followed by Joe himself, finishing up a menacing yawn. "I lost Andy in the hallway." He grinned. "They say leave no man behind but it's kind of hard when you can't reach the buttons in the elevator because there's a security guard and a bunch of kids in your way."

"You're kidding me," said Bob.

"Yeah. But he doesn't know that. He was the one under the mob." Joe brought a hand up to his chest, emotionally. "He will be remembered as a hero--I'm nominating him for a purple heart."

There was a ripple of laughter and some chuckled curses.

Patrick tried his best to get up and going sociably. It wasn't hard to nod or shake his head when he had a mouthful of eggs, but he'd have to warm up to the delay eventually. Last night had been fun, but there was no prospect of that today after hearing Joe recant his trip to get some ice in the middle of the night, or the sudden flashes of cameras and glows of cellular phones that followed a harried Andy on his way into the restaurant. He watched the kids being forcefully led away by hotel security, munching on his toast in an annoyed manner.

"Why so thoughtful over there?"

Patrick looked up. James' bright smile caught him off-guard, and he knew he had to lay off being a bitch for a bit.

"You know what's great about the extra day?" Everyone paused at this question, posed loudly.

"What's so great?" He reached for a napkin.

"The penguins won't pitch a fit because you postponed."

Cynical and bitter, a little, but for the most part, true. Joe had no qualms laughing about it, even saying he'd have to remember that one for later.

The reporter set down his juice glass and clasped his hands together, signaling a smidgen of business. "So tell me. Snow. I hear it hardly actually snows there."

Patrick leaned back in his seat and set his fork down, clearing his throat and rubbing at an eye. Here we go--try not to sound like a douche.

"Bad weather in Antarctica, go figure."

FF50 - 013. Echo

2008-03-20T22:23:30Z

Title: Echo
Author: pb_n_jellyfish
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: PG-13, for mild swearing.
Disclaimer/Warning: Get a dictionary and look up the word fiction.
Summary: prompt, word: echo.
Author’s Notes: Just something quick.

Who's there?

"Who's there?"

The loud knocking repeated itself, and there was a loud "SHHHH" and some laughter on the other side of the door.

Pete looked up from his notebook as the hotel room door opened, and Patrick stumbled in, card key in hand, Gabe and William's loud laughter lingering down the hallway before the door was shut and it was quiet again.

"Just me," the singer smiled, pushing his glasses up further along his nose and slowly making his way over to the bed Pete wasn't sprawled on. He sat on the edge of it, toeing his shoes off and removing his denim jacket before settling into the tired slump he'd been easing into from the doorway. His cheeks were flushed and his lips parted slightly as he gave a heavy sigh, teetering for a moment, undecided on flopping onto his back or down on his side.

He went for his side.

Pete shifted his position on the bed to mirror Patrick's, except he brought his knees up towards his chest, bringing his socked feet out from under the pile of pillows at the head of his bed. In his other hand, he tapped the pen against the rivets on his belt. "Come to help?"

"Help? Fuck. I came to sleep. I wish you'd have come with us. I probably wouldn't have let them let me drink so much."

"Yeah," Pete said with a sigh. "I just had to do some writing."

"...Writing...?" the younger man asked, though it was obvious. He ran a foot along the side and corner of the nightstand in between the two beds and then poked the alarm clock with a toe. He seemed to be having a difficult time fighting off the need to pass out, because he was very slow in forming his next sentence. "You've been writing since Tampa."

"I took a break in Atlanta."

"Atlanta. That was forever ago. This is Vegas."

"Maybe tomorrow. After the show."

"After the show tomorrow night you'd better come out and do something with us before we get on the road again," he slurred, bringing up a hand and scratching at a sideburn. This knocked his hat off a little.

Pete studied his tired, drunk friend--how the hat seemed ready to fall off the bed as much as Patrick himself did, and how shiny his Batman logo belt buckle was in the light from the lamps over their beds--and then reached to reposition his notebook in front of him.

He'd had this overwhelming urge to just write and write and write. Touring usually did that to him, unless he could stave it off with horseplay. But it was hard to be on the bus with everyone else when all they wanted to do was work most of the time. The new Cobra album would be genius with Patrick helping out, but it just made Pete want to work harder--to keep his own. That kid made his thoughts coherent, and he suspected that his jealous side was afraid of losing that. No one could make his inner dialogues and monologues more beautiful and more meaningful. Not without the connection and understanding.

Not without that voice.

After scribbling for a few quiet minutes, he looked back up and half-expected to see Patrick already asleep.

But those blue eyes were still watching him intently. Contentedly.

"Do you want to read it?" he asked.

"No. Not yet." Patrick smiled warmly. Then he yawned. He sat up and tried to ready himself for bed, in which he got so far as to taking off his jeans and glasses, and haphazardly climbed under the covers. "I want to read it when you're ready," he murmured.

"When I'm ready."

"Yeah."

"Yeah," Pete said, just above a whisper.

Another yawn. "Is there an echo in here? Goodnight."

Pete snorted quietly, running his hand over the ink-covered page, wondering just when he would be ready to share any of this with Patrick. Wondering if Patrick would have any problems setting it to music like some of the other things.

"Goodnight," he said, before returning to his work. He took care to black out a good portion of what was written down with scribbles of ink, watching as the words disappeared, out of rejection and fear of.

Goodnight.

Fic - Untitled.

2008-02-25T04:13:32Z

Title: Untitled.
Author: pb_n_jellyfish
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR. For noodz.
Disclaimer/Warning: HAHA NO. Not real. Sorry.
Summary:
Author’s Notes: Just something quick.

There were plenty of things Pete loved about Patrick.

Like the funny sounds he'd make during a really good make-out and grope session. Or the sounds he'd make when being surprised after just having gotten out of the shower.

"Fuck," he said, recoiling behind the door and slamming it shut at Pete's 'Hey.'

Pete grinned toothily at the ceiling. "There's this song I need to get off of my iPod," he said, his legs dangling off the edge of the bed.

"...Thank you for sharing," was the reply, the guitarist's voice muted slightly by the door.

"But there is. There's this really offensive part--it happens a few times, actually--and it just..."

"An 'offensive part' Pete?" He came out of the bathroom with his composure this time and his towel wrapped tightly around his waist.

"No, no, you see, this part, it's terrible. Awful. It's obscene. Bothers me so much."

"Well, go take it off, then," Patrick said, motioning to the door of the hotel room. He pushed his slightly fogged glasses further up on his nose and blinked as seriously as he could at the pouting bassist laying on his one available set of fresh clothing. "...Pete."

"...You should listen to it, dude." He offered his earbuds up on an outstretched arm. "Dude. Seriously. It's explicit. Even you'd be offended."

Patrick sighed and took the little ear pieces, deciding against an argument about why he'd ever want to hear something Pete was sure would offend him. "Okay, but promise me that after you play this, you get off of my clothes." Pete said nothing, only resuming the paused song on his iPod as the earbuds were put in. To Patrick's complete (though it really shouldn't have been) surprise, Gabe's voice blared at him, and so did his own. And his breathing. It was the chorus to 'Smile.' Out went the buds. "Okay," he said, trying to sound annoyed. "Off."

But Pete didn't move. "Did you hear it? Man, you'd think someone was getting fucked in that sound booth, with all that breathing."

"Ha, ha, Pete."

"It's offensive! Risque! If you weren't being pounded then I'd sure as hell love to do it now, Trick."

In the history of their relationship, they'd had spats. They'd had quarrels. They'd had full out knock-out, drag-down fist fights. But for the first time Pete had found himself staring down the most ridiculously amazing fresh-out-the-shower death glare to ever pass his way, and he was only armed with his teeth and his wit.

Well. Those and his hard-on.

"I'm not afraid of you," he finally said, managing not to laugh it out.

"Of course not," Patrick said evenly. "I'm sopping wet still and dressed in this." He pointed at the towel.

Which, in the blink of an eye, had been yanked off.

"PETE!"

Pete made his quick escape to the top of the bed, the headboard banging against the wall and rattling the nightstand and the lamp on top of it. He grabbed the pillows, ready to defend himself against the punches that he was so sure would be flying his way, but then the edge of the bed creaked, and instead of an angry singer Pete found his fluffy shields being gently pushed aside.

"You've exposed me to some of the craziest shit ever, but this was unforgivably obscene."

"...Like ...how obscene?"

"Like penis-pictures-all-over-the-internet obscene."

"Like shameless-hot-sex obscene? Like you, naked-and-shamelessly-hot-and-sexy obscene?"

"Okay, like that, I guess." Patrick smiled and stole a kiss. "To be completely honest," he said, squirming his hands up Pete's thin shirt and then helping him pull it off in that same moment. "The whole time I was doing the samples for that track... I was thinking of you."

"..W-...wow, if just thinking about me has you making those sounds..."

Patrick laughed.

Pete loved that, too.

Fic - Status Hound

2008-02-16T19:41:02Z

Title: Status Hound
Author: pb_n_jellyfish
Fandom/Pairing: Fall Out Boy - Pete/Patrick
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Pete's misread insistence on the bloomings of a 'puppy love' weren't much of a consolation, and Patrick was tempted to call the whole thing off on the basis that it'd be a 'puppy love--puppy love food' type of mistake.
Disclaimer: This is too soon, but damn, that little dog is nothing but cute.
Warnings: Gay sex. GAY GAY GAY. With a big SEX.
Word Count/Author's Notes: Just a quickie, at the Pete-like, rampant insistence of a friend, for a friend. Un-beta-ed; sorry in advance for any mistakes.

"God, no, Pete, that monster of yours will EAT her."

Pete made a semi-shocked face at the 'monster' laying on his chest and snuffling at his hand as he pet him. "That's the first time I think I've ever heard you talk about him that way. Come on," he drew out into a whine. "I want to see your baby."

On the other end of the phone line, Patrick huffed and hemmed and hawed for a few moments, and he could hear little Penny in the background, her own high-pitched whine just dripping with 'PIK ME UP NAOW DADDEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE'. Or, at least that's how Pete saw it in his head. That dog would be easy fodder for that funny cat-speak site. He wondered if he could get some pictures of her onto his phone and into his blog without Patrick noticing.

"...If I bring her over will you PROMISE to keep an eye on Hemmy?"

There was that leverage, finally! And it only took him an hour! "If I won't, you certainly will be. Besides, I'm pretty sure he'll treat her like a little lady."

Out of the receiver came a pause, then a wail, and then a string of frustrated words that had no place in polite, civilized conversation.

"I didn't mean it like that," he said, barely masking his amusement. Things didn't get better after he burst into a full-blown giggle fit. Hemingway sighed and flopped his big wrinkly head across Pete's chest, unamused.

An hour and a half, offers of extra treats, and a few "Don't make us come over there ourselves"/"I'll change the fucking locks before you fucking get here you fucking bastard"-type exchanges later, Patrick was standing in Pete's living room, looking very perturbed and regretful. Penny sat in the crook of his arm, her little fluffy chest in his hand and her face and chin getting some subconsciously cued rubs and scratches from his fingers.

Hemmy snuffled and licked his big bulldog lips, eager to see what morsel of goodness Patrick had brought him today.

The singer eyed him the way he eyed that hole Joe had made in his bedroom door ages ago. Suspiciously, then angrily. "If he eats her, Pete--"

"I'll get you a new one."

Patrick opened his mouth to protest, backpedaling towards the door.

"I'm kidding! Jesus, you're such a bitch. That dog certainly isn't helping your image, Madame Von Stump. Put her down."

Pete waited a whole five minutes before saying anything else while Patrick got some of his angry faces out of the way. "She has feet, put her down. That dog's gonna develop some serious entropy with you carrying her around like that.... Or you could let me hold her."

"NO. You'll put her down."

"And? Put her down. That way Hem will see she's not a bundle of meat. At most he'll probably see this, and then wander off."

Another thirty minutes later and this is exactly what happened. Except that Penny had followed after Hemmy with a cute little 'yap' and a playful growl. Patrick sat on the couch and did his best not to let the pair out of his site. They went into the kitchen, and the larger dog did not mind in the least that there was this tiny itty-bitty little thing sharing his food with him. Patrick ignored Pete's "Wow" and "He doesn't let Gizmo do that" and "Okay, I told you so".

Until Pete had wrapped his arms around him and forcefully pulled the younger man back, away from the armrest, on top of himself. Patrick flailed at almost losing his hat, at the suddenness of the act, of losing sight of his puppy. Loudly. The dogs in the kitchen didn't even seem to care.

"I think it's safe to assume that if he hasn't eaten her already, Penny will be safe," Pete said, nuzzling his complaining captive's neck. "At least she'll be, long enough for us to fool around a bit." Patrick stopped flailing and took a different approach, worming his way onto his stomach. Pete loosened his grip enough for him to do so, his hands coming down to rest in Patrick's back pockets. He grinned.

Patrick did not. "Fool around. Fool around? In front of the dogs?"

"...Or you know, we could just make out. Dogs lick themselves in front of rooms of people, Trick, I don't think watching us is gonna scar them for life." When this elicited no response, Pete sighed. "That dog is totally gay, dude. Like, if you weren't gay enough before."

"Fuck you." Patrick sighed too, settling and shifting to at least get comfortable. As if laying on the guy like this wasn't enough of an uneasy feeling, what Pete had going on in his pants was definitely the clincher. And suddenly he was determined to lay there on top of it until it got bored and went away.

"...You've got some serious 'It Girl' lips, Trick. The dog cements it all."

"Fuck. You," he said again, but gasped a little when the hands in his back pockets squeezed his ass.

"You may be a whiny little bitch, but at least you're not two-faced like all the other 'It Girls'. Come on," Pete purred, bucking his hips against Patrick slightly. "Put those lips to good use, huh? A dog the size of your cell phone isn't going to raise your status."

There weren't any vicious sounds of his puppy being devoured coming from the kitchen, but that didn't stop him from making a couple of angry faces at Pete before giving in.

The bassist's grin grew wider as his singer sat up and made quick but rough work of getting his god-awfully tight jeans and underwear down past his knees. Refusing to get up off the couch seemed to make Patrick a little more annoyed, but not maliciously so, and Pete hissed and sighed and moaned quietly as he was taken in hand and mouth. He tried unsuccessfully to knock Patrick's hat off-kilter, but the guitarist would have none of that.

He pulled off of Pete slowly, his tongue lingering at the tip of the head, a finger lightly petting along the outline of the bartskull. "Quit touching the fucking hat," he breathed. His other hand sliding up under his shirt and pinching none-too-softly at a nipple.

Pete shuddered, managing a laugh before Patrick was at it again, making his spine curl. He tried to bring his legs ups or wiggle them or just fucking move out of the pure joy of what he was feeling but as they were trapped, it only intensified things. Pete let his head sink against the soft pillows and the cushy armrest under him, and tried to keep his focus off of the blank ceiling and on the show in his lap, Patrick's head bobbing up and down so slowly at times and the sucking so quick and hard that he was sure he was going to die. His hands he tangled in Patrick's shirt; one hand worked it's way up a sleeve and the other down the back of the neck, and he reveled in the soft skin he found underneath the piece of clothing, his short nails barely long enough to scratch along it all.

His reward for this was a loud moan, which brought tears to his own eyes. He left one hand to play against Patrick's neck and brought the other out and up, biting on a knuckle to keep his groaning from becoming an unabashed howl. His back arched up and his head dug further into the throw pillows, and Patrick pulled back, choking a bit, some of Pete on his face and a glistening strand of it hanging from his lips.

He wiped it off with the hem of Pete's shirt.

"Thanks for warning me," he coughed. "You're going to kill me one of these days."

Pete panted, trying to blink away the little bright lights in his vision. "You worry too much." There was a 'yap' from the kitchen that seemed almost to take Pete's side on this one.

"Someone has to." Patrick made to get up off of the couch to go collect his puppy and to find the bathroom and clean up. Pete held him by the waistband of his jeans. "Penny--"

"She's still there. You leave without letting me return the favor and you're a slut. There's rules to being an 'It Girl', you know that."

"Should I?...Do they allow me bending you over the back of the couch and fucking you raw?"

Pete tried to make a serious face. "Fuck me raw? In front of the dogs?"

Fic - If You Don't Know Where You Are

2008-02-05T19:05:04Z

Title: If You Don't Know Where You Are
Author: pb_n_jellyfish
Fandom/Pairing: Fall Out Boy - Pete/Patrick (with a light dash of Pete/Ashlee)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Even the camera crews had begun to wonder what was taking so long.
Disclaimer: HAHA. Based loooooooooooosely on a real event (Pete's guest appearance at Taste Ultra Lounge in Scottsdale, AZ; his arrival was late, and Ashlee didn't show). But for the most part, not real. :C
Warnings: Gay sex. GAY GAY GAY. With a big SEX.
Word Count/Author's Notes: 2070. This was originally for the Blackmail prompt contest over at slashypunkboys but I got very excited and tripped over my own shoes. I'm not sure I'm ready to submit it, and I'm not sure this is ready to be submitted anyway.
Beta: rei_jaganshi, thank you bb.

This was the fucking desert, man. It wasn't supposed to be this cold.

At least, not so cold that the windows would fog up so quick.

"Mr. Wentz, are you all right? We're wondering where you're at. You'd said you were going to be here by eleven," said the voice on the other end of the line. He had trouble comprehending this because of the voice on the other end of his cock. Through the soft, torturous humming being applied to him orally and audibly, he asked the rep to repeat what had been said.

"It's almost time for your set, Pete, we'd like to know where you're at."

"I.. I uh, I think we're lost." He brought a hand up and covered his mouth, holding back a moan that was building up and threatening to escape.

"Yeah," he breathed a moment later, glad it sounded more like he was upset and not like he was getting blown by his best friend.

Patrick gave him a second, taking his mouth away and simply stroking him up and down slowly, watching him talk on the phone. Damn—but his eyes alone were making Pete anxious; forget the fact that his spit-slick penis was in this beautiful guy's well-trained hands.

"Pretty sure that we don't know where we're at," he heard himself say just before he watched Patrick smile, and then go back down on him, this time taking him all the way in. Pete gritted his teeth, his hips bucking up and off of the seat, and he was trying his best not to make a sound; he failed miserably but managed to turn it into an angry panic at the rep over the phone, full of curses.

"Wentz, Wentz--listen, I can't help you out if you don't know where you are. Ask your driver."

"Y-yeah, okay," he muttered, pulling the phone away from his ear and pressing it into the seat back to cover up the sounds Patrick had begun to make the second he had grabbed the younger man's hair in his free hand. He took the opportunity to let a little of his own voice out and was almost surprised at how squeaky he sounded. The back of Patrick's throat was smooth and soft and he thrust with as much constraint as he could muster (he himself had hated inconsiderate jerks who’d tried to fuck a hole into the back of his head), and out of the haze of Pete's sucked-stupid mind he thanked who- or whatever that they wouldn't have any serious gigs for the next couple of days. God, how he'd missed this.

He exhaled sharply and brought the phone back over to his ear.

"—the next stop light.”

Next stoplight? What was the next cross street? When was that next stoplight? He didn't know.

The rep was talking to him again, and as the limo came up on a brightly lit intersection, Pete’s eyes strained to see out the fogged window, and he read "Bethany Home Rd." He repeated it, partly to the rep. What the fuck. What the fuck kind of street name "..is that?" he mumbled, and Patrick paused, pulling away and asking him what was the matter, his breath warm and painfully cold on his cock at the same time. The rep was in his ear again, too. Fuck, he couldn't concentrate at all. He gave a jumbled mess of words to the lounge rep hoping he was saying something logical and not sex-addled, and in return he got a heap of directions he was sure he'd never be able to pass on to his driver correctly, even if he didn't have his favorite person in the whole world attached to him the way he was now.

Didn't matter though.

The call ended with the sound of the rep relaying an ETA to the media crowd accompanied by a few tired cheers at the news. Pete really didn't care at this point; he was trying not to explode before Patrick had gotten him back into his warm mouth. It was bad enough someone had spilled some of their Mojito on his jacket sleeve the night before at the car event; this was supposed to be a two-night outfit. A little wear each evening and a hang-up in between. There would be no dry-cleaners open this late at night—not even a place like NYC had offered one the last time he needed one. And it had been for the very same reason he was trying to avoid now.

"She's going to know," Pete whined. "If you show with me she's going to know I lied to her. That I'd rather spend the night out with my friends. Again."

Not a big deal, but when a bunch of little deals pile up on top of one another, it would certainly create a big deal.

Patrick just smiled up at him from his place between Pete's thighs, his hand moving lazily. "I want to fuck you," he said quietly as the limo rolled to a red light, idling. After a few moments it turned up a ramp onto what he guessed was a freeway.

But as sure as Pete had opened his mouth to decline the request, Patrick had pulled out his own cell phone and waggled it, coming dangerously close to hitting that speed dial button that he had just programmed before the last tour, when Pete had given him Ashlee's number for emergencies.

"Come on now. You might think it's petty, but she's going to throw a shitfit when she figures out that you simply don’t want to be around her. Even for an evening."

This kid was his cricket.

And also his downfall.

Pete wasn't sure how well it would go over in a moving vehicle, but the guitarist had quickly yanked his pants and boxers down the rest of the way from his knees to his ankles and wormed around enough to get in between Pete’s legs again. The bassist struggled slightly, taking his hat off and squirming so his shoulders lay flat against the seat – one foot planted on the floor of the limo and the other wedged against the roof. His feet were just shy of the edge of the seat on the other side of the cab, and he told himself that it was probably better. There was less chance of the driver coming across this than there would have been, had they sat in the first section— and he sighed, coherency coming back to his mind for a few quiet moments, Patrick's hand on the small of his back fitting there like a puzzle piece. Streetlights flew by the windows on either side of him, and he wasn't sure which he'd regret more: being found out on this or being found out on the table service and the extra ticket. After a quick search of the tiny fridge and the fold-out liquor bar turned up nothing useful, Pete pouted as Patrick licked his palm liberally, and gave himself a few good strokes before spitting a little more onto his fingers and readying Pete.

It was always the little things that held Pete close. Forget the fact that this wasn't the first time he and Patrick had done this. Jeez, they’d pretty much fucked each other silly in Paris last week at the insistent "You came to Fashion Week/Europe/here without her." The week before it was the constant "You'd spend more time painting with Travis than with her," being whispered to him over the phone as he'd palm himself off in his pajama pants, lying on the couch, staring at the smattered leftovers of an art orgy. The yellow one in the middle with the blue and white writing staring back at him, the same words whispered in English on the other end of the line as he choked a cry into the pillow and came into his hand, trying not to disturb his guest, rooms away.

Years of the pawing and kissing had made the possibility so obvious that, had everyone discovered the truth, they would most likely implode upon that realization, but since he'd started being serious about Ashlee (as serious as everyone else thought he could be, at least), Patrick had gripped that as tightly as if it were a leash. All things considered it would boil down to him and what he'd let slip, what he'd say or do, and before he knew it, the implied assassination he'd come to fear more than anything would happen.

His cowardly hands clawed softly and jittered madly as Patrick fucked him, slow, but forcefully; the lights along the freeway mimicking and surely becoming the little flashes of pleasure and pain and guilt behind his tightly shut eyelids. The road seemed to go on forever, and while the limo was traveling the same speed, Pete's thoughts were supersonic and colliding with one another as Patrick, unable to contain himself any longer, pulled back, finished, taking Pete's frenzied hand in his own, taking the lyricist’s cock in his mouth again hungrily, eager to finish the job with tongue and fingers, eager to own this tired soul.

Where the hell was all of this going? Any of it? The little lies stayed little but this one... this one was a doozy; and while it may have manifested long before she arrived on his scene, it was a monster now. He should just tell her, but telling her would mean she'd know, and if she knew she might not be able to keep quiet. The Devil knew her father wouldn't, if he found out.

God, but Christmas in Dallas had been a fiasco this year. Had it not been for Chicago—even with her on his arm the whole trip, to the store for the signings, family and friends’ homes… he might not have made it back from the holidays alive. Not even the thought of his own happy little tree at his home. His home away from home.

And that came right back around to Patrick—sweet Patrick.

He brought a hand up to scrub desperately at the side of his cure-muse-demon-vice's face, but the soft and supple skin his fingertips made contact with instead reminded him of the decision that Patrick's other love had endorsed. It hit him, then, that if he said anything it would mean more than his own reputation, that assassination of his own band. And God forbid his own vulnerabilities should affect Patrick that way.

It was an unfair advantage, the way this kid held him together. Held him together when the sky would fall, when the haters would hate, when his own mind would tear him apart. Held him as he did now, his spine arching and his moans muffled in his arms as he had them crossed over his face, his self being swallowed.

The ride down Shea—Avenue? Boulevard? He didn't fucking know—was quiet save for the shuffling, straightening, and constant checking of his own clothes. Patrick didn't seem worried about his own outfit; he just stared out the darkly tinted windows as they pulled into the little square, into the parking lot, into the nightlife of Scottsdale. Pete's irking curiosity was finally justified when he wound up getting out of the limo alone.

The question on all the reporters' lips was Ashlee. The flashing bulbs scrutinized him, his disheveled outfit, his worn-out face. As he artfully dodged the attention (give him happy fans over clicking lenses any day) and made his way towards the lounge reps ushering him quickly towards the door, he glanced back at the limo.

Patrick was right. She wouldn't know about the little lie he'd told to keep her from coming tonight. That extra ticket for the table service would go unused, as he’d planned. Where in the hell is all this going? he wondered as he faked smiles and faked enthusiasm, putting the headphones on and playing with the system dials, he himself going back to his own thoughts. Back to his own fears. Back to his own darkness that always came with knowing he'd messed up big time, again, and there was no real way to fix it. Knowing that he'd been here before. Always knowing the way there.

This was his fucking desert, man. And it wasn't supposed to be this cold, either.

pb_n_jellyfish @ 2008-02-01T18:33:00

2008-02-02T01:34:05Z

Well, hello.