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Oh god the bunnies. So many bunnies.
Apparently I'm doing this one too! Gakked from ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
eledhwenlin and turps33
1. genderswap
2. bodyswap
3. drunk!fic
4. huddling for warmth
5. pretending to be married
6. secretly a virgin
7. amnesia
8. cross-dressing
9. forced to share a bed
10. truth or dare
11. historical AU
12. accidental-baby-acquisition
13. apocalypse fic
14. telepathy
15. High School / College AU
Give me a fandom/pairing, and I'll tell you something. Fandoms applicable: bandom
ETA - "Pairing" doesn't need to be only two. Can the threesomes/moresomes. Just sayin'.
Reply will likely be notfic and very likely be highly questionable in content.
eledhwenlin and turps331. genderswap
5. pretending to be married
13. apocalypse fic
15. High School / College AU
Give me a fandom/pairing, and I'll tell you something. Fandoms applicable: bandom
ETA - "Pairing" doesn't need to be only two. Can the threesomes/moresomes. Just sayin'.
Reply will likely be notfic and very likely be highly questionable in content.
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Forced to share a bed :D
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So they've stayed in some pretty damn shitty places on the road over the years and Ray thought he'd seen everything. He has to reassess that after watching the toilet in the crappy Motel 6 erupt, spraying water right across the bathroom, streaming across the carpet into the hotel room like a shit-scented tide.
Frank grumbles when he shakes him awake but when he sees the water advancing across the carpet his eyes widen in panic and they both scramble to rescue their gear.
The motel is so shitty there isn't even anyone on the desk to complain to, and they can't even go sleep in the van because it, and Brian and Otter are mysteriously missing. That's how Frank and Ray wind up with their bags clutched to their chests, standing outside the door to Mikey and Gerard's room.
"Should we knock?" Ray asks, and fuck he is so fucking tired if they can't get into this room he's gonna sleep in the hall. They had to walk up a few stairs, surely the shit-tide won't get them here.
"Dude, try the fucking door," Frank whispers, and Ray's not exactly sure why they're whispering, except that Gerard's been having a lot of nightmares lately so if he's asleep it's probably best he stays that way.
The door isn't locked. Ray glances back over his shoulder and shrugs at Frank, who shrugs back and inclines his head like yeah, it's open, can we go in now, asshole? Ray eases the door open a slice and slides in, thinking he'll see if there's a couch they could pull some cushions off, or maybe he'll just curl up on the floor and use his bag as a pillow. It's gotten to that stage of fatigue.
It isn't until they're both inside, the door quietly closed behind them, that it becomes somewhat apparent that Gerard isn't asleep. And neither is Mikey.
It's the sound more than the sight that gives that away, because it's pretty fucking dark in the room and Ray's eyes haven't adjusted yet, but his ears are just fine and it's pretty easy to make out Mikey groaning, "Gee, Gee, Gee," in increasing pitch, along with the sound of rustling sheets and some wet noises.
Ray goes completely still and he can sense Frank doing the same right behind him. There's a voice in his brain telling him to turn around, leave, leave now before suspicion can become knowledge, but his feet won't move. He blinks in the darkness and his eyes focus on the slowly shifting shapes under the street-lit window. He can make out the angular bend of an arm, the mussed mess of a head of hair - Mikey's - his slender torso curved upwards. Ray's eyes track downward to a dark lump which has got to be Gerard, his hand curved around Mikey's hip, his head buried between Mikey's legs and he must be - he has to be-
A loud sucking noise completely confirms it. Gerard is blowing Mikey in the shitty bed in this crappy hotel. Ray knows Frank puts it together at exactly the same time he does. Apparently neither of them know how to react because they both just stand there in the dark like fucking creepers as Gerard's head moves more vigorously and Mikey's breathing gets faster and more broken.
Ray can't look away. His breathing is shallow and he's hot all over. He doesn't realise immediately that the pressure he can feel on his arm is Frank's hand, until Frank's fingers tighten into a near-painful grip. Ray spares a glance down, but Frank's eyes are glued to Mikey and Gerard, like he doesn't even realise what his hand is doing. Mikey makes a ragged noise and Ray can't help but look back over, studying the shifting shapes like he can find more detail, see what he suddenly desperately wants to see. Mikey's voice paints the picture for him, his sharp breaths, his hiccuping moans, the slide of the fabric as he ruts up against Gerard's face.
(cont)
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Ray holds his breath, Frank's fingers tight between his as Mikey arches up off the bed, his body curling over Gerard's head as he cries out, "Gee, fuck" and comes with a shudder and choked groan.
Ray stands stock still, heat racing over his skin, the sounds of Mikey's ragged breaths and his own heartbeat thundering in his ears.
What the fuck. What the fuck? Ray doesn't know what to do with this information. He has no idea how to react to this. And he's more turned on than he's ever been in his life.
He's never felt more obvious, huddled in the dark by the door, but the Ways seem oblivious to any extra bodies in the room. Gerard pulls off with a wet noise and crawls up Mikey's body, putting his mouth (which was just on Mikey's dick) over Mikey's and they make out wet and messy. Ray's mouth falls open a little wider. Fuck, what would he taste like?
It isn't until Ray feels a tug on his arm that he remembers he isn't alone here. Frank eases the door open and they manage to slip outside seemingly undetected. It isn't until they're back in the hall that Ray nerves himself to meet Frank's eyes, knowing his face is flushed red.
Frank's colour is high too. "Fuck," Frank whispers, sounding awed, "That was... fuck."
Ray huffs out a breath in response. It's all he can manage. His dick is throbbing in his jeans and it's taking everything he's got not to reach down and press it through his pants. Frank, it seems, has no such qualms. He palms his obviously hard dick through his sweatpants and when he catches Ray staring at him as he does it he just leers at the bulge in Ray's jeans.
"Like you didn't think it was hot," Frank retorts, and seriously, Ray still hasn't even said anything yet. Frank glances up the hallway, grabbing Ray by the wrist and taking off down some stairs. Ray follows, trying not to wince because his boner is making it hard to walk. There's a disabled toilet on the ground floor and Frank drags Ray into it, flipping the lock and meeting Ray's eyes, serious. "Just for the record, we are never talking about this, okay?"
Ray just blinks at him. Apparently that's all the response Frank needs, because he shoves his sweatpants and underwear down his thighs and starts jerking off. Just like that.
Ray's sensible brain has obviously completely disengaged, because he's already scrambling for the button on his jeans, tearing the zip down and getting them open just far enough to get his hand inside.
And oh. Oh fuck, that's what he needs.
His eyes slide closed as his fingers form a grip around his dick and he starts jerking it, squeezing and stroking and palming the head. His breath rushes out of him in a stuttery moan as he spreads the precome around with his thumb, speeding his hand because he can't go slow, not now, not when he needs it so bad.
A hacking noise grabs his attention and he opens his eyes in time to see Frank spit into his hand before wrapping it around his dick again. He's jerking off so fast the ink on his fingers blurs, the head of his dick red and shiny with spit and god it should be weird, Ray should close his eyes, but he can't, the view is too hot. He's hot all over, dizzyingly so, and he's got his hand on his dick and Frank's jerking off in front of him and they both just watched Gerard suck Mikey off. Suck off his brother oh shit, it's too much, Ray's too hot, his hand feels too good, he's just-
He comes - hard, his hips jerking forward as he spurts over his fingers.
(cont)
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bonus points if Gerard is drunk when they commence huddling.
also, frank/ray, accidental baby acquisition.
bonus points if neither of them is sure who the father is, because it was an ill-advised threesome with a fan on tour
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Gerard's fingers slide over the bare expanse of skin between the top of Frank's jeans and the bottom of his shirt and Frank shudders, hissing in a breath. "Fuck that's fucking cold."
"I know," Gerard says, though clearly he doesn't know because he leaves his fucking hand there and Frank had no idea that he had Iceman-like mutant powers, but this is proof enough. "So cold, Frankie, we gotta get warm like penguins. With like, body heat." He curls his body around Frank's even though there is nowhere near enough room in the van's centre seat and he nearly pulls them both off onto the disgusting floor.
Frank's pretty sure penguins don't use body heat to warm up, and he draws breath to say so but that just fills his lungs with more cold air and makes him shiver. "Shit, Gee, can't we turn the heat on?"
Gerard burrows his face into Frank's neck and his ice-cold nose brushes behind Frank's ear, raising goosebumps all over his skin, "Otter fucked off with keys. Do you know how to hotwire? I don't know how to hotwire. I mean, I've seen it in movies, but they don't really explain in properly." Gerard's breath smells like pot and whiskey and for once the smell of liquor is stronger than the stink of his unwashed hair.
"I don't know how to hotwire," Frank's words smush into the back of the seat. Gerard's hands are still freezing, but the rest of him is kind of warm, like a human blanket. Maybe he can stay.
"We suck at being from Jersey," Gerard says, and shifts. And shifts again. And again. In fact Frank might go so far as to say he was rutting against him. Frank goes very still and tries to assess the movements. Gerard's hips are glued to Frank's ass and... yeah. Okay. Gerard totally has a boner.
"Gee... what are you..."
Gerard pants out a few breaths, still moving. There's definitely hip-rotation action going on here and Frank's maybe starting to thaw out enough that him not managing to pick up at the after party that - seriously, everyone else managed to pick up at - isn't so bad after all. He rocks back against Gerard experimentally, and the drag of the seat against his own rapidly-forming boner feels pretty good.
Gerard's hands shift, cold fingers burrowing down the front of Frank's jeans and Frank shrieks, grabbing them.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I should have asked. I like, respect you Frankie, I wouldn't just like, invite myself into your pants, I mean, I'd like to - I just, you're pretty cool you know, and I like - what are you doing?"
Frank drags Gerard's stupidly cold hands upwards, cupping his own hands over them and huffing warms breaths onto his fingers. "Your hands are fucking freezing, dude. I don't want to get frostbite on my dick."
"Oh." Gerard says, and when Frank looks over his shoulder to see his face, he catches the moment when Gerard processes the meaning of that one, "Does that mean I get to touch your dick?"
Frank breathes on Gerard's hands again, "Not until your hands are warm."
Gerard looks utterly delighted, then he starts rubbing up against Frank again. The ridiculous part is, as a plan to warm them both up it's actually working.
(cont)
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The way Gerard's hand is squashed down the front of Frank's jeans it's a wonder he can even move it, but somehow it works. Gerard holds on and Frank fucks down into his grip, rubbing back against Gerard. Gerard pants hot breaths into the back of Frank's neck, the warm air rushing under his t-shirt as Gerard paints his skin with his tongue.
It's sloppy, messy and so fucking good. Frank comes sooner than he expects to, grunting his release into the upholstery. His head spins until he presses a hand flat to the side of the van, righting the world on its axis again. Gerard's still rutting against him and Frank gropes behind himself, trying to get a grip so he can give Gerard a hand. Somehow he manages to flip over without tossing them both off the seat. He opens his eyes to a faceful of Gerard's messy hair. Gerard pants down wetly against Frank, shifting so their legs are scissored and he can rub himself off on Frank's thigh.
Frank arches up, kissing Gerard with a clash of teeth, and Gerard whines into his lips, getting spit everywhere as he opens his mouth and shoves his tongue into Frank's. It's clumsy and a little gross, but still fucking hot. Gerard's still got his hand tangled in Franks jeans, come smeared between them. Frank gropes for Gerard's pants, wanting to return the favour. Gerard's pants are tighter than his, he can't find a way in and Gerard keeps thrashing against him, hips stuttering down. Gerard groans against Frank's lips and stiffens against him, and Frank can feel Gerard's belly tremble against his hand as he shudders and comes.
Gerard's O face really ridiculous. His eyes squinch up and his mouth hangs wide open, like a silent scream. Frank's still staring at Gerard's stupid, beautiful face when he comes down, blinking at Frank dumbly.
"Hey," Frank says, his voice raw.
"Hey," Gerard replies, "I'm a lot warmer now."
"Yeah, me too," Frank says with a stupid grin.
(end)
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The next, he's flat on his back, sweat-slick and panting for breath, his dick enveloped in wet heat. He looks down, past his body - which is too tanned and tattooed to be his - to lock eyes with Mikey Way, who's sucking him off.
Well, who's sucking Pete off, if the tattoos are anything to go by, but Patrick is most definitely the one experiencing it. And fuck, Mikey's good with his mouth. Patrick chokes out a noise, which just makes him whine because it comes out in Pete's voice. He reaches down toward Mikey weakly, trying to communicate... what? He doesn't know. Fuck he can barely think. Pete was already close and now Patrick is at the tipping point.
Mikey hums around his dick, and Patrick whines again. Mikey locks eyes with him, and with his hair all fucked up, his eyeliner messy and his glasses crooked - he should look silly. He just looks hot. Patrick suddenly gets what all fuss is about. Mikey blinks up at him, working his mouth around Patrick's dick like he was born to suck cock, his yes locked to Patrick's.
Patrick comes a moment later, grunting out a high pitched noise in Pete's voice as he shudders up in to Mikey's mouth.
He's still shaking when Mikey pulls off with a wet sound. He palms Patrick's dick - Pete's dick - gently, sending little aftershocks up Patrick's spine. He slides up Patrick's body with surprising grace, managing to not bump his head on the low bunk ceiling. Then he's kissing Patrick, tasting of salt and bitter and Patrick doesn't have the strength not to kiss back.
Mikey kisses messy, and dirty and Patrick can feel the hard press of his cock where he's rubbing it off against Patrick's thigh. And Patrick's going to stop this. In a moment. Any moment now.
The sharp tear of velcro startles them out of the kiss. Someone's ripped open the bunk curtains. Patrick looks to the side, knowing what to expect but dreading it all the same. What he sees is his own face, wearing a grin that is totally Pete's.
"Do that again, oh my god." Pete sounds gleeful.
Patrick has to look away, unable to look himself in the face. "Oh god."
"Pete?" Mikey asks, helpfully pushing the messy sheets over Patrick's lap.
Patrick's head is spinning. Or is it Pete's? Oh god. Oh god, he can't think. "Pete, what the fuck?" He says to Pete, who is still gaping at the two of them like Christmas came early.
"No, you're Pete," Mikey points out helpfully, poking Patrick in his (lean, tanned, tattooed) chest. He straightens his glasses. He's kind of adorable when he does that, Patrick's brain notes unhelpfully.
"No, he isn't! That's the thing." Pete points out, way too cheerfully and Patrick wants to roll over and bury his face in the pillow but he's pretty sure there is no logistical way to do that without kicking Mikey in the head, so he just covers his face with his hands.
"You need to explain, Pete. What the fuck just happened?"
"Why do you keep calling him Pete?" Mikey asks, "You're Pete."
"Pete," Patrick says, using his special Pete-you're-being-a-dick tone, and it amazingly actually still works even in different voice.
Pete pulls up short, glancing between Mikey and Patrick. Patrick can see the wheels turning, but he's not fast enough to predict the next part before it happens.
Pete kisses Mikey.
It shouldn't be a big deal, because Pete and Mikey have kissed heaps. Except this time Mikey doesn't know it's Pete. He squeaks against Pete's mouth, not kissing back, but not pulling away either. Patrick gets stuck staring as Pete kisses Mikey with his mouth. It's like watching himself in a mirror or something, but way, way weirder.
Pete kisses differently to Patrick, he's more messy and aggressive, and he bites more. Mikey must know it - must recognise it, because when they break apart, his mouth wet and swollen, he stares at Pete and says, "Pete?"
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Gerard keeps dreaming about robot mice. He wakes up with hand cramps from gripping a phantom controller, visions of shining metal and video displays reeling in his brain.
He tells himself it's nothing. He he has a lot of fucked up dreams - they've been consistent since he quit the BL/ind mood stabilisers and fucked off into the zones - but something about these particular dreams feels tangible. Real.
It's probably nothing. He's lacking sleep, undernourished, and his brain's in overdrive from too many days on the run.
He straps on his thigh holster and shrugs into his jacket. They have work to do.
*
Mikey said they shouldn't take this job. He has a point - it's not what they usually do. The Killjoys don't do stealth, they're more a blow-it-up-in-your-face demolition team. But the prize of meds. food and fuel is too much to turn down after they've been shafted for trade a couple of times in a row.
On the surface it's simple enough. It takes Ray less than an hour to write the virus and they'll use Peppers to deliver it to the target. (Gerard still thinks it's weird that Frank modeled his first droid on his old dog, but he'd never say that to Frank's face.)
It isn't until they get into the arena full of screaming fans and overtuned dub-step - the clock already counting down - that Gerard realises they should have listened to Mikey.
Because there, towering above the teeming crowd, are two giant robot mice.
"Oh shit," Gerard swears, stumbling over his own feet.
"Poison?" Ray hisses, catching Gerard around the shoulder and dodging them behind an arena support structure, mostly out of sight, "You okay?"
Gerard shakes his head, peering around the metal strut to get a better look and no, he wasn't mistaken. It's the same fucking robot mouse from his dream. "I've seen that droid before," he tells Ray, trying to think of how, or why he would know this fucking robot over any other. He couldn't have just dreamed it up.
"You probably saw it on a broadcast or a billboard, they've been pimping this match for weeks on the tubes," Ray says.
It's a good explanation, but it doesn't quell the roil in Gerard's stomach. It's too late to do anything about it though, they're in it to their necks. Deadmau5 doesn't take IOUs. If they fuck this up they'll have better luck surviving a swarm of dracs in the centre of batt city than staying another day in the zones. They have to follow through.
Despite all Gerard's internal drama - or perhaps to spite it - the job goes off without a hitch. Gerard signals Frank across the arena, and gets Frank's answering handflash. No one spots Peppers on the studio floor, and the little droid is well out of the way by the time the virus takes effect. Gerard's view of the controller's stage is blocked by crowd, but he can see the bots well enough, towering above everything and everyone. When one of them goes dead still, it's motor processors tied up with lines of Ray's beautiful code - victory for Deadmau5 is guaranteed.
Gerard sends Frank the exit signal so they can get the fuck out of there.
They're nearly out the doors when all hell breaks loose. Gerard turns around in time to see one of the giant mice crash to the ground, sparks and metal flying in every direction, tearing down the arena dome and sending fires flaring up all around the stage. Fuck.
He grabs for Ray and races for the doors, but the panicked crowd of zit-heads and popper-tarts get in the way, separating them. He swears, trying to keep eyes on where Ray is, trying to find an exit, but the press of people is too much. Smoke blocks his view and makes his eyes water, and he's coughing, trapped in the crush as it gets hotter and smokier.
He drops low, shoving a bandanna over his mouth to cut the fumes. He burrows through legs until he finds an opening in the arena wall, tucking his body into it, away from kicking feet and flames, screams of the crowd echoing through the metal at his back.
The bandanna cuts the smoke a little but it isn't enough, nowhere near. He stays conscious for as long as he can, but in the end the fumes win out. They always do.
(cont)
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Warnings: mild bondage, D/s
Gerard wakes up hard and panting. He stares down at his naked wrists, certain he can feel the phantom sensation of material wrapped tight around them. It was such an intense dream.
Red material, tied in a messy knot, holding his hands above his head. He's straining, sweating, his cock hard and leaking but he can't touch, can't do anything. His knees hurt from kneeling. He's begging... please, please, I need to come. The material pulls tighter around his wrists, and he fixates on the black pattern against the red fabric, his hips pushing forward against empty air.
When he's so desperate he can't see straight, he feels lips on the back of his neck, arms wrapping around him from behind, skilled fingers jerking his dick, giving him that release he craves. He comes, groaning, looking down to watch the hands as they bring him off, familiar tattoos blurring with motion.
Frank's hands.
Gerard shoves a hand down his pajama pants and brings himself off, quick and silent, before he can think about what it means.
*
He doesn't think about it again. Not until soundcheck, when Frank catches his arm, telling him something that Gerard doesn't absorb - because wrapped around Frank's wrist is the same red bandanna from his dream.
It's just a coincidence. Frank always wears a bandanna when he plays. It's just a freak accident that it's the same colour, the same pattern Gerard remembers.
The explanation doesn't stop the flush that creeps up his cheeks, or the heat that gathers in his groin.
He stutters out a nonsensical answer to whatever Frank says and excuses himself, racing for the bathroom.
*
The next morning he wakes up clutching at his throat.
This time, it's a belt. Gerard's belt, the one with the batman buckle, pulled firm around his throat. Frank's not touching him this time, but it's his hands that hold the belt tight around Gerard's neck as recites a steady stream of filth, hot into Gerard's ear.
"Yeah, that's it Gee. Touch yourself. Show me how you get yourself off. Do it right, or I'll..." the belt gets incrementally tighter and Gerard gasps, his hand moving faster on his own dick, bringing himself off at Frank's command.
"Yeah, do it."
Gerard can still hear Frank's voice in his head when he shoves his hand into his underwear and jerks off fast and rough. He claps a hand over his mouth, breathing hard through his nose, smelling his own sweat as he shudders and comes.
*
It isn't until their halfway through their first song at soundcheck when Gerard notices Frank is wearing the belt with the bat buckle. He drops half the chorus and barely keeps a hold of his mic. His pants are too fucking tight.
*
(CONT)
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Warnings: References to major character death in an alternate universe. Total and utter weirdness.
It's a slow night and Frank's bored shitless. He lights a cigarette, hoping a hit of nicotine will make the time pass faster. It doesn't. It never does.
He's watching the smoke curl up from the cherry, dancing pretty in the streetlight beam when a squeal of tires assaults his ears.
"Frank! What the fuck are you doing? Get in the goddamn car!" There's an angry man in a rental car shouting at him. He's got lightning bolt sideburns and full sleeves, but he doesn't look that scary. He's not one of Frank's regulars, but if he knows Frank's name and where to come then someone's vouched for him.
Frank shrugs and crushes out the cigarette under the heel of his boot. Sometimes the ones who want roleplay have a blanket need. It's not the worst kind of john to get. He mentally tacks on a weirdo surcharge and strolls over to the car, flattening his hands on the roof and leaning over the open window.
"Where are we going?" He doesn't add 'babe' to the end of the sentence, but it's implied.
"I swear to fuck you're gonna give me a heart attack one day. Get in!"
Up close Frank can tell the guy is both tiny and angry. It's not a violent kind of angry, though. It's more of a sighing, nose-pinching annoyance. Nothing that's throwing up any red flags - yet.
The tiny annoyed guy leans across the seat to throw the passenger door open shouting, "In! In! In!" until Frank climbs into the car just to shut him up. He does a quick scan once he's inside - the rental's empty but for a couple of takeaway coffee cups, so the guy can't have had it long. He's not your typical out of town businessman, what with the tatts and gauged ears, but then Frank learned years ago that money doesn't always equal a three piece suit. He's not ugly either. Aside from the weirdo role play thing (which will likely drop away once they get down to business proper) this is probably not going to be a bad job.
"Jesus Christ Frank, do you want us to miss a show? Is that what you want? What the fuck were you doing out there anyway?" The guy revs the engine (badly, obviously he prefers to drive a stick) and wrenches the wheel so they pull away from the curb.
Frank observes the guy a moment, weighing up what he should say. The role players definitely prefer it if you play along, without trying to lead too much. "Have I done something wrong?" he asks carefully, "do I need to be punished?" he puts extra emphasis on the word punished because why be subtle when you're on the clock?
The guy glances between him and the road, looking confused and suspicious. So okay, wrong answer then. Fine. Frank's good at reading people but he's not a fucking mindreader.
"Okay fine, I get where you're coming from with this whole roleplay scenario, but can we talk turkey for a minute? How about I tell you my rates and you tell me what you want and we figure out a plan?" The speech is practically rote by now, but the guy is not responding at all normally.
"Frank, stop fucking around or I'll just lock you in a room with Bob, and let me tell you, you are not in his good books right now."
Okay, there's a new thing - who is this Bob guy and how does he fit in? Fuck Frank hates it when he has to wing it. "Look, if you're gonna start adding in other people that's a whole other rate card. I do couples, fine, but you're lucky, man, not all of us do. You should mention that shit up front." Frank says, keeping his voice nice and neutral. "So okay, what were you thinking? You want a standard threesome or you want me to fuck him while you watch, or fuck me while he watches, or what?"
The guy stares at Frank so long he nearly totals the fucking car.
*
(CONT)
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When Ray teaches Frank and Mikey to ride their motorcycles for the first time. :)
Sorry apparently I fail at following directions... but I'd still like that one so I'm going to leave it to marinate in your head.
Um. Ray/Mikey/Frank Truth or Dare!!
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Solo Gerard
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ray/bob
yay you
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(Anonymous) 2012-09-29 09:25 am (UTC)(link)