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[turps]

You'd think being offline would mean more writing would be done. You'd be wrong.

First four of the reposted tropes meme replies. Untouched by anyone by me so excuse any mistakes.



Telepathic soulbonding - Mikey/Ryan

"Tell me!"

Ryan spits and slumps forward, his hands impacting against the metal floor. His fingers are tacky with his own blood and he splays them wide, his arms shaking as he spits again.

"I know you know where they are. Tell me!"

The kick is expected. It lands against Ryan's ribs and he gasps for breath, pulling in air past his swollen mouth. He can feel a tear slide down his face and it drips from his nose. Ryan watches it land, one tear in a pool of blood, saliva and bile.

"I will kill you if you don't tell me!"

It's not an idle threat. Ryan knows his death is near, it's creeping closer with each denial, each defiant look. It's terrifying in its proximity but still Ryan pushes himself upright, straightens his shoulders and lifts his chin, says, "I don't know where they are, and if I did I wouldn't tell you."

The kick is harder this time and Ryan feels something snap inside. He goes down and the floor is cold against his cheek, the guard's boots black and shining, a smear of blood on the toe. The guard steps closer and aims his gun -- Ryan's never been so terrified in his life.

"Tell me."

"No," Ryan hisses back and forces himself onto his knees. It hurts, everything hurts and Ryan's struggling to hold on, but he will, he has to, because Mikey's coming. Ryan can feel him.

The guard pulls back his finger and powers up his gun, sparks crackling as he sneers, "You give yourself for nothing. We will find them without you."

"You're so fucking dumb you couldn't find your own dick," Ryan says, and his pain is diminishing, still there but muted and all he can think is, Mikey Mikey Mikey. Ryan can feel him coming closer, reaching out until suddenly, a part of Ryan that was wrenched apart becomes whole. Ryan throws himself down as the door behind the guard explodes in a shower of metal and smoke. Lying still he blinks away tears and reaches out when he sees someone approach.

"What have I told you about antagonising people?"

"He deserved it," Ryan says, choking on his own blood until he's gently lifted up and cradled against Mikey's chest. "They're after Gerard."

"I know," Mikey says, and presses a kiss against Ryan's forehead. "He's safe, I came with Spencer and Bob."

Exhausted, Ryan lies heavily against Mikey, feeling how tense he is, how Mikey's breathing hard as he holds on. Ryan turns his head, resting it against Mikey's. "You have to stop leeching."

"I know," Mikey says softly, then adds, "Sorry."

The pain crashes back, almost overwhelming and Ryan can't help but whimper as he's laid on the floor. Standing, Mikey crouches and scoops up Ryan, and this should be humiliating but Ryan's hurting too much to care. All he can do is hold on, listening in as Mikey projects, love, love, safe.





Bob centric Wingfic

Bob holds the note between two fingers. It feels dusty and the thick parchment is laced with the scent of sugar and smoke. He exhales slowly and leans against the bus, sun-warm metal at his back and nipped-off cigarette butts at his feet. Bob reads the note again, new assignment, be ready, you'll know when . No matter how often he reads it makes no sense, Bob thought he was doing okay, he was doing his job -- but apparently the above don't agree.

There's a thump from inside the bus, the sound of Bert's giggle and Jepha's sleepy protest; then finally, complete silence. Bob waits, staring at nothing, then stands up straight and unfurls his wings, the ever present ache in his back easing as bones realign and muscles stretch. He holds up the note, taking a last look at the curved letters that look more like burns than ink, then opens his hand. The note burning as it flutters to the ground.

Mikey sits on the floor, his knees drawn up and glasses slipped to the end of his nose.

"Mikey," Bob says. His back is itching, his head aching with the need to put things right.

Mikey's t-shirt is stained, his pants dirty at the bottom, there's a pink band around his wrist and his feet are bare. He doesn't look up and his face is concealed by his hair. Bob's every instinct is to fix him, the need so powerful Bob can feel his wings flutter involuntary, sharp-tipped feathers brushing against his skin.

"Hey," Mikey says finally, and his voice is rough, that one word so heavy with exhaustion that Bob wants to kick and yell at the heavens, that how can this be fair? How can they send him here when he's doing no good?

Bob fills a glass with water and drinks the lot in one go. Rinses out the glass and puts it on the drainer, snug against coffee mugs with stained interiors and a plate covered with mould. Bob knows he should go. This isn't his bus, this isn't his place -- not yet. "I'll see you...."

"It's getting worse," Mikey says quietly and Bob presses his hand against the sink, feels soap scum under his fingers. He thinks of favours he could call in, the repercussions if he throws himself at the feet of Fate. Mikey looks up then, expression set against pressed back fear. "There's marshmallows hidden in the top cupboard. Ray thinks I don't know."

"I like the way you think." Bob reaches up and his shoulder blades burn, his wings a heavy, leaden weight. He grabs the marshmallows and slides down next to Mikey, the bag open between them.

Mikey bites a marshmallow in half and eats one side. He keeps hold of the other and says, "I don't want to do this without him."

"I know," Bob says in reply.

Later, when Mikey sleeps, his mouth open slightly and a marshmallow clenched in his hand, Bob pulls off his own hoodie. Listens intently before unfolding his wings, one crumpled against the couch the other covering Mikey. Keeping him safe, keeping him warm.

"I hate you all," Bob yells.

It's dark in the field, the buses nothing but small lights on the horizon. Bob's feet are soaking and he's breathing heavily as he tugs off his hoodie, throwing it to the ground. He spreads his wings to their full width, uncaring of the pain in his spine, the way his skin pulls and tugs.

"Why give me this and nothing else? Let me come back, let me talk to people who can actually fucking help."

No one replies.

Bob never expected they would.

Frank says he's leaving after yet another pointless practice.

"I can't. I'm done."

It's not a threat. It's Frank finally beaten down, anger replaced by painful inevitability as he watches his life crumble. He's pale, eyes red-rimmed, the weight of the world on his shoulders as he sets down his guitar and walks.

Bob shifts his wings, tucks them flat against his back as he stands at the sound desk, looking toward the stage. Already Ray's at the riser, yelling louder with each indifferent answer from Matt while Mikey's steering Gerard, holding him upright while watching Frank leave.

"I've got this," Bob says, and Mikey nods slightly, stony-faced when Gerard laughs and stumbles, smacking a kiss against Mikey's cheek. Bob hates to leave them, but he's got other issues right now, and he hurries after Frank. Thankfully he hasn't gone far.

"I meant what I said," Franks says. He's trying to light a cigarette but his lighter won't catch. Once. Twice. Three times, and Frank throws it to the ground. "Fuck, nothing's going right." Bob takes out his own lighter and holds it up, but Frank shakes his head. "I don't even want a smoke, not really."

Bob puts the lighter back in his pocket and shrugs. "Your call."

Frank huffs out a sound, less laughter than hysterical desperation. "You're missing your cue, you're supposed to ask what I do want."

"I know what you want, and I can't get it for you." It's the truth, Bob's tried, but his favours mean nothing and Fate is a bitch.

Frank looks up, says, "So what? You're just going to stand there and say nothing?"

"No," Bob says, and takes a step closer. He pulls Frank into a hug, holding him close. "Don't ever mention this again."

"Showing your soft side, Bob?" Frank says, his breath hitching. He holds on, arms wrapped around Bob's waist, his hands against Bob's back, his fingers pressing into the feathers.

For the first time in weeks the pain in Bob's back is eased.

Bob's hoodie is on the bed, his t-shirt thrown over a chair, while Bob himself stands in front of the floor-length window. From this high Bob can see the whole city and he unfolds his wings and slowly flaps them both. Papers rustle on the table and golden tipped feathers are reflected in the mirror as Bob flaps harder. He's felt restless lately, pulled more toward the above. He wants to force open the window and jump. He wants to break through the pain and fly.

"I saw," Ray says.

Bob's sitting on his couch. He's wearing sweat pants and an old hoodie and the cushion beside him is cluttered with remotes, phones and an assortment of magazines. Not that Bob's read them, he spends most of his time sleeping, the only respite from the pain in his leg and his back. He yawns and rubs at his eyes. "Saw what?"

"Your back," Ray says and Bob's shocked into silence, trying to work out what to say as Ray keeps talking, his words fast. "Before you went to the hospital and that weird doctor took you away. I saw them, the wings."

"You're imagining things," Bob says, and fear is twisting in his belly as he imagines being taken away, because this isn't supposed to happen. No one's supposed to know.

"I saw," Ray insists, he sits on the opposite edge of the couch, his knee bent as he sits to the side, looking at Bob. "I'm not stupid. I was there and I saw them. They're beautiful."

"They're burnt," Bob says shortly. He steels himself, sure he's about to be pulled away but there's nothing. Just the quiet of the room, the drone of a mower from outside, the creak of the couch as Ray shifts forward.

"Some of them are burnt, but they're still beautiful." Ray swallows, says, "The shoot?"

Bob remembers fire, the intense heat against his back and smell of scorching feathers and skin. The way he kept drumming despite the pain, a living barrier between the others and the flames. Bob nods, says, "Yeah."

"Right," Ray says, and reaches out before dropping his hand. "Doesn't it hurt? Keeping them hidden like that."

Bob slumps to the side, resting on one elbow, suppressing a grimace at the pull of his spine. "It's not that bad."

"Of course it's not," Ray says, obviously not believing a word. "Does it help if you unfold them?"

The truth is, it helps a lot. Bob's wings are big and his muscles constantly ache from keeping them close to his body. He nods, says tersely, "Yeah."

"Then do it." Ray sits back and looks past Bob to the door. "I'll keep watch."

"I don't...." Bob trails off. More than anything he wants to spread his wings, but he's never shown anyone before, not like this. It feels wrong, exposing a part of himself that shouldn't be seen. "I've never shown anyone before."

"I'll look the other way if you want."

And Ray would, it's why Bob makes the sudden decision to sit forward and slowly pull off his hoodie, glancing over at Ray before opening his wings. They stretch across the couch, the golden edges darkened and ragged in places. To Bob they look hideous, but Ray looks awed, remaining still as feathers brush over his lap.

He looks over at Bob, says simply, "Thank you."

The note is lying on his pillow and Bob grips the edge of his bunk, needing the support. A glance behind him and he climbs into the small space, breath catching at the smell of burnt sugar. Tugging along the curtains he sits, bent forward and legs crossed, his chest already aching as he picks up the note.

All his fears come crashing home as he reads.

It's nearly time. Words that are burnt into his brain.

Stunned, Bob sits on his bed, the note crumpled beside him.

He doesn't want to go. Not now. Not when things are finally okay.

"This sucks."

Gerard's lying on the floor of the bus, arm against his forehead and cheeks flushed red. It's hot outside and even hotter in here, the air conditioning struggling to cope. Bob pulls at his shirt, hoping for cool air. It's a futile hope and he lets his shirt drop back down, the material sticking to his sweat-damp skin.

"Do you...I mean, fuck." Gerard pushes himself upright, brushing off the popcorn that's got stuck to his hair. "You have to be hot and I know you won't take off your shirt here, but I could make you something. If you want. For your wings, a hole in a shirt."

Bob lets his head thump against the window, says, "Fucking Ray."

"What? No." Gerard shakes his head and crawls toward Bob. "Mikey told me."

Surprised, Bob sits upright, looking down at Gerard. "Ray told Mikey?"

"No, Mikey's known for ages. Since that night on the bus, when you covered him with your wings."

"That was years ago," Bob says, and the pain in his back radiates out to his whole body. "He can't have known that long."

Gerard pulls himself up onto the couch and pats Bob's leg. "He did."

"And he never said anything? You didn't say anything?"

Again Gerard shakes his head. "I didn't know until a few months ago. You started to move differently, looser. I saw then."

When he told Ray, it has to be. Bob frowns, says, "I suppose Frank knows, too."

"Of course I fucking know." Frank yells from the bunks, then appears in the doorway wearing only a pair of shorts. "I said you were soft."

"Soft in the fucking head," Bob mutters, and looks past Frank, unsurprised to see Mikey and Ray crowded behind him. "So you all knew. Why didn't you say?"

"Wasn't our thing to say," Mikey says, pushing his way past Frank and throwing himself into the tiny space between Gerard and Bob. "If you wanted to show them you would."

"We're respectful of your choices." Gerard peers past Mikey, gaze slipping toward Bob's back. "But if you did want to show us...."

"Fuck that," Frank says, taking the spot on Bob's other side. "I want to know if you can fly."

"And if you can carry passengers," Gerard adds, and despite the still constant ache, the pain of stretched muscles and bone, all Bob can do is smile.

Bob finds the final note on a sunny afternoon. It's tucked inside his bag, resting on a tangle of striped socks and when he picks it up he can hardly make himself breathe. Parchment unrolled, all the note says is, With acceptance comes responsibility. Now they're all yours.

Bob closes his eyes, looks up and says softly, "Thank you."

"They're beautiful."

Bob stands still as Gerard walks in a circle, taking in every detail of Bob's wings. They're back to their best now, glossy and dark and Bob holds them out to their full size, feathers fluttering in the slight breeze.

"Does it hurt?" Mikey asks, his touch gentle as he rests his finger tips against the spot where the shafts join Bob's back. The skin there is stretched, pulled tight and warm.

"Sometimes," Bob says, meaning always. But right now it's eased, the pain diluted by the proximity of friends.

Ray steps forward, brow creased as he says, "Be careful of the wires and trees."

Bob smiles slightly. "I will." Then runs forward while flapping his wings.

The cheers of his friends urging him on, Bob flies.



Jon/Brendon apocalypse fic

"I want pizza," Brendon says. "Pizza with everything on it. And beer. Two beers with vodka chasers."

Brendon's sitting on the floor, his knees drawn up close to his chest. His body is striped with light that beam between the boards on the window, white slices over his cheeks and nose, his chest, his hands where they're clasped together.

"That would be good," Jon says. He holds up his hand, interrupting a sunbeam, seeing how his fingers are bleached out and Brendon's face cast in shadow.

Brendon blinks and rests his head on his knees, his eyes half-lidded.

Jon drops his hand and rolls onto his front, onto his hands and knees. He crawls, bare toes dragging over the gritty carpet and sits next to Brendon. "Cats are natural hunters."

"I read that." Brendon's reply is muffled, then he looks to the side, nodding as he peers at Jon. "They'll be okay." He swallows and licks at his lips, tongue sliding over chapped skin. "We could hunt."

"We could hunt pizza." Jon leans to the side, knowing Brendon will hold him steady. "I could make nets out of the sheets."

"Or a spear, I could sharpen the curtain rail." Brendon starts to smile, then stops, blood welling at the corner of his mouth. Jon reaches up and wipes it away with his thumb.

"We'll hunt chapstick, too."

"Chapstick's wily, we'll need to bring out the big guns." Brendon licks at his lips again, says, "The other guests. They're leaving tonight."

Jon brings up his own knees, clenching his hands to stop them shaking. Sweat trickles down his back and he knows it's getting hotter. "I don't..."

Brendon's hand is dirty and his knuckles are still swollen and skinned. He wraps his fingers around Jon's wrist. "We don't have to go."

"We can't stay here." Jon looks down at their hands and then up. Brendon's cheekbones are pronounced, his hair slicked back from his face. It's Brendon stripped back, years older in a matter of weeks. Jon swallows his grief, says, "Going alone is a risk."

"So's going in a group," Brendon replies. He tightens his hold on Jon's wrist, gaze sliding to the cell phones that are lying on the dresser. "We could find someplace with power, recharge the batteries."

Jon nods, remembering the last message he received. C U at 8 lsers, laughing as he read it in bed, Brendon draped over him, heavy and sated. "They could have sent a text. Before. Or found a working network."

"Yeah," Brendon says, and then repeats, his expression fierce. "Yeah, they could have." He turns toward Jon and leans in close for a kiss, and even if Brendon has changed physically, this hasn't. The soft sound he makes as their tongues touch, the way in these moments Brendon gives everything to Jon, heart and body and soul. Brendon pulls back, and there's blood smeared over his lip. He makes no move to wipe it away, just sits still, striped by that too bright light. "We''ll go alone. We'll find them."

"Okay," Jon says softly. "We'll find them."



Gerard and Mikey where Mikey turns into a unicorn

Furtively, Gerard peers around the front of the bus. When he's sure there's no one around he quickly darts around the corner and punches in the code, the door opening with a soft hiss. Climbing to the second step, Gerard listens as he cranes his neck and takes in the dark-screened TVs and empty couches, the silence that means no one is there. Relieved, Gerard jumps back to the ground.

"Mikey, come on," Gerard hisses, his eyes widening when Mikey appears from behind a white plastic chair. "You thought hiding behind a lawn chair was a good idea? Seriously?"

Mikey gives Gerard an unimpressed stare. "You didn't see me."

"That's not the point." Gerard looks around, says, "Get inside."

Mikey snorts, his horn gleaming silver as he gallops past Gerard and bends one leg, his hoof landing on the step with a dull clump. "I'm going. This isn't easy."

"That's why you don't change on tour," Gerard says as he steps forward and pushes at Mikey's flank, trying to shove him up the steps. Which feels like an impossible task, because the stairwell is narrow and right now, Mikey is wide. He's also having trouble with co-ordination and a silvery back hoof barely misses Gerard's nose. Finally, after a lot of shoving, Mikey's clip-clopping into the lounge.

"I didn't do it on purpose," Mikey says then, and he flicks his tail, causing silvery flecks to cloud in the air. "It's the fans, the place is full of fucking virgins."

Gerard collapses down on the nearest couch and tucks up his feet. "There're always virgins at shows, it doesn't normally make you change, and don't talk about fucking and virgins together. It doesn't sound right."

"Fuck virgins." Abruptly, Mikey looks over his shoulder and his horn catches a coffee mug sending it flying through the air. It lands with a crash, and cold coffee is splatted along the wall. Mikey pricks up his ears and tilts his head slightly to the side. "It looks like arterial spray with coffee."

Gerard considers, noticing how the initial splattered drops are starting to ooze downwards, causing dark trails. "There'd be more volume for a jugular slash. You...." He stops talking then, turning to glare at Mikey. "Stop with the distractions. Why did you change?"

Mikey's horn gleams as he says, "I told you. It's the virgins, they kept getting closer."

"So you changed?"

"I had no choice." Mikey takes a step forward, his velvety nose against Gerard's lap. "I signed this girl's arm and she went in for a hug. Next thing I know I'm starting to change."

"Sucks to be you." Gerard rubs Mikey's neck, enjoying the feel of the soft hair under his fingers. "You'll need to change back. You can't perform as a unicorn."

Mikey sighs, warm air flowing over Gerard's thigh. "I couldn't play anyway, I've no apposable thumbs." He sighs again. "Why couldn't I have been something awesome? Like a dragon. But no, I get to be a fucking unicorn."

Gerard grins and runs his thumb over the base of Mikey's horn. "That's because you're so pure."

"Fuck pure," Mikey says and pulls back his head so he can jab Gerard in the belly with his horn. "I haven't been pure for years."

"So you say." Gerard grins even wider, then sneezes when he inhales the silvery dust that's floating in the air. "Quit with the glitter, it's starting to look like a pimped out grotto in here."

Mikey stops flicking his tail and the silver sparkles start to settle as he mutters, "Couldn't even be a black unicorn, fucking silver."

"Unicorns can't be black, black's not a pure colour," Gerard says as he wipes at his arms. "And you need to change back."

"And silver is?" Mikey steps back, the TV remote crunching under a hoof. "And I can't change back. It's too soon."

Gerard rests his head on his hands. It's been a few months since he's seen Mikey like this, back in Jersey when Mikey was happy to hang out watching TV when he changed. "Last time you changed back in an hour."

"Last time I wasn't saturated with the hormones of multiple virgins. And you don't help," Mikey says, fixing Gerard with a look. "Every time you and Frankie kiss on stage it's like being hit by an atom bomb of unfulfilled sexual desire. You're lucky I haven't changed on the spot."

"You never said," Gerard says.

"What was I supposed to say? Hey Frank, could you not kiss my brother because there's a good chance I'll turn into a fucking unicorn."

Gerard slumps back down, feeling exhausted. "Something like that. Or else you tell them the truth."

Mikey shakes his head, his mane flying and yet more silver flying in the air. "We agreed not to."

"I know," Gerard says, his stomach sinking as he glances out of the window. "But I think it's time. Especially as they're about to walk in."

"What?!" Agitated, Mikey's hair seems to stand on end and the air shimmers with silver. "Fuck."

"They'll be fine," Gerard says, and he stands, his hand on Mikey's back. "And if they're not I'll fucking take them down."

Mikey bumps his flank against Gerard. Together they watch the door.

Comments

*squee*

[discorpion.livejournal.com]

"What was I supposed to say? Hey Frank, could you not kiss my brother because there's a good chance I'll turn into a fucking unicorn."

Omigod, I am PISSING myself over here <3

And Bob-Wing!fic. Oh dear goodness by golly gee. <3

Re: *squee*

[turps33.livejournal.com]

Mikey is a very grumpy unicorn :D

Yeah, Bob with wings is a very cool thing.

I'm glad you liked.