HICKEY COMMENT FIC POST

[schmerica]

So okay, I have been having a pretty rotten week, and I know I am not anything like alone in this.

But you know what makes everything better? HICKEYS. No, seriously, there's something about them in fic -- that combination of the sexiness of making out that we sometimes neglect for the porn; the heat of the moment thing where they maybe go farther than they mean to; that possessive satisfaction of seeing a mark they made on the other person.

So lordessrenegade and I just spent the last twenty minutes emailing our own hickey ficlets back and forth, and we have decided that the secret to making this week less sucky is to come have EVERYBODY come write comment fic about them here. Who's with us?

We'll start, naturally:

MIKEY/PETE (pearl)

I just really like the idea of Mikeyway and hickeys, for some reason.

Sometimes, during the Summer of Like, there are times when Pete and Mikey are together and there are marks on Mikey that Pete knows he wasn't the one to put there. And it's not like he can say about it, because ... they're not together, him and Mikey. They're not boyfriends, they've never made each other any promises about anything. He doesn't owe Pete any explanation.

But Pete always ends up making more marks himself, bigger and better ones, like he's trying to replace them with something of his own. When Mikey;s band sees his chest they laugh and hoot at him for all the hickeys, and Pete loves that sound.

MIKEY/RAY (Jai)

Mikey's not really one for leaving them, he likes getting them too much, but there's this one time he and Ray are making out, and he's kissing Ray's neck, and Ray tips his head like he's trying to get MORE, like he can't get enough of Mikey's mouth on him, so Mikey sucks harder, and he bites, and he can feel the sounds Ray's making under his mouth, which is kind of the hottest thing ever. when he pulls back, there's this mark peeking out from the edge of Ray's shirt, and Mikey feels halfway between pleased and embarrassed every time he catches sight of it while they're onstage.

*****

Put your pairing in the subject line so people can find stuff easier. Obviously Jai and I are bandom-focused at the moment, but any fandom, any pairing, any rating is welcome. Go crazy!

Comments

[cidercupcakes.livejournal.com]

All of my ideas are for ridiculous crossover pairings. Plus, for some reason, Bruce Springsteen/Steve Van Zandt. So probably I will wait until other people have gone so I don't stick out as much. /o\

[pearl-o.livejournal.com]

lololol. ILU NEVAR CHANGE.

Pete/Gabe

[inlovewithnight.livejournal.com]

Gabe likes to leave his mark, because he is an arrogant motherfucker and obviously anyone who's been making out with Gabe Saporta must want the whole world to know it. No matter how many times Pete tells him that it is, in fact, annoying as hell, Gabe just grins at him all slow and lazy and then fucking bites him again.

"I'm going to do horrible things to you with the Internet," Pete tells him, scowling at his reflection in the mirror. "My vengeance is going to be fucking epic."

"Whatever." Gabe holds his phone over Pete's shoulder and snaps a picture of the slow-blossoming marks. "I'm sending this to your wife. She's got a standing request in for documentation of the damage."

"Well, if you two are teaming up I'm fucking screwed, aren't I?"

"Baby, we've been teamed up from the beginning." Gabe grins and nuzzles at where Pete's neck joins his shoulder, and Pete realizes what's coming just a split-second too late. Screwed, bruised, and yeah, okay, happy about it.



(Um. Hi! I friended you because Jules and Amy both say you are awesome. And also because I've developed a Thing for Pete/Mikey and...yeah, this is an awkward "hi I friended you!" comment. BACK TO THE HICKEYS.)

Re: Pete/Gabe

[pearl-o.livejournal.com]

Oh man, this is AWESOME. Ashlee and Gabe teaming up on Pete = best thing ever, perhaps.

(HI. Anybody who loves Amy and Jules is A+ in my book! Pete/Mikey love just gets you extra bonus points. :DDDDD)

Re: Pete/Gabe

[desfinado.livejournal.com]

I loved this! Perfect tempo for a ficlet, and a great last line.

Gerard/Ray

[pearl-o.livejournal.com]

It's dark when Ray wakes up and it takes him a couple of seconds to place where he is: the basement at the Ways', snuggled in close with Gerard in his twin bed. Gerard's still asleep beside him, snoring a little, warm and heavy wherever they're touching.

Ray tries to disturb him as little as possible as he slips out of the bed. His legs are a little shaky still, but just a little, and his head's sensitive but not actually sore; he's not as hungover as he could be. His mouth tastes like ass, though, and he can only imagine what his hair is doing.

He's still wearing his shorts and his t-shirt. He finds his jeans near the bed, beside a couple of empty beer cans. Sneakers a couple feet away, one kicked against the wall. Coat hanging on the bannister at the bottom of the stairs.

He pulls them all back on and looks back at Gerard from the stairs. He's turned over onto his stomach, sprawling into the space where Ray just was. It looks cozy and nice and Ray kind of wants to just go back and force his way back in to cuddle, but -- it's late already, and he's got work this afternoon, so he heads up the stairs.

The Ways' house smells like freshly brewed coffee. Mikey way's sitting in the kitchen at the table, his own mug clasped tightly between his hands.

"Hey, Mikey Way," Ray says. He helps himself to a cup from the cabinet by the sink and fills it up.

Mikey makes an acknowledging noise in reply. When Ray finishes at the machine he turns around and Mikey is watching him with a faintly amused smirk on his face.

"You have a good time last night?" Mikey says, absolutely dry.

Ray shrugs. "Yeah, I guess. We just hung out. You know."

"Uh-huh," Mikey says. "I can see that."

Ray's blushing and he doesn't even know why. "What do you mean?"

"Gerard, uh. He left you a present." Mikey gestures vaguely towards his own neck, and Ray can feel his own eyes go wide when he realizes what Mikey's implying.

"Did he -- shit," Ray says. There's a mirror on the wall of the hallway outside the kitchen; he goes to look.

In full technocolor splendor, all over Ray's neck: the biggest fucking hickey he's ever seen in his entire life.

Mikey's followed him into the hall, precious coffee still in his hands. He takes a sip and looks at Ray appraisingly. "I have a lot of scarves, if you need to borrow one," he offers.

"I -- that might be a good idea," Ray says.

Mikey nods and heads upstairs. Ray stays in front of the mirror. He can't look away, it seems. It's stupid and it's incredibly embarrassing but it's also ... hot. It's totally hot, and he watches himself trace the lines and it makes him shiver a little.

"Crap," Ray says to the mirror, but his reflection is smiling back.

Re: Gerard/Ray

[inlovewithnight.livejournal.com]

Pretty.

Re: Gerard/Ray

[brooklinegirl.livejournal.com]

...I love this. I just - *flails* - boys! morning after! HICKEYS ARE THE BEST, PEARL.

Ray/Gabe

[delphinapterus.livejournal.com]

Gabe never liked hickies until Ray gave him one. Ray has this thing where he starts so soft it's not even noticable until Ray increases the pressure when his skin is already starting to darken. Then it just goes on and on until it's like one slow wave of pressure against his skin. Ray always gives him one on his inner thigh because Ray doesn't want anyone to see it but Gabe.

RPF/Bandom, Bruce Springsteen/Steven Van Zandt

[cidercupcakes.livejournal.com]

They were pretty stoned, and they were fucking around on the bus before they had to get inside for the sound check. They'd all found Danny's latest hiding place for his shit so they figured they would let him know by smoking some of it, but then everyone else was gone and it was just them, fucking around instead of getting their guitars inside. Let's face it, they were both too stoned for it to be real clear, and way too stoned for it to be anything but a good idea, right?

"Seriously, man," Bruce says, after they've managed to pull themselves together. "We gotta get in there." And then he breaks out giggling, and manages to squeak, "I'm the fuckin' frontman, Steve, and my fuckin' band -- "

Both of them get a wicked fit of the giggles once Bruce starts pulling his shirt back on and points to something on his chest, a bright red mark by his shoulder that Steve dimly remembers not being able to lift his mouth from. It's all a haze, though, especially now that they're both unable to focus on anything but how hilarious it is. Probably they're still pretty stoned.

The door opens while they keep trying to stop giggling (it doesn't go well, on account of Bruce found Steve's hat, and started giggling over that, and when they were getting ahold of themselves again Bruce couldn't figure out his belt buckle and that set them off again). The door opens at one point, and Max steps up into the bus, looks at them for a second, and then turns around and walks back out without saying a word.

Re: RPF/Bandom, Bruce Springsteen/Steven Van Zandt

[inlovewithnight.livejournal.com]

OH MAX. This shit happens to you ALL THE TIME, doesn't it, bb?

::hearts::

1/2

[desfinado.livejournal.com]

This one time, at an Eyeball party, Frank had to get a passport.

It's this thing--this totally stupid, spin-the-bottle-style thing--that everyone that gets signed to the label inevitably gets a "passport" at the next party. Probably something thought up by some ugly dudes in A&R who never saw any action and wanted a chance at one of the few female bands.

Whatever the lame excuse, it was tradition. And when a band is signed and everything feels like luck and possibility, tradition counts. Of course Frank fought it off for months because he claimed he wasn't new to the label like Otter, Ray and the brothers were.

But one night at an Eyeball party a young aggro group was getting toasted, beers slopped everywhere and skinhead chicks latching onto their necks to suck loud and messy "passports" into their skin, and everyone started giving Frank shit.

Eventually he just gave up, pushing off Ray's thigh to unfold from the too-deep old couch and march to the centre of the living room. He scrunched his eyes shut, neck of his beer bottle tipped slightly away as he held his arms out at his sides.

"Fuck it, now or never you whores."

Amidst the shouts and laughter, he heard someone muttering "You! No you!" and he tried to remember which girls were in the room, and if any were likely to put out after sucking a lip-stick-messy hickey into his neck. He thought maybe there was that one girl with the wallet chain, not usually his type but not bad...

Frank's breath caught for a moment as hands gripped his shoulders and all of a sudden lips were on his skin, at the dip between the tendons of his neck and the muscle of his shoulder. They sucked hard and fast, like someone trying to get it over with, and the pain was sharp and familiar, pooling warmth in the base of his spine.

Hair fell around Frank's neck, and a knee bumped up against the back of his thigh. Just as he was expecting the mouth to disappear, wondering who the girl was that was clearly so much taller than him, Frank heard the stumble of feet directly in front of him--like someone had been pushed forward--and a few snorted laughs from the periphery of the room. Frank's arms were starting to droop a bit.

A hand folded lightly over the one already at his shoulder and a mouth brushed his pulse on the unoccupied side of his neck. Frank sucked his lip ring into his mouth, sweaty grip on his beer bottle loosening as he tried hard not to pop one while standing (stupidly) in the middle of a room full of people. But fuck, two chicks, and his body was doing that thing again... the thing where the press of teeth from the long-haired girl and the warm, wet exhale through the other girl's nose felt like falling backwards into beds, pulling a warm body with him and baring his neck, tangling his hands in long hair and pulling. And where those two hands were overlapping, the one on top was squeezing, like an assurance that yes, this is fucking hot, and maybe Frank was hoping it was also a "Let's find a room" squeeze. He'd take back all his bitching about passports if it meant a threesome. Damn.

"Jesus," Frank muttered, and he heard Otter's laugh from the couch followed by others. He felt the plastic rim of a pair of glasses bump one side of his neck and the two girls pulled back, footsteps receding. Frank dropped his arms, scrubbing one hand over his face before looking back out at the room, at the smiling faces of his friends, and laughed as well. "Give a guy some notice, huh? Fucking tag-teamed."

2/2

[desfinado.livejournal.com]

Frank turned around to find the girls, to see if they were looking interested or not--he could always just laugh it off--and saw the Way brothers shoulder to shoulder, leaning back heavily against the living room wall. Mikey had his hands jammed in his pockets and was smiling stupidly at his pidgeon-toed chucks. Gerard had his head bowed and shoulders hunched in that self-conscious way he always stood, thumb at the corner of his mouth.

Frank frowned, and thought--no, no fucking way. But then Gerard lifted his eyes to meet Frank's through the screen of his hair and the corner of his mouth pulled up in a half-smile underneath the pad of his thumb. Frank immediately slapped his hands over each side of his neck, forgotten beer sloshing and dribbling down his knuckles to soak in the collar of his shirt.

"No way." Everyone laughed, the buzz of conversations picking back up in the room again as attention started to drift away from Frank.

Mikey's eyes darted to the hallway and back, one eyebrow slightly raised. After choking on his own breath for a few moments, Frank found himself looking for a place to put his beer down because fuck this passport shit, he had somewhere to go. He followed the broad slump of Gerard's shoulders out of the room.

David Henrie/Selena Gomez

[amathela.livejournal.com]

THIS IS SO NOT WHAT I'M SUPPOSED TO BE DOING RIGHT NOW.

-

"David," Selena says. And she's pretty sure there's supposed to be more to that, like David, we should stop, or David, this is stupid, or even, David, maybe we should prop something up against the door of the dressing room so someone doesn't accidentally walk in here and catch us, but his mouth is on her neck, trailing up from her collarbone, and it's not like they're even doing anything, really, his hands are just on her waist, but she's still finding it a little difficult to concentrate. Or to speak. Thinking is mostly out of the question, too. She can maybe make some throaty noises and form basic concepts in her head, but that's about it.

And even if she could speak, like, even if she could bring herself to care? She's not even sure how they got here in the first place. Like, in general, she gets, sometimes it feels like they've been building up to this forever, even if other times it feels like it kind of came out of nowhere and blindsided her, but right here, right now, specifically? She has no idea. One minute, they'e just sitting on the couch, legs kind of touching, because they can do that now, but innocent, reading lines, laughing about something that must have been funny but she probably couldn't remember for the life of her. And the next, they're doing this, David kissing her while his hands slide up inside her shirt (only a little, not so much she'll think he's pushing, because that discussion, they've had already), backing her up against the arm of the couch while he lays half on top of her.

"David," she tries again (and she's not really sure if she's trying to get his attention, any more, or if she's just saying his name), but she only gets about halfway through the word before she has to suck in a breath, instead, because even if they're fully clothed and not even in a particularly compromising position, the entire dressing room feels like it's about a thousand degrees, starting wherever his skin is touching hers. And David must take that as encouragement or something, because he kind of grinds against her a little (just a little, in a way that's almost accidental), and his mouth presses harder against her neck, sucking more than kissing, and she knows it's going to leave a mark, knows that's a bad thing and she should probably care, but she can't quite bring herself to object.

(And she's supposed to be the responsible one, supposed to worry about what people think and actually care about living up to their expectations, but god.)

So she kind of grinds against him back, enough that it feels good, not so much he'll think she's asking him to take it further, and tilts her head back against the armrest, showing him what she can't actually ask him to do. And David's good at this, has always been good at this, playing off her reaction. On camera, or off.

His name, two syllables, seems like it might be beyond her right now, so she says, "Oh," instead, or something like it, and she can feel him smile against her neck, feel it burn where his lips meet her skin, the way they move a little every time she swallows. And then his mouth moves down again, staying above the neckline of her t-shirt, leaving behind skin that's red and sore and swollen and probably shouldn't feel anywhere near as good as it does.

And then she says, "David," because it turns out she can speak, now, after all, and he stops, looks up at her, partly concerned and partly just sort of dazed. (And she won't lie, there's a part of her that kind of loves knowing she can make him look like that.) And, okay, more words. Than one. Would be good. "Maybe we should lock the door."

"It doesn't lock," he says, but he seems to understand what she's getting at, anyway, because he gets up, wedges a chair underneath the door handle, and raises an eyebrow at her, like he's expecting her to comment on how cool he is or something. Which, well, it isn't exactly subtle, but neither is the hickey that's probably forming on her neck, and if they're pressed about it, she supposes they could just say the door got stuck or something (and that they were only running lines, of course).

And for the other thing, well, that's what makeup is for.

Re: David Henrie/Selena Gomez

[pearl-o.livejournal.com]

eee, yay! The teenageness want-but-not-too-much-but-want. And David, trying to be cool but he's not but he's hot anyway. YAY.

Joan Holloway/Harry S. Truman

[austen.livejournal.com]

Okay, so mine is a ridiculous crossover pairing mostly inspired by RP, but this was too much fun to pass up. SO.

*

"Sheriff Truman?"

He looks through the front window at the familiar chirp of Lucy Moran's voice; the blonde, visibly-pregnant receptionist idly sways in the chair on the other side.

"There's a woman waiting for you, but when I asked her if she had an appointment, she said she didn't need one, and then when I asked her if she'd like to wait, she said she'd go into your office and wait there, so I said I wasn't sure if you'd like that very much, and then she said--"

"Slow down, Lucy. Did you get a name?"

"Joan," Lucy answers. "She said her name was Joan."

He clears his throat; there may be a moment when he swallows, once, before he tells Lucy to hold all of his calls and then walks through the door with his name on it.

She's drawn all the blinds, turned on the desk lamp, but there's still the eerie cast of shadows throughout the room, and he has to blink a few times before his eyes adjust, but when they finally do, he catches her shifting in the corner. She's in red today, and the color isn't harsh or grating alongside her hair, even though she's wearing it down today. He's still so caught up in it and the way it looks like autumn leaves that he hasn't realized she's sitting on the edge of his desk, her legs crossed at the knee. Slowly, she uncrosses her legs, and he swallows - again.

"Joan," he manages, as she pushes herself up from the desk and starts moving towards him. She doesn't stop when she gets to him, the toes of her pumps grazing the steel of his boots, but instead, she's in his space, in his breathing room. His nose fills with the scent of her perfume, and he groans at the press of her body.

"Joan," he says again. "We shouldn't - not here."

Her index finger presses against his lips on the last word, and suddenly he's trying to remember why this was a bad idea, exactly, as her mouth finds his, hungry, searching. Her hands run over his chest right around the same time that his back meets the closed door, and she pulls back to tug on his lower lip with her teeth.

Fifteen minutes later, she walks out, leaving him all kinds of trussed and covered in her lipstick kisses.

Re: Joan Holloway/Harry S. Truman

[gloss]

So sexy and beautiful, just like them! And Lucy's *voice* is just so right. <333

(Never would have put them together, but the fashion sense *alone* makes it feel right.)

Kat/Joanna

[austen.livejournal.com]

Joanna doesn't remember when it started.

She doesn't even remember which way is up, really, not anymore, but she remembers Kat coming home with a super-sad look on her face because of that stupid husband of hers, so Joanna had offered to break out the bottles of liquor, and then somewhere along the way they'd forgotten to call Roxie about it, and really, it was just easier to keep this one among roommates, because that's what the two of them were now, right?

Except Joanna's pretty sure that roommates don't get into the habit of making out with each other, even though that's sort of what's happening right now. The bottle's on the floor now, tipped over, but Joanna's also pretty sure they didn't leave enough to spill, and she can't exactly lean down to pick it up, either, when Kat's on top of her with her hands under her shirt.

"Your hands are cold," she gasps, and Kat blushes and apologizes quickly, which has got to be one of the most adorable things ever, but then she follows it up by putting her mouth on Joanna's neck and Joanna stops thinking altogether. Her own hands are all over the place - Kat's shoulders, combing through her hair, her back, even skimming down to squeeze her ass before Kat looks at her with this face that clearly says, don't be ridiculous. So Joanna just settles for touching her cheek and then, eventually, dares to slip a hand down Kat's blouse to touch a breast, which, judging by the noises Kat's making against her neck, is a pretty good choice.

Kat's still going to town on her neck and it feels fantastic, and Joanna murmurs something about that being why they didn't invite Roxie this time, and then she starts thinking about how she'll have to break out the extra-heavy concealer tomorrow, but this? Totally worth it.

She's so busy thinking that, when Kat comes up for air to kiss her again, she doesn't see the plant on her windowsill bursting into bloom - and even if she did, it's not like it's related to anything, right?

Re: Kat/Joanna

[cidercupcakes.livejournal.com]

YESSSSSSSS

Ugh, I love how you tied in the plant, too. &them;

Greek, Beaver/Wade

[drunktuesdays.livejournal.com]

Wade finds a quarter heads up on the street outside Dobbler's as he and Beaver are stumbling out, his cheek still red from when that hot chick slapped it.

"You know what this means," Beaver says solemnly.

Wade does indeed. They have a rack of Keystone in the closet for exactly such occasions. "HEATH," he yells into his phone. "QUARTERS!"

Heath yells from both behind him and through the speaker of the phone, "GOT IT!"

"Ow," Wade says and the three of them stumble and weave through the crowd back towards the house. No one's home when they get there, so Heath jogs down to the basement to grab beers, and Beaver grabs a cup and sits it on the ground, and he and Wade sit crosslegged around it.

"Tonight felt like a lucky night," Heath says as he flops down, completing the circle. He pops the tab on the beer and starts pouring with one hand, and pushes his hair off his face with the other.

"Dude," Beaver crows loudly.

"Lucky is right," Wade agrees, and at Heath's confused face they point at the hickey blooming right under his ear.

"Oh shit," Heath says. He covers it with his hand, and grins at them.

"You're like a stealth ninja of sex," Beaver says. "I was with you most of the night, and I didn't see you hit on anyone."

"Yeah man," Wade said. "The only dude you talked to other than us was..." He trails off as both he and Beaver realize. "Calvin!"

Heath's got a shit eating grin that stretches from ear to ear. "What can I say? Life is great." He balances the quarter on his thumbnail and flicks it toward the cup. It hits the rim and bounces in. "Drink, motherfucker," Heath says, pointing at Wade. His phone buzzes on the floor, and Wade watches in disbelief as he books upstairs, like something good's in his room or some shit.

"Heath sucks," Beaver says.

"Totally," Wade says, and chugs the beer. "Hate that guy."


The next morning they both descend like zombies. Zombies that have been hit with bulldozers, and are going back for more.

"Someone get a pledge to turn down the sun," Beaver groans, laying his cheek on the table.

"Nice hickeys," Cappie says, passing them.

"Heath hooked up with Calvin last night," Wade explains. "He had a big hickey on his neck, so we're making fun of him."

Cappie stops. "Heath hooked up last night, so you two got drunk and gave each other hickeys. To mock him."

"Uh, yeah," Wade says.

"Duh," Beaver says.

"Right," Cappie says, and doles them each out some tylenol.

Re: Greek, Beaver/Wade

[stealstheashes.livejournal.com]

Of course that is totally the reason they gave each other hickeys. IL WADE AND BEAVER AND HEATH AND CALVIN AND THIS.

Buffy/Faith

[impertinence.livejournal.com]

She still closes her eyes sometimes - usually when Faith's slammed her down on the mat. It's reflex at this point, really, even though there's a little more pain at 25 then there was at 16. Slayers, it turns out, age just like normal people.

"Except," Faith always says with a smile, "with superpowers."

Of course, when she opens her eyes Faith's usually over her. She's got a cocky smile, because that's Faith in a nutshell. Sometimes, though, Buffy can make the smile disappear, either by punching her or leaning up and sinking her teeth into Faith's shoulder.

It's a tactical maneuver until Faith's hands clench in her hair, and then she's wrapping her arms around Faith's waist and pulling her down. They're a little sick about this, Buffy thinks, because her fingers move to Faith's bruises, tracing each one of them, pressing down and savoring the way Faith's breath catches. And Faith bites her fingers, her lips, laughing a little when Buffy kicks her, then biting too hard again.

The bruises still fade faster than any normal person's, but they get them night after night, layering fresh purple on green on yellow. It's not why Buffy does it, but it might be a little of why Faith does.

So she presses a little harder, and when Faith bites out, "Fuck, B," she knows she's anchoring Faith down as much as anything else.

Re: Buffy/Faith

[cidercupcakes.livejournal.com]

JFC YES. This is awesome. This is how I love this pairing, when there's real affection there underneath it all, and sometimes if they're beating the shit out of each other it's just because they like to beat the shit out of each other.

Bruce Springsteen/Gabe Saporta

[cidercupcakes.livejournal.com]

I would just like to state for the record that I blame pearl_o and inlovewithnight.




Gabe has to assume that if the cobra sends him on a mystical voyage through time back to the 70s there's a reason for it. And if that reason involves Bruce Springsteen's dick in his mouth, well, who is he to question it? Gabe is from Jersey, man, if presented with the chance to suck Bruce Springsteen's dick, he is damn well going to suck Bruce Springsteen's dick, and he is going to suck it for England.

The carpet's so thin that there may as well just be Gabe's jeans between his knees and the floor, and if he has his way the jeans won't be in the way much longer, either. He's got both hands in play, bringing his A-game, and he didn't even realize he was talking dirty until Bruce says, "Man, how the hell are you talking?"

He just sounds impressed, and not nearly out of breath enough, so Gabe just grins at him and gets up from his knees, crawls into his lap and wraps his legs around the guy's skinny little waist. "I'm just that good," he says, except then it's his turn to make incoherent noises because Bruce's mouth is on his throat, his teeth are closing here and there as he keeps on kissing. Before Gabe knows it, he's on his knees again -- well, okay, all fours -- and he's got the motherfucking Boss's cock in his ass, and it's all starting to go hazy again, although that could be the orgasm or the mystical voyage effect.

It's a couple hours later when Victoria wakes him up, asks him where he hell he disappeared to last night. "I was on a mystical voyage," he explains, maybe a little haughty but who can blame him, that was some intense shit even for an experienced prophet like Gabe Saporta.

She just snorts, and tosses his hoodie at him. "You're gonna need it," she says, which he doesn't get until she pinches his shoulder and he realizes that scrawny little 70s Springsteen has left a crazy-looking bite mark/hickey on his arm.

"Victoria," Gabe says, because clearly he needs to explain to them all what this means for them, "when I finish telling you about last night, you will understand that this is a badge of honor."

She just keeps looking at him, and he finally puts on the hoodie anyway.

Re: Bruce Springsteen/Gabe Saporta

[impertinence.livejournal.com]

I

LOVE

YOU

SO

FUCKING

MUCH

♥_♥

Princess Protection Program: Carter/Rosie

[elucreh.livejournal.com]

Carter misses Rosie every time school takes her away from Costa Luna, misses her with a fierce sick ache that is nothing like the dull pain of wanting the lake where she grew up or the yellow suite full of graceful antiques that is Carter's part of the island, nothing even like being left helplessly wishing for her dad like a lost child on days when nothing goes right.

She handles it the way she handles everything, like an attack might make it better. She pounces as soon as they get back from Rosie's official appearance at evening Mass, closing the world behind the oak door and shoving Rosie back against it, seizing Rosie's lower lip between her teeth. Rosie always sinks into it with a little sigh of surrender, as though she doesn't understand it but is prepared to do her best to enjoy it.

Carter will sink to her knees and bite her way up Rosie's skirt, burying herself in the warm dark heat of Rosie's thighs. She'll spend a few minutes sucking a dark mark onto Rosie's skin, just for the excuse to rest her head against Rosie's leg and breathe in her scent. She'll be able to feel the fabric jerking as Rosie fumbles with the buttons, and then she'll be exposed to the air again, blinking against the light as Rosie tosses the dress aside.

Rosie will drop down beside her and try to draw her in for a kiss, but Carter is never in the mood, nipping at Rosie's chin instead and ducking down to secret places where she can leave her mark, biting red rings around the areolas of Rosie's breasts, tumbling them to the rug so she can suck purple bruises along her belly.

Rosie will moan and cry out, self possession lost as Carter scrapes her teeth along the crease of Rosie's hip, plunges her tongue along swollen creases of sweet flesh. She's always relentless, pulling shaking, noisy climax after climax from Rosie's body until they're both exhausted, Rosie mewling with it, feebly batting Carter away and coaxing her to lie with her head against Rosie's chest, spent.

It's then that Rosie will walk her fingers down Carter's body, slide them soft and slick inside her cunt. Then that she brushes one soft thumb along the outside of one small breast, sets her teeth against the skin behind her ear and bites, hard, shoving the pads of her fingers against Carter's g-spot, holding her as orgasm rolls through her like thunder.

Carter always watches the island drop away beneath her in the morning, feeling the tug of her stomach as she leaves Rosie behind. She always presses her fingers behind her ear to feel the dull throb of pain, and thinks, two weeks.

The bruise will last almost long enough.

Re: Princess Protection Program: Carter/Rosie

[pearl-o.livejournal.com]

OTP! <3

preMCR girl!Mikey

[angelchildr.livejournal.com]

Mikey wakes to the sound of the bedroom door clicking shut and footsteps shuffling away down the hall. At least she assumes it's a hall - she's not altogether sure where she is at the moment. But it stands to reason that outside of the door would be a hall.

And shit, it's too early to be thinking about the logic of room layouts, especially when her head is pounding and still rolling from the party the night before. She swallows hard to push back the familiar nausea and takes a look at her surroundings. The end of last night is blurred in her mind, broad spans of time lost to alcohol and whatever else she ended up doing. She knows that she should be more careful, but careful isn't fun, and careful doesn't get her that forgetful cushion from the world.

It takes seeing her own shirt on the floor to realize that she's only half dressed, completely topless and jeans undone. The blanket under her shoulder is rough against her skin, too much stimulation when even just existing hurts at the moment. She feels battered and bruised, more than ususal after a party, and when she looks down at her body, she finds out why.

The marks stand out against her skin, dark and obscene, on her stomach, hip, below the barely-there curve of her breast. A twinge under her questioning fingers reveals at least one more high on the side of her neck. From what she can see once she straightens her glasses, they all look similar, so Mikey chooses to believe it was simply one bite-happy person and not a group.

That's only happened once or twice, anyway.

Knowing that things are going to get any better just by laying in a strange bed, she finally pushes herself up, grabbing her shirt from the floor and wrinkling her nose at the stain on the front of it. She's had to find her way home in worse, but it doesn't mean she likes it. A bloom of dull sensation as she pulls on her shirt is evidence of another mark high on the back of one shoulder.

It's finally accompanied by a hazy memory of calloused fingers, ink on skin, and the sweetbitter scent of weed clinging to dark hair.

Re: preMCR girl!Mikey

[kws136.livejournal.com]

FRANK! Way to bite and run!

[fledmusic.livejournal.com]

Heyyy, it's rain_dances, I changed my username and deleted all my 'friend of' list, so now I'm going into everyone's journals who I would LOVE to friend me back. So please do so, if you so desire. :)

pete/mikey

[brooklinegirl.livejournal.com]

(pearrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrl, I didn't even mean to write this AT ALL HI.)

(pearrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrl, I didn't even mean to write this AT ALL HI.)

"It's for a bet." Pete flashed his most persuasive grin.

"Whatever." Mikey shrugged, barely even looking up from his Sidekick. His glasses had fingerprints on them again. Always. How did he even see the fucking keyboard?

"I wasn't supposed to tell you that, I guess, but it doesn't negate the bet. Or anything." Pete leaned forward seriously on the couch.

Mikey glanced up. "Sure."

Pete grinned widely. "Sure, you'll let me do it, or sure-"

"Sure, I know how a bet works," Mikey said, already texting again.

Pete sighed. Loudly. "I have fifteen minutes to-"

"Eleven minutes by now," Mikey murmured, squinting through his smudgy glasses at the screen.

"Fuck, right, eleven minutes, Mikey, and that counts the time I get back to show Gabe, and, oh, right, you gotta come with me, if you say yes – you're gonna say yes, right? C'mon, Mikey." Pete got as close to him as possible, doing that thing where he was pretty much plastered against the guy, like if he only got close enough, Mikey would just cave, and then Pete would win the bet, and Gabe would have to give Patrick a hickey and it would be awesome. "You know you're gonna say yes, so why don't you save us both some time and-"

Mikey pressed send and slid the Sidekick shut. "Ten."

"…what?" Pete was already poking at the neck of Mikey's t-shirt, trying to drag it down a little. Just in case Mikey said yes.

"You're down to ten minutes." Mikey tipped his head to one side, looking at Pete. "Your bus is at least three minutes away, so really we're talking seven." He shrugged one shoulder. "Or so."

Pete nudged at him wildly. "Seven minutes, Mikey, I know, so can you just-"

Mikey shrugged again, but he didn't push Pete away or get up or anything, and Pete took that as a yes and triumphantly leaned in and then he had his mouth on Mikey's neck, all yay, win! Mikey didn't move, even as Pete started sucking – quickly, because seven minutes - but just sort of sat there and, like, patiently took it. Like it was something to get through, or something. And bet or no bet, Pete was better at this than most. His mouth on the soft skin of Mikey's neck deserved some sort of reaction. Other than patience.

Determined now, he shifted closer, easing his mouth down a little, looking for a spot that did something – anything – for Mikey. Nothing. Pete was halfway on top of Mikey at this point, one leg slung over to rest in between his to get the angle (it was all about the angle), and Mikey hadn't even put down his Sidekick for this. Pete rolled his eyes, and inched closer, really concentrating now. This wasn't just about the hickey, it was about the process. He eased up where he had been sucking, and kissed lightly on the damp skin, moving up to bite at Mikey's earlobe for a second.

"…five minutes," Mikey said quietly.

Re: pete/mikey

[brooklinegirl.livejournal.com]

"Fuck it," Pete said, low in his ear, and licked his way down to a point low on Mikey's neck, right by the collar of his too-tight t-shirt. Pete stayed there, considering the spot with his mouth for a moment, and a light shudder went through Mikey's body. Smiling against the damp skin under his lips, Pete sucked harder, now that he'd found his spot. He put some teeth into it, too – not too much, not too hard, but not gentle either, just enough, he was good at this, he knew he was. Mikey went very very still under him, his body tense under Pete's mouth, under Pete's thigh where it lay across Mikey's. He didn't make a sound, but he didn't pull away, and Pete pushed in closer, sucking hard, then harder.

There was a soft thump as Mikey's Sidekick fell to the floor at their feet.

Score. Pete released Mikey's neck with a noisy, wet sound. "Thank you."

Mikey took a quick breath. "You owe me one."

Pete gave him a wicked grin. "I'm good for it." He looked down at Mikey's neck. "Oh wow."

Mikey moved his jaw a little. "Yeah. I can feel it."

The mark was kind of – huge, and darkening already, and still wet from Pete's mouth. It stood out starkly against the grey of Mikey's Anthrax t-shirt, not even halfway hidden by the collar. Pete was turned on and triumphant, in equal measure. "I really owe you one."

Mikey did that thing where he had no facial expression, but something flickered in his eyes that spoke volumes. "Yeah," he said, and Pete realized he was still sprawled half across Mikey's lap, pressed all up against him, and – oh – half-hard. He swallowed, and pulled away, and Mikey made a move like he was going to follow him down, press him against the couch, go after Pete the same way Pete had gone after Mikey (for a bet, for a bet) - but he sat back instead, fixing his hair and adjusting his glasses and looking at Pete. "You're almost out of time," he mentioned.

"Oh fuck." Pete jumped off the couch, grabbing at Mikey's hand and yanking him up after him. "Gabe will hold me to the fifteen," he explained as he pulled Mikey after him off the bus. "It'll take two minutes."

"Three," Mikey said grimly. "Five, if you count the laughing."

"Five, then," Pete said, as they stumbled down the stairs, and out the door. "And then I'll make it up to you."

"I know," Mikey said, stumbling obediently after him.

Pete swung around when they were both hit concrete, and pushed Mikey up against the side of the bus, leaning in to lick first at the vivid hickey on Mikey's neck, and then to lick at Mikey's lips, quickly. Grinning and breathing hard and weirdly, wildly happy, Pete said, "You bet," grabbing Mikey's hand, as they raced together down the line of busses.

Pete/Mikey - 1/3

[mrsronweasley.livejournal.com]

Pete doesn’t really care what other people think. Like, not really. He cares about some people, but he’s had enough knocked teeth and black eyes to know that pain is totally worth the fun you have before it happens.

Like, he knows that he’s a junior, and Mikey Way is a freakin’ freshman, but dude’s awesome, okay? He’s just so – chill and cool and doesn’t give a shit about anything. He won’t acknowledge if you’re standing three feet away, all he does is listen to music – it’s probably awesome music, Pete has often wondered if he could sidle up close enough to see the iPod screen – and live in his own world. That’s just so cool. Pete’s never been that cool in his entire life, and definitely not as a freshman.

So, after making buddies with the dude, finally, after, like, months of trying and getting nowhere and finally recruiting Patrick to help him draw the guy out, which bizarrely involved getting Mikey’s senior brother Gerard in the whole weird plan, Pete is ready to move on to phase two of getting Mikey Way to like him. Phase two is basically called: Getting Mikey Way to Like Him.

Patrick is no help there, and also kind of obnoxiously holier-than-thou about it, but Pete’s had his share of hookups, so he can totally make this happen. In fact, he’s got the perfect in.

He offers to give Mikey Way a ride home.

Pete first got his car a year ago, but had it taken away for bad behavior. He’s been working pretty hard to clean up his act (in front of his parents) and he’s been driving his baby again for only a week when it presents itself as a way to move more things along than his ass to school.

He’s sitting behind the wheel, watching Mikey in a totally cool and detached way, not at all nervous about being turned down by the coolest guy around. It takes forever, and when Mikey seems on the verge of shaking his head “no,” Pete – who is, by the way, a total and certifiable genius - has a brainwave. “We can stop for coffee?”

After Mikey’s all buckled in and Pete’s tires have made a nice squeal on the pavement, Pete allows himself to look over at Mikey. “Whatcha listening to?” he asks, nodding at the iPod curled inside Mikey’s hands.

Mikey shrugs his indelible (and bony) shoulder, and mumbles, “The Smiths.” Pete nods – he just downloaded a Smiths song the other night, but hasn’t gotten around to listening to it yet.
“Wanna put it on?”

Score! – Mikey almost smiles as he reaches over for the tape deck cord and plugs in his iPod. Poppy rock fills the car and Pete finds himself bopping along with the music.

They don’t really talk, but Pete’s okay with that. He’s pretty happy just having Mikey in his car for now, impressing him with his driving and dancing and dancing-while-driving skills. He also makes a pretty sweet turn into the 7-11, all suave and cool-like in one motion. He just grins as Mikey unbuckles and gets out of the car.

By the time Mikey’s back with both their coffees – Pete has discovered that you can actually send this guy on an errand for you if it involves caffeine, and that’s a pretty awesome discovery right there – Pete’s got a whole new plan. It’s pretty simple.

Mikey extends one of the coffees towards Pete, all: “Here’s yours, cream and three sugars,” and Pete takes it out of his hand, to be polite. He takes a few sips, just to show that yep, he totally wanted this coffee, oh man, best thing ever, and waits until Mikey’s had a few sips of his own, when he just kind of – slides the cup out of Mikey’s grasp.

For a full second, Mikey’s eyes grow three sizes and seriously, his lower lip, like, slides out into an actual pout. Pete almost cracks up, but he’s way too busy for that right now. He’s way too busy executing his awesome plan of putting the coffee into the remaining cup holder, then sliding his – warm from the coffee – hand up Mikey’s neck and then kissing him, full on the mouth.

Pete/Mikey - 2/3

[mrsronweasley.livejournal.com]

Mikey’s totally and completely still next to him. Pete doesn’t think he’s even breathing. For a moment, he’s just made of PANIC!!! because Mikey should really be kissing him back now, shouldn’t he? Or – shit, shit, is Pete his first kiss? Oh, man, sweet, he gets to be this awesome guy’s first kiss - or, he would, if Mikey ever kissed him back, and oh God, now he can feel Mikey’s hands coming up against him, and he’s totally going to push Pete away, and then tell the entire school that Pete’s a dirty old man who’d molested him in his car, and then his parents would take the car away, and everyone at school would laugh at him, and Mikey’s brother would probably beat him up, and he’d have to, like, move and live with his grandparents in Florida – except Mikey’s slim fingers wrap around Pete’s hoodie and pull him closer in, instead.

The non-kiss lasts for about another milli-second, or maybe an hour, Pete’s not real sure, and then Mikey breaks off. It takes Pete a little while to open his eyes, because he’s really kind of not certain he wants to see what’s facing him on the other side of that kiss.

Mikey’s looking at him all, “what do I even do with you, dude?” and it’s kind of funny how Pete can read his face, even though it hasn’t really changed expressions since he got in the car and handed Pete his coffee. Pete just watches him back, hoping against hope that he doesn’t have to move to Florida just yet.

And then – it’s like the skies parting or something – Mikey’s mouth tugs upwards in a small shy grin, and then he bites his lip a little, and pulls Pete back in. Pete has no idea what’s hit him until Mikey’s tongue is all the way down his throat, and okay, so he isn’t his first kiss, wow, what do you know – and then Pete can’t even think. Because this isn’t Pete’s first kiss, either, but it sure as hell is fucking awesome. It’s slick and hot and boy, is there tongue, but not, like, gross or sloppy, just right somehow, and just as he’s getting really fucking into it, Pete totally loses his balance and falls face-first into Mikey’s shoulder, the kiss breaking off in probably the most humiliating way he can think of.

He starts to shove himself back up, except it’s hard because he can’t exactly use Mikey for leverage, and make things even worse, but his hand can’t fucking find the back of Mikey’s seat, either, and oh fuck, what does he even do – Florida, here he comes –

And then he’s being pulled upright, Mikey’s hands on either side of his neck, and he barely catches sight of Mikey’s eyes, smiling up at him, when Mikey’s mouth attaches itself to Pete’s neck, and oh wow wow wow, new development, new development everywhere for Pete, on his neck, and on the heels of that, a new development in his pants and, oh, Jesus -

“Nnnrgh,” he says, because his tongue won’t work anymore, and he feels a huff of breath against his skin, like laughter. He squeezes his eyes shut because he has lost absolutely all control of the situation, and his jeans are fucking tight and his hard-on is throbbing and if he doesn’t put a stop to this right fucking now, there’s a very good chance he’s going to come in his pants.

The problem is, he can’t get enough purchase to even push Mikey away, his hands are all shaky and useless, or maybe he doesn’t want to, not really, because whatever Mikey’s doing with his teeth and his tongue and God, his whole fucking mouth, is undoing Pete on the fucking spot.

Fred Burkle/John Winchester

[austen.livejournal.com]

He's in LA this time, working a nest of vampires - using the name Sam, no less, but the real Sam is barely one, drooling and oblivious to what he does and can't exactly object to it even if he was old enough to understand. His research eventually takes him to Angel - and to her.

They're in the old hotel, flipping through books. It's late, too, and they're going on eight hours, but she's still poring over the same text, and she pauses in her reading to take off her glasses, massaging her temples. He closes his with a loud thump, and she flinches.

"Sorry," he says, and then he's not entirely sure what compells him to do so, but he reaches over to cover her hands with his own, and soon, replaces them altogether. She leans into his touch, whimpering softly, and when one of his hands slides from her temple to cup the back of her head, fingers tangling through brown locks of hair, she tilts her chin up as his mouth finds her jaw.

His days-old stubble scratches against her neck, leaving a small pink burn, but she doesn't protest or even make much more than a soft sigh as he nips at her pulse point.

Wesley clears his throat in the other room, and she jerks back like she's been branded with a hot iron, but John returns to his book with a smile, and when she brushes her hair back behind one ear later, he can see the mark he's made, fresh and purpling.

[bebunny.livejournal.com]

This is so sweet, and totally hot all at the same time.

*grins*

mike carden/tom conrad; warped '06

[chibigirl626.livejournal.com]

their relationship has never been about letting everyone else know. if you asked any one of their bandmates, tech, crew, whatever, they'd all have the same look on their faces: what the hell are you smoking?

but sometimes, when they find the time to sneak away from the chaos that is warped tour, mike leaves small marks on tom's skin. bruises on his hips, a red mark at the base of his neck, teeth imprints on his shoulders. it's their secret, and mike likes knowing that tom will remember what they did, what they're doing, when morning comes.

and the next time they find themselves standing between buses in the warm summer night, mike kisses a little harder, pushes tom back against the cold metal of the bus, whispers mine against tom's skin where another mark will inevitably be. maybe this way, he'll be able to keep tom from slipping away from him the same way that he's disappearing from the band.

Re: mike carden/tom conrad; warped '06

[totaled.livejournal.com]

*__________________*