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\

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.)

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: 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)

[pearl-o.livejournal.com]

lololol. ILU NEVAR CHANGE.

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.

[cidercupcakes.livejournal.com]

DON'T YOU FUCKING JUDGE ME.

[pearl-o.livejournal.com]

I promise only to judge you if you write Sam/Dean, okay? Otherwise I know I have no right to throw stones.

[cidercupcakes.livejournal.com]

And that is why we are friends. <3

(Someone should write JDM/JDM! :D? :D?)

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::

Re: Gerard/Ray

[inlovewithnight.livejournal.com]

Pretty.

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

[cidercupcakes.livejournal.com]

Max Weinberg's life; so hard. ;____;

[pearl-o.livejournal.com]

oh man JDM should be doing all the hickey-giving. *__________*

[cidercupcakes.livejournal.com]

JDM said one of the most exciting parts of being "famous" was getting to meet Springsteen! I think the rest writes itself.

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: RPF/Bandom, Bruce Springsteen/Steven Van Zandt

[neigedens.livejournal.com]

lol &Max;

A++++!

Re: 2/2

[pearl-o.livejournal.com]

DUDE. Yesssssssss. I love this!

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.

Re: 2/2

[brooklinegirl.livejournal.com]

this is srsly, stupidly, PROFOUNDLY hot, dear fucking god. *loves*

Re: 2/2

[mrsronweasley.livejournal.com]

...hi. That was. Uh. Amazing? Goddamn this fandom. THIS WAS AWESOME. Jesus.

Re: 2/2

[pearl-o.livejournal.com]

icu thar, reading threesomes with both Ways.

Re: 2/2

[mrsronweasley.livejournal.com]

I DO NOT C U.