(no subject)

[turps]

I've just seen this on crowgirl13's journal and it looks fun.

For those unfamiliar, first you pick a letter. Then you pick a fandom (or a crossover) and a character or pairing. For example, H is for Hug, Michael/Pam (The Office). In turn you'll receive a drabble/ficlet of some kind.

Fandoms: I think you should all know what I write by now, if you don't, ask.

A is for: A is for Awkward, (*NSYNC/MCR) JC/Mikey Fuckin' Way musicboxgirl -- here
B is for: B is for bondage Justin/JC rikes -- here
C is for: C is for Collar(ed), (Patd) Spencer/Brendon castalie - here
D is for: D is for Do' Minos Mikey/Frank. sperrywink - here
E is for: E is for Ecstasy, Bert/Gerard turloughishere -- here
F is for: Fresh (minty ) Lance/Brendon crazybutsound -- here
G is for: G is for Gazelle, Bob/Frank/Gerard! turloughishere -- here
H is for: H is for Hot, Chris&Nick indicinderelly -- here
I is for: Ink Bob/Gerard crowgirl13 - here.
J is for: J is for Jumble, Mikey/Frank crowsgirl13 -- here
K is for: K is for Kink, (*NSYNC/MCR) Lance/Gerard musicboxgirl -- here
L is for: Lingering Letterboys trumpeterofdoom -- here
M is for: M is for Manicures, Brian/Kevin nopseud - here
N is for: N is for Nigels 11, TrickC musiclover03 -- here
O is for: Oral Ray/Bob llumi -- here
P is for: P is for Pot, Frank/Ray. maryangel200 -- here
Q is for: Q is for Quilt, Bob/Mikey. arsenicjade -- done
R is for: R is for Right, Justin&Chris indicinderelly -- here
S is for: S is for Snuggling (Patd), Brendon - the band castalie - here
T is for: T is for Tea, Howie/Nick ravenbat -- here
U is for: U is for Unrequited Bob/Lance. from Bob's POV. msktrnanny -- here
V is for: V is for Vacation, Mikey/Pete abelbell -- here
W is for: W is obviously for Frank/Gerard wanking greedy_dancer -- here
X is for: X is for xylophone! Bob/Spencer. themoononastick -- here
Y is for: Y is for yell Brendon and Mikey emmytie -- here
Z is for: z is for zill (finger cymbals used by bellydancers), chris/justin kira_j -- here

Comments

[nopseud]

F is for Fingering! Brian/Kevin!

[turps33.livejournal.com]

HA! I'm writing fingering right now elsewhere. I may have to file off names ;)

[castalie.livejournal.com]

So do we really have to just pick 'a' letter? Cause I wouldn't mind going for two - two isn't 'too many' letters, right?

C is for Collar(ed), (Patd) Spencer/Brendon and S is for Snuggling (Patd), Brendon - the band

[turps33.livejournal.com]

I tell you. It's good I like you so much.

I suspect the snuggles will get done first though *g*

[kira-j.livejournal.com]

z is for zill (finger cymbals used by bellydancers), chris/justin (pop!)

[turps33.livejournal.com]

Here you go. Thank you for an excellent prompt <3


"You're really doing this?" Chris asks. He picks up the zills, slipping them onto his fingers. "You're seriously going to walk out of here looking like that?"

"I'm embracing cultural and gender differences," Justin says.

"You're dressing up in skirt and jeweled bra,'" Chris says. "The only difference being celebrated is the fact you're cracked in the head."

"It's a traditional costume." Justin says. "One that shows I have an appreciation for all of our fans."

"Because singing and dancing for them isn't appreciation enough." Chris chimes the zills, watching as Justin stuffs his Jewelled bra with socks. "That sure looks natural."

"Fuck you," Justin says. He rearranges a sock and pulls at the material of the bra, tugging his fake breasts into place. "It's not like anyone will be getting up close."

"No shit," Chris says. "When they see you coming dressed like that they'll run a mile."

Justin frowns and holds out his skirt, swishing it around his hips as he tests the staying power of his boobs. Satisfied, he shimmies and attempts to move his stomach like he'd seen in the video.

"This has to be one of the most ridiculous things I've seen," Chris says. He's tilted his head to one side, keeps watching as Justin dances across the room. "You could have dressed as a male belly dancer, I'm sure they have them."

"But I wouldn't be embracing my femininity then," Justin says.

"Believe me, you're not doing that now," Chris points out. "You're Justin Timberlake in a skirt, and that's fucking disturbing."

"I like it," Justin says with a fierce shimmie. He looks at Chris, making direct eye contact. "I can also do this..."

"Oh," Chris says. His voice rising when Justin hitches up his skirt and sits on Chris' lap.

Justin leans forward and whispers in Chris' ear. "I'm not wearing underwear."

"Slut," Chris says, and slides his hands over Justin's thighs. "What time's your party start?"

Justin nips Chris' ear lobe, says, "What party?"

[sperrywink]

D is for Do' Minos Mikey/Frank. Hee!

[turps33.livejournal.com]

Of course it is!

"Do' Minos. Seriously?" Frank says, and looks over the top of his laptop screen. "That shit works for you?"

"Every time." Mikey gestures with his slushee cup, pointing the straw toward Frank. "One mention of my exotic taste buds and they're falling at my feet."

"Right, your exotic taste buds," Frank says, raising an eyebrow. "It's nothing to do with you being in a successful band."

"Are you suggesting I'm only wanted for my money?" Mikey says, his cheeks hollowing as he slurps up the last of his drink.

Frank pushes his laptop aside and sprawls out, head resting against the back of the sofa as he watches Mikey throw the empty cup toward the trash can, and miss completely. "Well it's not for your sporting prowess."

Mikey flops down next to Frank, slumping down and waving his hand in a lazy gesture. "The inhabitants of Planet Awesome shy away from sports involving baskets."

"The inhabitants of Planet Awesome are delusional," Frank says, grinning.

"No, we just know our strengths." Mikey says, and he smiles then, the slightest curl of his mouth. "I was thinking, do you want to order in? I know this great Italian restaurant."

Frank bites back his smile, says, "It sounds authentic."

"It is." Mikey slumps further to the side until he's resting almost completely against Frank. "It's a surprise every time."

"How could I resist?"

"You can't," Mikey says. "I told you, it's a sure thing."

Moving so he can rest his arm around Mikey's shoulders, Frank smiles, says, "You're a smooth operator, Mikey Way."

Mikey gives a thumbs up in reply.

[trumpeterofdoom.livejournal.com]

I thought of a really good one for J until I realised that it was one of the words that usually would make me go I'm-never-reading-your-stuff-if-you-use-that-word seriously. So. L is for Lingering Letterboys. :D

[turps33.livejournal.com]

You were going to use Jizz, weren't you? *g*

Hope this hits the spot <3

JC's splayed out in the middle of the bed, arms and legs outstretched, taking up most of the available room. It means AJ has about an inch of space, his ass hanging over the mattress, but he doesn't mind, it gives him an excuse to cling on, his arm across JC's chest. "Hey," AJ says, when JC stirs, yawning before he even opens his eyes. "I need to go."

"It's the middle of the night," JC says, his voice rough and his hand over his face. "Sleep."

"Can't," AJ says, and JC rolls over, his arm snaking over AJ's back, trapping him in place.

"Can't move now," JC says, still more asleep than awake.

AJ lies perfectly still, lying against JC's body. It's a good feeling, JC's warm and just there, his face relaxed and a line from the pillow pressed into his cheek. AJ runs his finger along the line, smiling when JC irritably bats at his hand.

"I've got to catch my flight."

JC opens his eyes the tiniest of amounts, peering through his lashes. "Stay, you've time."

"I really don't," AJ says. He turns his wrist, looking at his watch. "I have to be there in two hours."

"Plenty of time," JC says, and kisses AJ's mouth, a lingering press of his lips. He pulls back, so close they're sharing the same air. "Stay a while."

"For a little bit," AJ says, and closes his eyes.

[maryangel200.livejournal.com]

P is for Pot, Frank/Ray.

[turps33.livejournal.com]

I have no idea about this, so I really hope it makes sense.

Frank heads into the utility room and grabs his bong, the cheap one that reminds him of countless nights back in Jersey, too many people crowded in too small of a room. Other supplies next and over the years his mental list has been perfected so it doesn't take long to gather a lighter, the good weed, a huge assortment of munchable snacks. He piles everything on the low coffee table, pushing aside Jamia's magazines and a well-chewed dog toy, the rope wet through with spit.

The packet of Cheetos falls to the ground and immediately Mikey grabs the bag, pulling it open and taking a handful of the chips. Orange dust falls on his t-shirt and he tries to wipe it off while trying to fend off Bob who's intent on taking the bag. In the end he grabs it from Mikey's hand, looking victorious as he tucks it between his knees.

"Chip stealing bastard," Mikey says, but he's leaning back against the sofa, looking amused as Frank packs the bowl and takes the first hit.

He's done this hundreds of times now and he can never predict the results. It's part of the process that Frank loves and he inhales, drawing the smoke into his lungs and keeping it there until he exhales with a long breath. Eyelids heavy, Frank leans against the table, watching as Ray moves forward, ready to take his own hit. Frank blinks, chin propped on his hand and tilts his head, needing the perfect angle to see, because Ray's mouth always looks fucking obscene.

"Jesus fuck, could we do this once without the commentary about Ray's cock sucking lips?" Bob says, and waves his hand in front of Frank's face. "Quit it."

"You're just jealous," Frank says, torn between watching Ray and the way Bob's fingers sail through the air, like a bunch of pale sausages in free flight.

"Yeah, that's it exactly," Bob says, and moves forward as Ray sits back, last wisps of smoke escaping his mouth.

"That is so fucking hot." Frank launches himself forward and grabs hold of Ray's shoulders, holding on as he presses their mouths together -- hard. Ray's mouth tastes of smoke, the distinct taste of weed, and Frank needs more, runs his tongue over Ray's bottom lip and pushes into his mouth before pulling back slightly. "So fucking hot."

"Are you done?" Bob asks, looking between Frank and the window.

Frank squirms until he's sitting in Ray's lap, says, "For now," already giggling at the feel of Ray's laughter and the gust of breath close to his ear.

"Good," Bob says, and looks over his shoulder toward the front door. "You locked it, right?"

"I did." Frank leans back against Ray, feeling heavy and sleepy, looks up and says, "You have amazing lips."

Ray beams, his teeth white and his lips amazing. "Thank you," and presses a kiss against the top of Frank's head as the watch Mikey crawl to the table.

[musicboxgirl.livejournal.com]

Oh! OH OH OH! *raises hand* A is for Awkward, (*NSYNC/MCR) JC/Mikey Fuckin' Way
OMGPLZ!!1

[turps33.livejournal.com]

I think I'm a little bit in love with you right now.

[rikes]

I'm feeling mean today.

B is for Bondage, GUESS THE PAIRING.

:D

[turps33.livejournal.com]

Here you go :D

"Seriously, you're a moron. A grade A, idiotic, brain-dead moron."

"Well, excuse me Mr I'm just going to glue some sparkles on my pants. It wasn't me that got superglue all over." Justin pulls back his hand, apparently needing gestures to emphasize his indignation. Except he jerks JC forward too, and they both stagger slightly in place.

"I told you, stop doing that." JC takes a step to the side, and tightens his fingers around Justin's when something crunches. "Tell me I didn't stand on the sequin tub."

Justin looks down, at the silver sequins that are spread over the floor, surrounding the remains of a plastic tub. "There may have been some spillage."

"I hate you," JC says, and lifts his foot, sequins falling from it like silver rain. "I hate you more than I hate... I hate..."

"Boiled cabbage?" Justin suggests. "Math homework? Liver?"

"More than that. I hate you more than I hate those stupid shirts with the poppers at the crotch."

"Whoa, that's harsh," Justin says. He steps back too, so they're standing at arms length. "Especially for something that wasn't my fault."

"Oh no." JC shakes his head. "Don't even try with the pout. I'm immune. It doesn't work with me." He looks away, before he caves to the powerful force of Justin's perfectly pouted bottom lip. "We need to find something to get us free. I'm not spending my life stuck to you."

"There's worse people to be stuck with," Justin says. He heads for the door, sequins crunching under his feet. "Imagine if you were stuck to Chris."

JC shudders, because really, fate worse than death. "I'd swap you for Joey."

"No man, you'd like, have to join in with his jerking off sessions, that's kinda gross."

"As opposed to joining in with yours, you mean?" JC says.

Justin grins wide. "You know you like to touch the Timberlake dick."

"I know I'm scarred right now," JC says. "The Timberlake dick. Really?"

"Perfection needs a name, and Justin was taken." Justin grins even wider, his laughter barely hidden. "I got a quarter stuck on my nose once, mom got it off with nail polish remover."

"Why did you..." JC stops speaking. "Never mind, I don't want to know.

Sure? It's a good story." Thankfully Justin doesn't press the issue, just keeps pulling JC forward. "Mom's got some in her bag."

"Wait." JC stops moving, wincing when Justin doesn't. "You want me to go outside? Into the corridor, where people could see."

"Well I'd go myself, but." Justin holds up their joined hands and waves them, despite JC's frown. "It's only next door."

"Right, fine," JC says, resigned. Waiting as Justin opens the door and looks outside.

"The coast's clear," Justin says, and then darts out, dragging JC behind him.

Surprisingly they get to Justin and Lynn's room undetected, Justin even has his key and Lynn's nowhere to be seen. Which is good, because JC feels stupid enough as it is.

"She keeps it in her washbag," Justin says, pointing at Lynn's case. "The small pink one, it should be at the bottom."

"Right," JC says, and they approach the case, Justin flipping it open, revealing the neatly packed clothes, and at the very bottom, the pink bag. Eager to be free, JC starts pushing clothes aside.

"Hi boys." The sound of the door closing, footsteps, and then. "What are you doing?!"

Abruptly, JC jerks back, flushing red, trying to think of an explanation about why he was pawing through Lynn's clothes. He looks at Justin, hisses. "I hate you."

Justin grins. "I know."

[crowgirl13.livejournal.com]

It's a lot of fun, isn't it? :D

I is for Ink, Bob/Gerard

[turps33.livejournal.com]

It is fun :)

Here you go. I hope it's sort of what you were after.


The rails wobble slightly as Bob sits, his legs dangling over the side of the ferry. He's wearing tan boots and the black laces trail toward the water, one side longer than the other. The toes of his boots turn dark with the splash of the waves. "We're running out of water."

Gerard's arms are crossed on the rails, rust flaking against his skin. He's got his cheek resting against his forearm and his lips are gritty with salt, he licks across them, looks down at Bob's feet next to his own. "How long?"

"Enough for a day, maybe less."

It's what Gerard expected. The cases of water are long gone and the two tanks deep in the hull of the Jesse May are emptying fast, even with the rationing they all carefully observe. It was inevitable they'd need more and Gerard looks toward shore and thinks about finding water, more cases of the bottled kind or rigging up some kind of hose so they can refill the tanks.

"Captain says there's a river three hours east, it'll be easier to get supplies inland."

It's also more dangerous inland, but that's left unsaid. Gerard digs his thumbnail under a flake of rust and watches it float toward the ocean, a speck of red swallowed by angry dark blue.

"We should make a list," Gerard says. "There's other things we need."

Bob's nose is red and his hair is tangled, salt crusted strands pulled back with a scrap of material. "I'd hand over my bank balance for sunblock and some fucking clippers."

"Coffee for me, the good shit," Gerard says. He half closes his eyes and looks up at the sky, at the red-tinged clouds and bright sun, black smoke like swirling ribbons of ink. "We need to find a pharmacy."

"Yeah," Bob says, a long pause and then. "He still awake?"

"He was when I left."

"Fuck," Bob says, and he doesn't move when they hit a large wave, water soaking the bottom of his jeans.

Gerard's tired and he lets his eyes close, opens them and stares down at the ocean, listening to the splash of waves against the hull. "We should tell Captain to make for the river."

"Okay," Bob says.

~*~*~*~

It's weeks since they've been so close to land.

They sail past docks and buildings, their windows broken, dark spaces surrounded by jagged shards. Some of the docks are splintered, planks of wood sagging or fully collapsed into the brackish water, the wood covered in creeping black slime. There's a body trapped under the nearest dock, bloated, one puffed up hand jammed between the slats as if they died holding on .Gerard stands still, his thighs pressed against the metal bars of the railings, the cold bleeding through his sweat pants as he watches. He swallows hard and looks away.

"You shouldn't be out here alone," Mikey says, he's huddled inside one of his hoodies, his shoulders pulled in and hands tucked into the pocket. He hasn't slept for days and the shadows under his eyes are easily visible despite the veil of hair that falls forward over his face.

"I'm not alone." Gerard tilts his chin up at Captain who's in the small navigational room at the top of the ferry. It's where he keeps watch, his hat pulled low as he keeps them away from shore.

"He couldn't help in time." Mikey notices the corpse and steps forward, against the railings and close to the edge, his toes hanging off into space, says, "Ever think it's better that way?"

"No," Gerard says, skin prickling with all too familiar fear. "We don't give up."

"Maybe that's not our choice?" Mikey says, turning his head, tracking the body they're leaving behind.

"Our choice is to keep fighting," Gerard says, and he clenches his hands against the need to grab Mikey and shake him.

"I'm trying," Mikey says, and he blinks and looks at Gerard. "Matt's made breakfast."

"Right, good," Gerard says. "You're coming in to eat?"

"In a minute." Mikey brings his hands out of his pockets and flips open his phone.

Gerard nods and turns away, heads inside as Mikey dials, says, Alicia, are you there? It's Mikey.

She won't answer.

She never does.

[indicinderelly.livejournal.com]

H is for Hot, Chris&Nick?

R is for Right, Justin&Chris?

[turps33.livejournal.com]

First one :)

"You know what would be hot?" Nick says. "If I pissed on your back."

Holding a plate under the water, Chris rinses it off then picks up the next, says, "You know what else would be hot? Your ass when I kicked it."

Nick grins, crouching as he takes the plates and stacks them in the dishwasher. "That's not how spanking goes. Now if you want me bare assed over your knee, then you're talking."

Chris turns off the water and picks up a dishcloth, swiping the crumbs on the counter onto his hand. "I suppose you want to call me daddy, too."

"I could," Nick says. He stands and shuts the dishwasher door, frowning a little as he peers at the dial. "What setting do we use? And master would be better."

"Setting six," Chris says, considering. "And master is good I guess, as long as I can order you around and use your naked body as a foot rest."

"Sounds kinda boring." Nick turns the dial. "Maybe something more active. I'd look good naked with a pony tail."

"On your head or in your ass?"

"My ass of course, I was thinking something light to match my hair." Nick looks over his shoulder as he sways his ass. "I could work a pony tail."

"You could," Chris agrees. "Does that mean I get to feed you oats?"

"If they're on top of a pizza, I guess." He steps behind Chris, palming his ass. "You'd look good with a tail."

Chris shakes his head. "Not in this lifetime."

Nick shakes his head sadly. "You need to embrace your kink."

"My kink's been embraced, squeezed hard then pulped,"Chris says. He walks to the fridge, opens the door and grabs a carton of milk. "Hot chocolate?"

Nick moves so he's behind Chris, pulls him back into a hug and holds on, says, "Sure."

[musiclover03.livejournal.com]

N is for Nigels 11, TrickC

[turps33.livejournal.com]

I hope you like, honey.

It's strange, just the two of them. The sound of the ocean, a solitary kite high overhead, dipping and swooping in the breeze. JC squints his eyes, follows the faint line of the string to the small boy that holds it, looking to the sky and laughing as he runs across the sand.

"Does it feel different," JC asks. He turns back to Chris, looks at him across the table -- half empty glasses of water, a sandwich ripped apart on a plate.

"You need to be more specific," Chris says, his expression set behind his sunglasses, the lenses large and dark, covering half of his face.

JC bites back his irritation, refusing to play this particular game. "Performing with Nigels 11."

"I'm still singing, just not at the back." Chris picks up his glass and takes a long drink, sets it back down and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. "It's not a big deal."

"Saying that doesn't make it true." A flash of colour in the sky and JC looks up, sees the kite plummeting toward the ground. The boy starts winding the string, walking slowly forward. The tail of the kite flutters, wanting to be free of the sand.

"It does if it's the truth."

The boy picks up his kite and holds it in the air. He begins to run. JC keeps watching, says, "It should matter."

"I never said it didn't," Chris says. "I said the differences aren't a big deal."

JC shades his eyes against the sun. "You sound good as a front man."

"I know." Chris grins, then says hesitantly, "Some things do feel different."

"Yeah?"

"Not the singing, I'd do that anywhere." Chris takes off his sunglasses and hooks them over his t-shirt. "The guys are awesome, the best, but...."

"They're not the band you need," JC finishes, his stomach twisting as Chris doesn't reply, just stands.

"Do you know how to fly kites?"

"Sort of," JC says, standing too. "You hold it up and run, yeah?"

"I guess." Chris looks toward the beach, at the kite flying high in the sky. "Want to find out?"

JC smiles, says, "Sure."

[msktrnanny.livejournal.com]

if I have the idea correctly:

U is for Unrequited Bob/Lance. from Bob's POV.

[turps33.livejournal.com]

You threw me with this one *g*

Hope it works a little.

"I don't understand the attraction," Frank says, thumping onto the sofa, making Bob grab for his laptop before it slides off his knee onto the floor. "You've met him once and he brushed you off."

"It wasn't a brush-off." Bob jabs his finger at a button, minimizing the screen of Google image results. "He was perfectly polite."

"Oh, right, I forgot, he had to go back to his friends." Frank turns, sitting sideways, one foot jammed against Bob's thigh. "His friends, the assholes who hang around hoping for second hand fame, and it's not like he's even that famous. C level at best."

"Frank, shut up. You weren't there."

"I didn't have to be." Frank scowls, says. "Ray told me all about it, fucking boyband has been, he wouldn't know a good thing if it bit him."

"Seriously, stop." Bob shuts his laptop and sets it safely to one side. "I liked him."

"But he didn't like you."

Bob shrugs. "I'm a big boy, I know everyone in the world doesn't like me."

"Well they should." Frank stands, glaring down at Bob, before turning and stalking away. "Lance fucking Bass, he'd be so lucky."

Bob watches him go, listens to the sound of his footsteps and the slam of a door, then picks up his laptop again.

[ravenbat.livejournal.com]

T is for Tea, Howie/Nick (though if that pairing irks you, you can change it to JC/Nick)

[turps33.livejournal.com]

Hope you like, honey.

"I bought you something," Nick says. He shifts awkwardly in place, his hands behind his back. "It's not much, just, I saw, and I thought..."

"Thank you," Howie says.

"You don't even know what it is." Nick frowns slightly. "What if I'd like, bought you a rubber snake?"

"It would still be a gift from you, I'd say thanks."

"Even if it's something you didn't want?" Nick asks, remembering pushed aside gifts and perfunctory smiles.

"Even then." Howie holds out his hand. "Well, do I have to wait all day?"

Nick brings around his hand, displaying a small blue box. "I was going to that shop we saw, you know, the one with the cool computer games and there was this tea shop. It had, like, all these loose teas and I know you like it."

"I do," Howie says, smiling as he takes the box. He pulls back the sticker that secures the paper, unwrapping it to look inside. "It smells delicious."

"I don't know if it's the right kind, they said it was a popular blend, but if you don't like I can take it back, it's no problem...."

"Nick," Howie interrupts. "It's perfect."

[themoononastick]

X is for xylophone! Bob/Spencer.

[turps33.livejournal.com]

Here you go. I hope it hits the spot. Thank you for the awesome prompt <3

"It's a xylophone," Spencer says, and bangs the stick against one of the bars, wanting to emphasis his disgust. Except this is a fucking xylophone and they don't do emphasis, all they do is a stupid ringing note that seem to go on and on and on. "You get to drum and I get this."

"There's only room for one kit," Bob says, obviously not caring about Spencer's xylophone induced pain. "If you're that bothered go bitch at Ryan, he's the one who wanted this collaboration."

"At least you're not stuck with a fucking tambourine, again." Mikey trudges past, a tambourine held loosely in one hand. "Every time, every fucking time. Give Mikey the tambourine. It's not like he plays anything else."

Spencer rests his stick -- beater -- whatever, against the bars of the xylophone, watching as Mikey settles himself on a riser, dejection seeming to roll from him in waves. "He must really hate the tambourine."

"He'll get over it," Bob says shortly, as if he doesn't keep glancing over while adjusting his kit. "And it looks like he's going to get help."

Spencer follows Bob's gaze and sees Brendon, who's carrying his own tambourine, which, unlike Mikey's, has trailing red ribbons attached to one side. "Brendon loves the tambourine."

"Yeah?" Bob watches as Brendon sits next to Mikey and immediately starts talking, each hand gesture accompanied by a chink of sound.

Spencer watches too, only turning away when Mikey smiles, more Ryan style than anything, but still, it's there.

"You know, evidence to the contrary, Mikey's quite capable of holding a conversation."

Which is something Spencer knows, it's just, Brendon. Spencer's not about to stand by and watch him get mocked or crushed by anyone, no matter how harmless they seem.

"He's not an asshole either, relax."

"I am," Spencer says, and makes a conscious effort to stop watching, turning his attention to Bob. "I'm the most relaxed fucking xylophone player in the world," and to prove it, Spencer plays a forceful tune, more random notes than any actual song.

"Impressive," Bob says, and picks up the rhythm, beating it out on his drums. "You should show Ross, xylophones can be Panic's next big concept."

"Fuck you," Spencer says sweetly, taking Bob's rhythm and making it more, faster, his hands a blur as he beats at the bars.

Bob stops playing with one last crash of sound, hands and sticks held on top of his drum. "Pity, you look good playing that."

"If you mean stupid, yeah." Spencer puts down his own sticks. "If you like them so much you should have them, let me play drums."

"In your dreams," Bob says, and he slides out from behind his kit. "How about I take you for coffee instead? If we go now we'll tragically miss the wardrobe meeting."

"That is tragic," Spencer says. "Almost as much as you using me as an excuse for an escape."

"Partially," Bob agrees, and he steps closer and rests his hand against Spencer's arm, the briefest of touch. "Mostly it's me making a move."

"That's forward of you." Spencer smiles, says, "Let's go."

[musicboxgirl.livejournal.com]

If I can play again then:

K is for Kink, (*NSYNC/MCR) Lance/Gerard


LANARD!

[turps33.livejournal.com]

Of course it's okay to play again. I hope this works for you, honey.

Lance bumps into Gerard on a sunny Sunday afternoon.

It's the kind of day for lounging on the beach or hanging with friends, bottle of wine at hand as they sit on the patio and shelter under giant red umbrellas. Instead Lance is wandering an art gallery, pretending to be interested in sculptured glass nudes and pictures composed of penises and breasts. If it wasn't for the exposure, the constant need for precious column inches, Lance would have left hours before. As it is he's about to leave -- paps and publicity be damned -- when he sees Gerard.

Not that Lance knows him to talk to, but he knows of him, which is enough that Lance makes his excuses to the overly attentive guide and heads for the other side of the room.

"You thinking of buying?"

Gerard doesn't turn around, just keeps looking at the display, hundreds of Polaroids strung together with delicate chains, each picture showing somebody fucking -- gay and straight and in one, what seems like the back of a goat. "I don't know, it's a little pedestrian."

"Pedestrian, right," Lance says, and steps closer, so he's standing side-by-side with Gerard. "You've seen the goat?"

"Yeah." Gerard tilts his head. "It needs more, they should have gone for a overall theme."

"What, like zombies and fake blood?"

"A little obvious, but yeah." Gerard does turn then, seemingly surprised when he sees who's there. "You're...you're, that guy." He runs his hands through his hair and stares at Lance. "Give me a minute. Mikey mentioned you once, something Pete said, about Ryan and his first crush. Oh my god, I know this." He closes his eyes, then opens them again. "That's it! You're a backstreet boy."

Lance grins, says, "Close."

Gerard smiles in return and shoves his hands in the pockets of his jean jacket. "So what do you think of the exhibition?"

Lance thinks about faking enthusiasm, knowing Gerard's into art, but the fact is, there's no point in lying. "Not much, kinks only fun when you're actually involved."

"Now that's a great concept," Gerard says, grinning over at Lance. "Interactive kink displays. You could have S&M sessions and 'insert the dildo' hands on displays."

"Progressive," Lance says. "And probably highly illegal."

"Pity, it would have been good shit," Gerard says, then pulls his phone out of his pocket when it begins to insistently buzz. He flips up the screen, reading a message. "I need to run, we're recording and I only came for a coffee run."

"Pity." Lance walks with Gerard, heading toward the exit. "I was enjoying our talk."

"Yeah," Gerard says, and suddenly pulls out a pen from his pocket and takes a program off one of the display tables. Ripping off the front page he writes down a number, and then hands the page to Lance. "If you ever feel like discussing kink exhibitions again."

"I'll call," Lance says, and keeps tight hold of the page.

Lance waits until Gerard steps outside, then pulls out his phone.

[turlough]

Well, you've got a lot of requests already but I'm going to do it too anyway :-)

G is for Gazelle, Bob/Frank/Gerard!

1/2

[turps33.livejournal.com]

Done!

They end up at a motel in Shitville Motherfuckwherever.

Two rooms for five people and the PA has to jiggle the lock before it opens, then steps back, letting them all walk inside.

She follows them in and looks around, taking in the sagging bed and the cracked mirror, the carpet with the mysterious brown stains. She swallows hard and her knuckles are white where she's gripping her cell. "I'll find a better hotel, there has to be one at the next town, and a taxi. There has to be a firm somewhere." She pushes her damp bangs off her forehead and rubs at her face. "I'm sorry, I should have known."

"That the bus would break down?" Gerard asks, pushing up his sunglasses so they're perched at the top of his head. "Unless you've got some serious premonition skills going on, you're off that hook."

Frank throws himself down on the bed, collapsing back with a sigh. "Personally I'd prefer to read minds, think of the secrets you'd find."

"Except reading minds without permission is like mental rape, it's bad shit," Gerard says, and he sits next to Frank, poking him hard in the stomach. "Premonitions let you change the future."

Lazily, Frank bats at Gerard's hand. "Right, if we'd known we'd be stuck here I'd have rode on the crew bus." He props himself up on one elbow, looking intently at the PA. "Did you know?"

"What? No. I didn't, I mean, I'm going to go look up that hotel."

She drops the keys on the dressing table and leaves with a last concerned look. Frank flops back down, grinning when Gerard pokes at him again.

"You shouldn't tease like that."

Frank shrugs, unconcerned. "She'll learn, and you brought up super powers."

Gerard considers, and eventually concedes with a wave of his hand, says, "I guess." He taps his fingers against his thigh, considering the implications of mind reading as Bob scowls at the cot with a visibly buckled leg and Ray attempts to open the connecting door to the next room. "I'd let you all read my mind."

"You'd assume we'd want to," Bob says, and gives up frowning at the cot, turning his attention to Gerard instead. "I like my mind unscarred."

"Hey," Gerard protests, because really, the way Bob's talking it's like Gerard's some kind of freak.

"It's true though." Ray keeps twisting the key, trying to force it to turn. "Reading your mind would be like peering into a freaky room, one filled with dark corners and creepy shit that looms in the dark."

"With added zombies and blow up dolls, all of them covered in blood," Bob says. He sits on the end of the bed, making it creak alarmingly. "And that's just the surface junk, going deeper has to mean instant insanity."

"I don't know," Frank says, looking thoughtful as he links his hands behind his head. "He's got that freaky thing going on with Mikey, and he's not scarred."

"That's because Mikey's a freak, too," Bob says immediately.

Gerard reaches out his foot, kicking Bob in the ankle. "Don't call my brother a freak, and we don't have a freaky thing going on."

"You kind of do," Ray says, and looks at Mikey, who's standing next to the window, watching something outside. "Mikey, what's Gerard thinking?"

"That he's too hot and wants an iced coffee." Mikey turns and lets the curtain drop back into place, disturbing dust that clouds in the air. "I'm going to the pool."

"Have you seen the water? It's dark green, there's probably a sea monster in there," Gerard says. "Keep away from the edge, and if you see....see..."

"Bethany," Mikey adds. "I'll tell her what you want."

He pulls up the hood of his hoodie and goes outside.

[crazybutsound]

ooo, that sounds like fun! Hum... G is for "getting there", Lance/Brendon (or if that's too weird--but I love crossovers--Spencer/Brendon, you pick).

Damn, I wasn't fast enough. How about M is for "Minty fresh" instead? lol.

PS: and now I go read everything else. *g*

[turps33.livejournal.com]

I hope this works for you. Thank you for such a cool prompt.

Brendon's head is spinning, from the heat and noise and the sheer amount he's drank since he arrived. He's clutching an empty glass in his hand and he sets it on a ledge, pushing it back until it's flush against the others, bottles and empty glasses, a few with lipstick kisses preserved around the rim. Staggering slightly he heads off for a place to sit down, glad this is an invitation only event and no fans are here to see him stumble over nothing.

He finds a group of sofas close to the bar, most of them already taken. Girls in tight dresses and men in tailored black pants and white shirts. Brendon feels insignificant beside them and he reminds himself they were invited here, they're classed as VIPs of Vegas, too. Not that he feels it. All he feels is worn, his eyes at half mast as he flops down into the first empty seat he sees.

Head back, he fully closes his eyes, darkness better than the spinning of the room. Then opens them again when he feels someone move close, the sofa cushions dipping to the side.

"Are you okay?"

Brendon wants to curl up and pretend this isn't happening, or else somehow fling himself back into time, because when he looks it's Lance Bass who's talking, looking caught between amusement and concern.

"I'm fine," Brendon says, and pushes himself up, only wobbling a little. "I'm a Vegas VIP."

"So I see," Lance says gravely. "You're here alone?"

"No, with my friends, they're somewhere," Brendon says, indicating the room behind him by swiping his hand through the air.

Lance sits back sharply, grinning as he looks behind Brendon. "Do they know you're here?"

Brendon tries to think. He's sure he told Jon where he was going, at least, he thinks he did. Brendon nods, says, "They do."

"Good, I'd hate to think they'd lose you." Lance sits back, looking perfectly relaxed, which is unfair because all Brendon feels is awkward and horribly drunk. "So, how's it feel to be a Vegas VIP?"

"It's awesome." Brendon grins, his hand braced against the arm of the sofa to keep himself upright. "We've traveled everywhere and performing's the best, like, seriously insane. You wouldn't believe what it's like up there, all those people watching you, it's like...." He trails off then, feeling stupid when he realises what he's said. "But you'll know that."

"I did once." Lance stands then, says, "I'll be back in a moment."

He heads toward the bar and Brendon wants to beat his head against the nearest hard surface. Instead he rests his chin on his hands and tries not to fall asleep.

"Drink this."

Brendon blinks, bringing the room back into focus and moves his hands away from his face so he can see Lance, who's holding out a glass containing something clear. Stomach rolling at the thought of more alcohol, Brendon starts to refuse.

"It's water," Lance says, and Brendon takes the glass, not-so-discretely sniffing it before draining nearly half the water in one gulp.

Lance sits, his own glass held in his hand. "You've been trained well."

"Yeah, well, some people are freaks."

Lance drinks too, something that's obviously not water. "Tell me about it."

Brendon grimaces. "They put hairs, in our cookies, who does that?"

"The same kind that travel with rats I'd imagine," Lance says, which makes no sense at all, but it seems he's not going to explain, instead he drains his drink and looks at his watch. "I need to go."

"I should too," Brendon says, but actually standing up seems beyond him right now, all he wants is to curl up and sleep.

"Good plan." Lance smiles, smelling clean, his breath minty fresh as he leans in close, which should be impossible because he's just been drinking and Brendon's heart is thundering because Lance Bass is going to kiss him, except all Lance does is take the glass out of Brendon's lax grip, setting it on a table before he stands.

"I'll see you around," Lance says, then leaves, attention already on a group of people across the room.

Brendon waves and watches him go.

[paperdollkisses.livejournal.com]

O is for Oral Ray/Bob

*covers eyes* I KNOW!!! OMG.

[turps33.livejournal.com]

Dude, no eye covering allowed!

Hope this makes sense.


Bob was watching TV the first time Ray walked into the room and dropped to his knees. It was some kind of clip show, people falling from roofs or into the sea and Bob was feeling good, his face aching with laughter. He kept laughing when Ray went down, thinking that somehow he'd fallen. He hadn't, the move had been deliberate and Ray knee-walked forward, put his hands on Bob's thighs and said, Please.

Bob didn't know what he wanted, not at first. It wasn't something they did. They talked about music and TV shows and hung together when all around them the rest of the band seemed to be losing their minds.

Ray said, "I want, let me suck you. I'll make it worth your while."

And Bob had said yes, had slid down his pants and slumped back. Had curled his fingers against the cushions as Ray licked his lips, nodded once then bent forward.

He'd been good. Better than good.

They never talked about it again.


Until the next time.

When Mikey was gone and everything around them felt unsteady and wrong.

Bob had been lying in his room, on the comfortable bed with his things around him, the door to the bathroom open, his own version of a fuck you, showing he wasn't afraid.

Ray had walked into the room, shut the door behind him and said, please, eyes downcast and plainly exhausted, already dropping to his knees.

Bob had tried to say no, but was helpless when faced with such obvious need.

That time Bob had sat on the side of the bed. His pants around his ankles, his fingers tangled in Ray's hair.

When they were done Bob had tried to say, stay. Ray left before he finished the word.


The third time and Ray was about to get married.

He was happy, humming under his breath as he walked through the bus, through venues and onto the stage. So obviously content, as if they world was finally shining his way.

Which is why it was a surprise when came to Bob after the show, sweat-soaked and buzzing, retaining the energy of the crowd.

Ray had slammed the door behind him, pulled across the lock and then stalked towards Bob, intent obvious as he dropped to his knees, said please.

Backed against a wall, Bob had kept looking forward, had breathed hard, his fingers pressed against cold concrete.

After, when Ray had stood, Bob had said why?

He hadn't expected a reply, but Ray had pressed his lips against Bob's, pulled back and said, Think of it as a goodbye.

[greedy_dancer]

W is obviously for Frank/Gerard wanking! *g*

[turps33.livejournal.com]

I hardly ever write sex so I hope this is okay.

Gerard grabs his sketch book and a handful of pens. He's thought about this all day, imagining angles and backgrounds, but now he feels nervous and a pen slips from his hand, clattering against the ground.

"Relax, Gee," Frank says. He's toes off his sneakers and pulls off his t-shirt, the light burnishing his skin, the dark lines of his ink surrounded by gold. "It's nothing new, you've seen it all before."

"Not like this," Gerard says, but Frank's nonchalance is relaxing, like this really is something they do every day. Gerard sits, cross legged on the floor. "Can you, your jeans, can you leave them on? Just sort of down your thighs."

Frank smiles, says, "Sure." He unfastens his belt, threading leather through the metal buckle and then pops open each button, putting on a show.

Gerard smiles in return, dips his head and clicks off the lid of a pen, opens his sketch book to a new page. "If you could, just lie back and do like always."

"Yeah." Slowly, Frank pushes down his jeans, stopping at mid-thigh, then sits on the sofa, slouched back, head, spine and legs in an elongated arc. Already he's half hard, and he lazily runs his hand over his dick, watching Gerard all of the time. "You going to talk dirty to me? Urge me on."

Gerard's attention is torn between the curve on the page and the way Frank licks down his own palm, slow and obvious. Gerard swallows, says, "I guess. What do you want me to say?"

Frank laughs and turns slightly, putting himself on display. "How about how much you want me? How you want to fuck me hard and make me scream."

"But you know all that," Gerard says, memories of Frank beneath him, mouth open and gasping for breath, blending with what he actually sees.

"So tell me again."

"I want to fuck you. I want to... erm..." Gerard trails off, caught by contrast between Frank's fingers and his dick, the bright of his tattoos against skin. He keeps watching, licks across his lips as he watches the drag of Frank's thumb, how he's causing ripples of skin that roll from base to tip. Pen tip digging into the paper, Gerard sees the slick surface, moisture beading as Frank slides his hand over the head of his dick.

"Gee, you stopped."

"Sorry, sorry." Gerard looks up, takes in how Frank's beginning to breathe hard, how his stomach moves slightly, his chest, the dips and shadows of his collar bone and the way Frank has his mouth slightly open, his cheeks flushed. "It's just, fuck you're beautiful."

"And you suck at dirty talk," Frank says, but he still digs his heels into the cushions, bracing himself as he steps up the pace and Gerard can barely keep sketching, has to force himself to keep going as he tries to capture the way Frank tilts back his head. How his eyes flutter shut as he runs his hand over his chest and pinches his own nipples, one then the other before going back down, hand splayed against his stomach.

Gerard tries to capture it all, the subtle difference in shade between Frank's hands and his body, the curve of his hand against his pubes, lines and angles and as much as he tries there's no way he can capture it all. He gives up trying, drops the sketch book and pen and crawls over the floor, kneels up and braces his hands either side of Frank's head and leans in, sharing the same breath.

Frank clutches at Gerard's back and holds on with one hand, gasps when Gerard says, "Come."

Frank does.

[arsenicjade.livejournal.com]

Probably too late, but, Q is for Quilt, Bob/Mikey.

[turps33.livejournal.com]

Nothing is ever too late for you.

[emmytie.livejournal.com]

If it isn't too late, can I have w for worn, Mikey/Brendon?

[emmytie.livejournal.com]

Oops. Just saw someone else picked w. Y is for yelling?

[ninjetti75.livejournal.com]

B is for "Bitch" Sam/Dean

OR

Y is for "Yuck!" Brennan/Jesse


*g*

[abelbell.livejournal.com]

V is for Vacation, Mikey/Pete

[turps33.livejournal.com]

You're my favourite today! That's an excellent prompt. Thank you!

[turlough]

I see there are two letters still left. E is for Ecstasy, Bert/Gerard *smiles evily*

[turps33.livejournal.com]

You are evil!

One overdose of E death fic coming up!

[crowgirl13.livejournal.com]

Oh me!

J is for Jumble, Mikey/Frank

:D

[turps33.livejournal.com]

Excellent prompt!

Thank you!