Fall Out Boy Fic-tastic

Thrill Me Up [completed fic]

Sun, 17 Aug 2008 20:01:42 GMT

Title: Thrill Me Up [10/10 plus epilogue]
Author: ribbonsonwrists
Pairing: Matthew Mixon/Andrew Hurley
Overall Rating: NC-17
Summary: Andy and Matt are just a *little* gay for each other...
Author's notes: written as a gift for megyal for her awesome Strange Medicine fic and the Matt/Andy fic that follows. The entries are public for now, but will likely be locked later. If you'd like, add to be able to access them later. Each part links at the bottom and comments are love.

also, you should check out the WI HXC primer by azrielen

1. Always Be My Baby
2. Angel
3. Sex and Candy
4. My Slumbering Heart
5. Still The One
6. I Won't Spend Another Night Alone
7. Precious
8. Mother Mary
9. Ring Of Fire
10. Infected
Epilogue: Thrill Me Up

fic: Your Heart Might Bleed

Sat, 16 Aug 2008 00:57:43 GMT

Title: Your Heart Might Bleed
Author: xplunketskakidx
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Pete/OFC
Word Count: This chapter-847
Summary: A new band on the Decaydance label creates havoc for Pete and his girlfriend of three years.
Disclaimer: I don't know Pete. I don't own Pete. I don't know or any of Fall Out Boy for that matter.

This story can be found at BB Good Fictions

fic: "Summer of Love"

Wed, 13 Aug 2008 01:27:00 GMT

Title: Summer of Love
Author: okubyo_kitsune
Pairing: Pete/Patrick, Patrick/Anna (minor and brief), Pete/a lot of people, lots of others.
Rating: R/NC-17
Bandom: Fall Out Boy (mostly), PATD, TAI, CS, MCR, others.
Word Count: Approx. 30,000
Summary: It’s about Patrick, and his first year of high school. Or, really, it’s about Patrick and the last half of his first year of high school, and going to the biggest Graduation Party in the history of pretty much ever. It’s sort of about growing up and moving on. It’s about the summer after graduating and the summer before going back to school. It’s sort of about realizing that friends aren’t being stolen away—that new friends are being made. It’s about the tears and the smiles and everything in between. It’s about when Patrick Stump met Pete Wentz. It’s sort of about falling in love. That’s what it’s all about.
Disclaimer: Don't own, just like to play.
Warnings: There’s some het-sex described in detail. If you don’t want to read it, please skip over it. It’s only one section. General high school fic warnings: clichés, childish behavior, teenagers. Sex in public places. High school angst. The usual.
A/N: Sometimes, I listen to a really good song, for a really long time, and it inspires me to write a story. This is one of them. Based on the song Summer of’98 by The Secret Handshake. If I knew more about him, it would have had him in it. I suggest you listen to that song and its remixes on repeat while reading this—hell, any of his songs, really. That’s how I wrote it.

This is sort of Epically Long. There are even Codas that will be posted. About thirteen of them in total (if not more). I dub this the Summer AU. Please enjoy it, and if you like it, drop a line.

I was feeling pretty good then. Everything worked out at school then. I was feeling like a champ then, in summer

It Depends Where You're At In Your Head: Pete/Alicia, Pete/Patrick, R.

Thu, 31 Jul 2008 00:16:21 GMT

Title: It Depends Where You're At In Your Head
Pairings: Pete/Alicia, Pete/Patrick
Rating: R, i think, for language and vague references to rude bits.
Word count: 9437
Disclaimer: Fiction is not a synonym for fact. Don't google yourself.
Warnings: AU. Transfic (Pete as a trans guy, Alicia as a trans girl). Always-a-girl!William Beckett and Tom Conrad. Mike Carden being mean. I fiddled around with the ages a bit, because Pete went out with Beckett before this story starts, and as he's Pete's 18 at the start of this story... yeah, no.
Author's notes: This is in the same verse as Yes I Am Too, But Who Am I Really? and Remember Who You Are, but focuses on Pete and takes place a few years before Pete meets Frank, so you don't have to have read those to get this. This is a standalone in a sense, but there will definitely be more in this 'verse. Beta by the awesome wishforhome. A million thankyous to mxtape, who let me shoot bits of this at him while i was writing it and encouraged me to finish it in the first place.

It depends where you're at in your head.

Lips Like Morphine (new member comes bearing fic.)

Sun, 27 Jul 2008 04:07:36 GMT

Title: Lips Like Morphine
Author: Me
Rating: PG-13ish
Pairing: Pete/Brendon
Summary: Nowadays, there is no such thing as kissing.
Disclaimer: This is a work of (im)pure imaginative fiction.

kissing:

v. To touch or caress with the lips as an expression of affection, greeting, respect, or amorousness.

-

Nowadays, there is no such thing as kissing. Not in the defined, meaning of life kind of way. Nobody "touches" or "caresses" their lips to another person's. It's simply not done. Again, not in the defined, this is how it has to be kind of way. There is the kissing that breaks meaning. That hovers around your head like a bee, even after you've "kissed."

It's the kind of kissing where you find yourself pushed so far up against the buttons of an elevator that you might as well get the floor numbers tattooed along your spine and shoulder blades. This is me. This is me with my Journey t-shirt and the three-quarter sleeves sticking to my arms. I'm sweating that much. This kissing is me. With the same Journey shirt's hem riding up to about mid-rib cage. My mouth is open, maybe from instinct, maybe because I wouldn't be breathing if it wasn't. (Is that still instinct?) The kind of kissing where your knees are being pushed apart and you move your own feet to help the other person out. You feel your shoelace isn't tied. That kissing is me. That kissing where you hear the ding above your head, your back hit another button. Your tongue running across somebody's else's neck. That kissing is me.

That kind of kissing is Pete.

Believe it or not, this is how I met Pete. On the elevator. Two days later, Pete calls me and says he wants to hang out. If ever anybody were to rewrite the definition of kissing, Pete would be that person. It's like watching God pretend to not care about His children. Pete doesn't care. And he never once flattered me enough to tell me he was kissing me.

The thing is, though. I kind of really like Pete.

Those two days he left me alone to think about what happened in the elevator, I had that bee swarming above my head. Like that ding and my sore back. I didn't think I'd ever see Pete again. I was certain my scribbling my phone number on the palm of his hand was a hallucination; it didn't really happen. Like kissing never happens to anybody. But I must have. Because forty eight hours later, I picked my phone up and Pete said:

"I'm starving. Other than bruising my neck, can your teeth do anything else?"

Nobody kisses anybody anymore. Lips don't meet lips, at least not all the way. Tongues don't meet. It's never romantic. It's the kind of kissing where Pete's testing out a camera from a friend. And he clicks a picture of me. In my room, at my turntable, with my headphones on. It's the kind of kissing where you've known each other more than twenty seconds and the other person knows where you like to be touched when you're "kissing." It's the kind of impromptu photo shoot where I'm standing there mixing The Beatles into something disastrous and Pete's behind me, over my shoulder, whispering things in my ear. The soundtrack to my soundtrack of his click-fire camera. It's the kind of kissing that makes you hold your breath, where lips meet that floor numbered tattooed place on your spine, halfway down your back. Where you're holding yourself up on the edge of the turntable, bending Sgt. Pepper's case.

Sitting on top of an unused washing machine in the basement of Pete's apartment building, he tells me things. Me with my lips holding more and more flavor from my Red Bull. With my heels bumping the front of the machine. Kicking the OUT OF ORDER sign. Pete would tell me all about his ex-girlfriend.

"She was a fucking slut."

"Accosting a young boy in the elevator isn't slutty?"

It's the kind of kissing where all you smell is laundry detergent and dryer sheets. Like you're in somebody else's house and my name shouldn't be Brendon. Pete's shouldn't be Pete. The corner of his mouth meets mine in the strangest of ways. I can feel his fingers tracing the stitch part of the denim on my jeans. Right around mid-thigh. (There's that, too. This is the kind of kissing where everything is met halfway. Mid-rib cage. Mid-thigh. Three-quarter sleeves. Half-lidded eyes.) The kind of kissing where you're breathing so heavily through your nose, you're practically begging for it to start bleeding with all the stale, dry air in the room. The idea of just about anybody coming in to do their laundry, your tongue tracing the other person's bottom lip. This kind of kissing is me. With my heart pounding so hard against my neck, Pete bites it in an attempt to make it stop. This kind of kissing is Pete.

Most kissing isn't to show respect. But there are the exceptions. The ones where you're standing in front of Pete's full length mirror in just a pair of jeans. Poking each protruding bone in your skeleton body. This kind of kissing is me. Me, standing there. With no expression on my face. And Pete tells me:

"There's only enough of you for one of us to stare at."

The kind of kissing that starts to sting if it doesn't happen. Because you're meeting the other person's friends and this is getting pretty official, all kissing aside. Pete's dressed. Dark denim, ironic-platonic t-shirt, jacket and hat. I'm standing there in a pair of his jeans. And he knows what to say. And what to do. He knows how to redefine the word "kissing" so that it isn't really kissing. And it's not really anything else either. The kind of kissing where all I feel all over my skin are his clothes. The cuff of his jacket on my arm, my back, my stomach. The kind of kissing where his lips claim every little part of me that they like. My stomach, my neck, my shoulders, my spine, my jaw.

Oh yeah, and even my lips. Not cutting corners of mouths. Nothing just shy of a kiss. But one of those kisses that has been dead for a long time. The kind of lip-on-lip locking that nobody even reads about anymore. He's done circling and tip-toeing around the idea of cementing in a really good kiss. Right on the lips.

"If you don't get dressed, we'll never make it to the party. Which means we'll never get to show slut-face how much better I am without her. You'll never get to hear me tell you how good you look in that jacket I got for you."

It's the kind of kissing that makes you blush. The kind that doesn't exist anymore. Not nowadays, not unless you're not looking for it.

Pete's Time Machine [1/1]

Thu, 24 Jul 2008 17:26:23 GMT

Pete's Time Machine
PG-13; Gen (If you squint hard, there's Patrick/Pete.)
Pete has a time machine. No, really.

Of Veganism and Cheap Cigarettes [s/a]

Wed, 23 Jul 2008 08:26:16 GMT

Title: Of Veganism and Cheap Cigarettes
Author: ribbonsonwrists
Rating: PG? references to boykissing and partying
Pairing: Andy ² [Hurley and Mrotek]
Word Count: 1005 [a shortie, I know]
Summary: That was the first thing most people noticed about the Andrews, their differences.
Disclaimer: Don’t know, don’t own, please don’t sue.
Author’s Notes: inspired by and written for dandylionsgirl based on the Andy!squared idea in her butcher slash primer found here. They’re not referred to as Butcher and Hurley instead of Andy and Andrew or Andy and Andy or Andrew and Andrew or Andrew and Andy because there needs to be some ambiguity. There’s some descriptions of them, and you can tell which Andy is which, but then I go and shake up the Andy role can. It’s like a Choose Your Adventure book, except you just get to pick which Andy does what. Title has nothing to do with anything, and the cut quote from Rise Up With Fists!!! by Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins.
x-posted to: secretsbyramen, slashypunkboys, and midnight_party

Andy tossed a baseball against the side of the bus, catching it and tossing it again, grinning as it bounced off his slight bassist before it rolled back toward his flip-flopped feet. William leaned his head out of one bus or another, [most likely Fall Out Boy’s, considering he and Mike were having a few moments of really deep thought with Joe. Effectively, this concerned them discussing the merits of The Empire Strikes Back versus Return of the Jedi and doing one of three things: drinking (Bill), smoking (Mike), or smoking pot (Joe)] and hollered at him to “Knock it off! Some people need to, like… THINK of shit!” It only made the drummer laugh and shake his head, his hair messy and getting too long. He’d have to go for a haircut sometime on tour. It was getting pretty ridiculous.

Andy stepped off the other bus, having just kicked Chislett’s ass at Guitar Hero, and seriously, shouldn’t Chizzy have won? He is a freaking guitarist, and Andy, well, everyone knew he was a drummer, and a damn good one. He scratched idly at the tattoos on his arm and made a face, squinting at the sun until he caught sight of the other drummer and wandered over. They exchanged last names as a hello and started playing a random game of catch that soon had their bassists running between them, Pete laughing like a hyena and Sisky flushed pink and huffing. Andy looked at the other drummer and squinted again. “Are those my shoes, man?” Andy just laughed and nodded, a smile on his face that was almost all teeth and beard, throwing the ball over to the thin musician and taking a couple of huge steps back.

Andrew knew the game well and began to laugh, playing along with his friend. They’d throw the ball once or twice, then take a step back with the completed throw and catch pattern, the ball going into higher and high arcs and pissing off the bass players until they got bored and went to find the singers. The lean muscles in their arms lent themselves to the game perfectly, the swirls of ink on biceps and splashes of color over chests almost glowed, on Andrew because he was so perfectly, ethereally pale and on Andrew because he was perfectly, angelically golden.

That was the first thing most people noticed about the Andrews, their differences. They both lived shirtless and in shorts, and although Andrew’s were in fact longer, Andy never seemed to change colors while Andrew could scoot around the arena and come back a perfect shade that just complimented his messy hair. Andy lived with a cigarette over his ear, in his pocket, between his lips, and Andrew covered his mouth and nose when one was even lit. Andrew took delight in slurping down cheeseburgers, Andrew wouldn’t touch them with a ten foot pole. Andrew curled up on the couch, his thumb in his mouth, and Andrew stretched out on it, his foot hanging off the edge. Andrew slept in, Andrew was up early.

But more than their differences, which is what most people saw, Andrew and Andy were intensely close. Andy spent his nights dreaming of calloused hands pushing and pulling him into a straight line, Andrew of a warm back making him curve around a smooth body. They played with fire, intensity, want, and only to show the other they were good at the one thing they both loved more than anything. Andy traced the designs on Andy’s body, the lines over his back, memorizing them so he could see them when he was in his bunk and Andrew was in his. Andrew memorized the soft breath on his cheek, Andy learned the way Andy breathed when he was stiff in the morning, found out it was just like his own.

It was easy for the drummers to write off rumors of how their time was spent by chalking it up to Andrew’s new hardware or Andy having trouble finding the right size sticks. They kind of figured that their friends knew they were doing more than talking shop when they’d disappear for hours at a time, coming back with Andrew messy and smiling and Andy looking like he got caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. At parties, sometimes Andy would have a couple of beers and look guiltily at Andrew, who’d just smile and pat the seat next to him. They’d watch as Bill began dancing on the bar, Pete called everyone within a ten mile radius his best friend, Patrick rolled his eyes and hung out with Sisky, ‘cause neither of them were drinking. It wasn’t until they were sure everyone was sufficiently distracted that Andy would take Andy’s hand, tracing the tattoos further up with soft, reverent fingers. Andrew would lean in, kissing Andy softly, their kisses always tasting like beer, Ice Breakers and summer.

“You taste like beer.”

“You taste like mint.”

Andrew would make excuses, citing a headache, an early workout, a problem with his kick pedal and leave the party. Andy was always following close behind, saying that it was probably best for someone to keep an eye on the other man, ‘cause who wants to be all by themselves when there’s a party, right? And besides, Andy was kind of a weird dude to start, and needed the company. Neither Andrew nor Andrew noticed the looks, raised eyebrows and cheesy, cat-like grins that spread over the faces of Mike and Joe, Chizzy and Sisky, Pete and Patrick as they left on each other’s heels.

For all the things that Andrew and Andy did differently, there was one thing they did the same every time: When they finally crawled into bed, tired but content, Andy always wrapped around Andrew and held him close all through the night.

(a little less 16 Candles, a little more coke-dealing in southern Florida)

Thu, 17 Jul 2008 22:24:33 GMT

Untitled Fall Out Boy/Miami Vice Crossover
Literally a crack fic, in which people and vampires deal crack, while cops and hunters try to stop them.

Featuring: Pete/Patrick, appearances by every band in the 16 Candles video, MCR, characters from Miami Vice including possible Sonny/Rico pre-slash
Notes: Knowledge of the 16 Candles video, though not strictly necessary, would probably be helpful. All you really need to know about Miami Vice is this: Sonny Crockett and Rico Tubbs are undercover cops. The rest of their team consists of Trudy, who handles intelligence and regularly sleeps with Rico; Gina, who shoots things and provides deadpan sarcasm; Larry Zito and Stan Switek, who are backup/surveillance/extra muscle and don’t get many lines. Castillo is their boss. They fight crime and want you to say no to drugs.
Addendum: MiVi characterisations are based on the 2006 Michael Mann movie, not the 80s TV show. The movie has little discernable plot or development, but true to its marketing hype it’s very “dark and gritty” and “visually stunning.”
Disclaimer: This story is in no way truthful, affiliated with its subjects, made for profit, or even meant to be taken seriously.

[an alliance between vampires and drug cartels would mean total and unfathomable power over all mankind...]

"Schwarzchild's Hammer"

Tue, 15 Jul 2008 01:23:50 GMT

Title: Schwarzchild's Hammer.
Author: okubyo_kitsune
Pairing: Peterick.
Rating: R
Bandom: Fall Out Boy (mostly), PATD, TAI, CS, MCR.
Summary: Patrick doesn’t know how he got to this point in his life, or why he’s here, strapped into the pilot’s seat in the cockpit of the USS Enterprise—a joke he could have gladly done without—getting ready for his first flight into space.
Disclaimer: Don't own the guys of FOB or anyone else.
Warnings: angst, space, technical-jargon. scientific-jargon. the works.
A/N: This was Brought To You in Part By: megyal. She dreamed it up, and I humbly wrote it down. I know, if she did it, she would have done an amazing job. But she let me do it. And for that, I can't thank her enough. She also betaed this, which, again, I can't thank her enough for. Honestly, without her, this wouldn't exist. Thank you, marie! Thank you so much! *hugs* Love you, dearie. Inspiration from Doctor Who, Star Trek, Sliders, Einstein's Theory of Relativity and Schwarzchild's Theory.

It's not far down to paradise, at least it's not for me. And if the wind is right you can sail away, and find tranquility (Believe me)

Fic: The World's Not Waiting (For Joe Trohman to Stop Being a Pussy...) - Joe/Patrick [13/?] - R max

Wed, 09 Jul 2008 05:41:49 GMT

Title: The World's Not Waiting (For Joe Trohman to Stop Being a Pussy and Start Going For What He Wants) [13/?]
Summary: AU Timeline - Teenage angst and Crayola Rainbows. Or, Joe saw him first.
Author: icedmaple
Betas: likethepaint, shiny_starlight & heyginger
Rating: R at absolute max.
Pairing: Joe/Patrick
Words: c.7,200 this chapter.
Author's notes: This fic is written in a slightly AU timeline, where Andy joins the band straight away. One or two formerly key players may also be conspicuous by their absence...

This chapter almost never happened. It was born from a 'deleted scene' from the text which will be chapter fourteen, which I showed to heyginger who then convinced me it needed to exist. Ultimately, this is a bonus chapter written, for the most part, in the space of two days.

Chapter fourteen is being reworked to accommodate some information which was shifted around a little, and should be completed very soon.

Disclaimer: Get me a Dolorean and I'll make it real; until then, sadly not true.

Previous Chapters:
Part One: Paperbacks and Sexuality
Part Two: My Heart is On My Sleeve
Part Three: Your Secret's Out
Part Four: No Less Defeated
Part Five: Place Your Hand Between
Part Six: My Badge, My Witness
Part Seven: Knocking Boots in the Back
Part Eight: The Battle's Only Halfway Done
Part Nine: Kiss Safe Thoughts Goodbye
Part Ten: Snitches and Talkers
Part Eleven: My Reputation's on The Line
Part Twelve: Things I'll Never Finish

New Chapter
Part Thirteen: Thank Your Lucky Stars

Operation: Get Joe Laid

Tue, 08 Jul 2008 10:55:11 GMT

PATRICK/JOE
PG
In which Pete controls Joe's love life more than he realises and Patrick is a little less nervous than you'd think.

[1/1] Kings of the Never After

Mon, 07 Jul 2008 02:18:24 GMT

Title: kings of the never after
Author: Linzee
Pairing: Pete Wentz/Patrick Stump
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~10,500
Summary: "Here's a new rumor."

The third and final piece in the "House Lights" series; a companion to "Leave The House Lights On" and "Spinning the City Lights." It's not entirely necessary to read the first two, but it helps.

* * *

Here's a new rumor.

"The Hound"

Thu, 03 Jul 2008 02:36:51 GMT

Title: The Hound.
Author: okubyo_kitsune
Pairing: general, Joe-centric.
Rating: R
Bandom: Fall Out Boy (mostly Joe, for them) and Avenged Sevenfold.
Summary: Joe was bitten on the fifth of December. He remembers that clearly. He remembers that better than he can remember almost anything else.
Disclaimer: Don't own the guys of FOB or A7X
Warnings: angst, werewolves and more angst. My specialty.
A/N: I know the combination of Fall Out Boy and Avenged Sevenfold doesn’t sound that appetizing to most of you, but give it a chance. It might surprise you. Pictures of the guys of Avenged are located here and pictures of the wolves I work with, and have named for the characters of this story are here (sorry the quality is so shoddy, I had to use my phone). Enjoy!

Bonus Tracks/ Enhanced Content

Fanmixes located here thanks to the lovely, amazing wishfulclicking and to the super awesome didarina thank you both so much!

I'll dig it 'til we've made your grave, oh, you've been a bad, bad boy

Joe/Patrick--"Our Lives In A Box"

Wed, 02 Jul 2008 23:55:57 GMT

Title: our lives in a box (not really given a title when I posted it in my ficjournal)
Author: sometimes_why
Rating: Um...PG-13, but only for a drop of the f-bomb.
Summary: A moment in the lives of our heroes.
Author's notes: This takes place in my OMG Everyone's Pregnant 'verse, which includes something shakespeare never wrote and let's take these odds to vegas. It may not make any real sense unless you've read "something shakespeare never wrote."

Our Lives in a Box

Sun, 29 Jun 2008 00:18:42 GMT

Title: Kiss Goodbye That Will Suffice
Author: dobbyknobs
Rating: PG
Pairing: Pete Wentz/Mikey Way
Summary: They make promises to keep in touch that they know they won’t keep, and offer hugs and smiles and the lightest of kisses as a goodbye.
Author's Note: written for onneonlights's birthday
Warnings: n/a

(don't say goodbye just dry your eyes)

Titanomachy

Tue, 24 Jun 2008 22:48:44 GMT

Title: Titanomachy
Author: miserylovedme
Pairing: Patrick/Pete
Rating: NC-17
POV: Third; present
Summary: Hades stole Persephone.
Word count: 3,402
Disclaimer: I own the longing for this to be real; nothing more.
Warnings: Sex [vaguely non-consensual], language and mythical retellings.

Titanomachy

Just So Long as This Thing's Loaded

Thu, 19 Jun 2008 22:29:05 GMT

Title: Just So Long as This Thing's Loaded
Author: unlimitedkiss
Characters: Pete Wentz
Disclaimer: I don't own Pete. Most of the time ;)
Summary: Pete finds himself alone in the world. Literally.

What would Peter Wentz do if he was alone in the world?

Pete had never really thought about it. Well, maybe in the eighth grade when it was a topic for an essay but that was a while ago. And his answer was probably a little different now.

His essay’s were also probably a little better. Or so he hoped.

He scratched his chest absently and continued pushing his cart down the fourth aisle at his local grocery store. Yes, he was shirtless. No, he didn’t care.

He grabbed a fancy packet of chicken fried rice and continued on. “Tonight, I will dine like a king!” He shouted to no one. He didn’t pay or even stop at the register.

He did grab another Snickers bar before he left, though.

“I wonder if these fine people would care if I stole their car? No, no, I think they’ll be fine with it.”

He answered himself and pulled open the hummer door. Sure, it wasn’t the greatest on gas mileage but, hey, he wasn’t paying for gas. And it was big.

The drive back to his place was quiet and slow. He had forgotten his CDs and there was no one to run the radio stations. Static really sucks.

He thought about how long it had taken him to cope with the initial shock of it. Of him possibly (Probably) being the only person left on the whole planet. The first thing he did was try. Tried and tried to call someone. Tried to yell loud enough. Tried to drive far enough. Try, try, try to find anyone. But he found time and time again that tries turn into failures.

He swerved through motionless traffic and pulled into his driveway. The really sad part about coming home with groceries was that he couldn’t see where he was walking and almost always tripped over the bed he bought Hemingway last Christmas. The bed he had moved into the garage so he didn’t have to constantly see it.

The really sad part was how much he missed his dog.

He cooked his dinner alone with his stereo blasting old music. Maybe he thought the music would make the noise that the empty world couldn’t. Maybe he just liked loud music.

He ate alone, watching The Nightmare Before Christmas for the millionth time and almost getting every line right.

He showered alone and sat on his bed, alone and awake, wondering how long he could possibly live like this.

He glanced around his room and his eyes landed on his bass guitar. He noticed the dust resting on top of it. “Seriously? A whole layer of dust is on my guitar. Come on, Pete.” He immediately got on the floor and crawled to his guitar. He wiped it off with the sleeve of his green hoodie. He thought about all the shows he’d been through with that black and red guitar. All the fans. All the people. People.

It had been fifty-three days since he had seen another person.

A lump formed in his throat and his eyes started to burn but he held it back and stood. With a red marker he crossed off another day from his calendar before going to bed.

He woke on morning 80 because of the stupid freaking birds outside his window. He fleetingly wished he had a gun but ignored the notion and got up anyway.

“Eighty is a good number. And do you know why?” he addressed his reflection. “Neither do I but I just have this feeling that today is going to be good. No, I’m not being overly-optimistic, thank-you-very-much.”

He did wear a shirt today.

Not that it mattered.

Pete really, really didn’t like golf. But the golf carts were calling his name. No, he told himself. Nothing was calling his name. He simply wanted to drive those things. Again.

It really sucks when you’re alone in the world. It really, really sucks when you’re alone in the world, stuck on a golf course with a concussion too bad to get up and move. And then it starts to rain and Pete doesn’t even really care anymore. He just wants someone to come along and help him and make the blood stop dripping down his face.

No one does.

Two days later Pete opens his eyes and, surprise, that slap he just felt wasn’t Patrick, that was a bird landing on his face. The slightly more depressing surprise was that everyone in the world hadn’t just magically came back while he was out of it. He was still alone. And still very hungry.

He was amazed that he could go into a sandwich shop, walk into the back freezer and help himself to goods that were still edible.

It was day 92. He hadn’t known that foods ever lasted that long. “Well you learn something new everyday, don’t you?” He nodded to the happily satisfied man on the poster up on the window. He wished his sandwich would look as tasty as the one advertised but as Pete knew from experience, you do not get everything you wish for.

A drawback of being alone was that it is impossible to find anyone to do your laundry. He called up all his buddies and even tried any and all Laundromats in L.A. No one picked up. Pete complained about the service and dejectedly took his clothes and, though not happily, did his own laundry. Too bad he forgot to keep his reds and blues away from his whites. Now he seemed extra-patriotic.

Pete paced circles around his living room. “I know. I’ll check for any flights going to Chicago.”

He opened his laptop to check if, miraculously, there was someone out there providing internet. There wasn’t. And he just kind of figured that there weren’t any flights either.

On day 113 he threw a fit. Well he wouldn’t call it a fit but there was throwing things and shouting and cursing. And many things were broken in the process. Like a bunch of CDs. (“I won’t need these! All these guys are dead! I don’t need to hear it anymore.”)

By day 130 he still hasn’t actually cried. Excepting the second day when the whole thing hit home and he thought he saw Hemingway while driving. He didn’t know what it was but he had some resolve to keep calm. For who? Himself. He was the only one left.

On day 166 he got sick. Really, achingly, puking, shaking, sick. He hated being sick. He hated being alone even more.

He couldn’t eat.

He definitely couldn’t sleep.

He spent the next week lying on the couch. He drank a little water whenever he felt he could stand to get up and get it.

He felt himself getting weaker and thinner but couldn’t do anything about it. It always felt as if his brain would explode any minute.

And one day he just got up and left the house. He had lost track of days and he still felt horrible but he needed to leave. He would not die in the dark on that couch.

He drove (You could hardly call it driving) to a park and somehow made it up a hill where the sun was shining warmly onto him. He laid down with his head tilted towards the sun’s light and just gave up. He was tired of fighting to survive and fighting to stay sane. He had no will to live. Pete Wentz went as far as he could and he was proud of himself. Pete Wentz stopped breathing on that hill in the sunlight, but he didn’t feel alone anymore.

Patrick's Attempt at Writing.

Sun, 15 Jun 2008 04:49:02 GMT

Title: Patrick's Attempt at Writing.
Author: conformism
Pairing: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Summary: Patrick is the only one who really knows "the" Pete Wentz, and decides to document it in the best way he can think of, which is to just write about it.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~3,600
Disclaimer: Don't own them, don't sue me, blah blah blah.
Author's Notes: I have no idea where this came from, honestly. I drafted it one day and then went with it. It's my in-between one shot, since I'm working on a new chaptered patrickxpeter fic.
Also, this is cross posted :)

This isn’t what everyone else gets to see; this is Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the third at his absolute weakest.

"Ordinary Boy"

Fri, 13 Jun 2008 02:39:42 GMT

Title: Ordinary Boy.
Author: okubyo_kitsune
Pairing: lots and lots. petexpatrick.
Rating: PG-NC17.
Bandom: FOB, TAI, PATD, THS, Paramore, MCR, A7X.
Summary: Someties, Pete really hates his job.
Disclaimer: Don't own anyone.
Warnings: angst, whores, Pete's mouth, and more angst. My specialty.
A/N: So...I've been working on this beast since about January, or thereabouts. It's long and has interludes, so I hope you don't mind them. Don't like 'em, read around 'em. I suggest listening to Vanessa Carlton's Ordinary Day on repeat while reading this--that's what I did while writing it. This is the picture that gave me the idea and inspiration to write this whole thing. costructive concrit. is, as always, welcome. Please enjoy!

Just a boy, just an ordinary boy, but he was lookin to the sky">

When It All Comes Down to a Sunrise On the East Side

Fri, 13 Jun 2008 01:43:24 GMT

Title: When It All Comes Down to a Sunrise On the East Side(taken from Boys Like Girls song)
Author: musixx1982
Summary: It's no secret that Pete and Patrick complement each other...
Pairing: kind of Pete/Patrick
Rating:PG13 for swearing
Disclaimer: is this really necessary? yadda yadda, i dont own anything, blah blah, blah, all that stuff we say so we dont get our asses sued.

Pete had always reminded Patrick of a little kid. Especially now that he was perched atop the kitchen counter, with his legs swinging wildly. Patrick found himself starring at Pete, silently laughing at his brightly colored hoodie and shoes.

“Hey. Lunchbox. You okay?” Pete was smiling slightly.

“Yeah, Peter. I’m fine. Hurry up and finish that so we can go.”

Pete shrugged and stuffed the last bit of his peanut butter sandwich into his mouth, but not before giving Patrick a peek of the half chewed food.

“Attractive,” Patrick said sweetly.

“Mmmm. You love it.” Pete declared.

Patrick threw an empty Styrofoam cup at him, which only caused Pete to grin smoothly.

Pete finally hopped down from the counter and pulled Patrick by the arm.

“So now you want to go?”

“That’s correct, Patty.”

If looks could kill, Pete would definitely be dead.

Twenty minutes later, they arrived at Joe’s house. As soon as they stepped in the door, Andy and Joe were complaining on their late arrival.

“Amazing! Andy, they’re here! I’m so sorry guys. I forgot to sprinkle flower petals on the toilet seat like you asked for.” Joe cried hysterically.

“Why the hell are you mad at me?!” Patrick asked. “I had to wait for Pete to finish his lunch.”

All eyes were soon on Pete, who was fiddling with equipment in the corner of the room.

Andy spoke first. ”Lunch? It’s like, three in the afternoon!’’

Pete did his best impression of an innocent expression. “I’m a growing boy.”

“Trick, why do you let him practically live at your house anyway? It’s obvious that all he does is act obnoxious and clean out your fridge.”

“He lets me-“ Pete cut in “-because his mother is my best friend. Duh.” He said as he hooked an arm around Joe’s shoulders, giving him a peck on the cheek.

“Can we please get to practicing?” Andy piped up from the edge of the room.

“Killjoy,” Pete complained,” Alright, let’s get started”.

Practice had been going better and better every week. Ever since Patrick and Andy had joined, things went smoother than ever. It was no secret that Pete adored Patrick. He held him up to a very high esteem, and bragged about him to everyone, disregarding the fact that Patrick didn’t do well with complements.

“Dude, you gotta check out this guy we found. He’s a genius. Naw, man, I’m not kidding. He is fucking golden.”

Pet had talked all his friends’ ears off for months. But when they met Patrick, and he sang, they understood Pete’s obsession. It was obvious that Patrick and Pete complimented each other perfectly, and they were soon best friends. It took Patrick a while to adjust to Pete’s 3 A.M. texts and how hands on he was.

Pete could handle his own problems. Of course he could. But, not before letting Patrick in on what was troubling him. Patrick would nod sympathetically and offer his advice, which was, Pete thought, also golden. Then Patrick would give Pete a hug and grab a beer out of the fridge. Every time, Pete would snicker and make a dumb joke about Patrick being underage.

And this time was no different, as Pete sat at Patrick’s kitchen table. Patrick was already heading back to the table with the drinks in hand.

“They let 12 year olds drink in Illinois?”

“Probably. They let you drive. And graduate.”

“Asshole.” Pete shot back.

“Language, Petey, language!” Patrick said over dramatically and looked around as if someone would hear them (no one else was home).

“Well”, Pete started, “I should probably be getting home to my dog. He misses me, you know.”

“Alright, man. Remember what I told you. Talk to her. See ya later.”

Patrick watched Pete drive away, and cleaned up the empty beer bottles. He would put them in his neighbor’s trash can. Then he went to bed.

It must have been really late. Or really early. Patrick cant decide. All he remembers is wondering how the hell Pete got into his house, and crawled into bed beside Patrick without waking his mother. Oh, that’s right. Business trip, Patrick thought.

He could tell Pete had been crying. The blinds above his bed were open slightly, and the moonlight showed Peter’s damp face. Pete kicked off his shoes and laid an arm over Patrick’s waist.

“She cheated, Pat. Fucking cheated,” was all that escaped Pete’s mouth before he let sleep take him.

Case No. 004: Fear as a Mortal

Tue, 10 Jun 2008 22:51:29 GMT

Series: The Apocalypse Files
Title: Case No. 004 Fear as a Mortal
Author: miserylovedme
Pairing: Frank/Bob
Rating: NC-17
POV: Third; present
Summary: They’re just superheroes trying to save the world: How Frank convinced Bob to run.
Word count: 15,494
Disclaimer: I own the longing for this to be real; nothing more.
Warnings: Sex, blowjobs, language, violence and slight angst.
Author’s note: falloutartist drew me this killer picture for this series; you have to see it, it’s awesome.

Case No. 004 Fear as a Mortal

fic: "Anymore"

Tue, 10 Jun 2008 05:51:24 GMT

Title: Anymore.
Author: okubyo_kitsune
Rating: R-NC-17
Pairing: Pete/Patrick, others.
Disclaimer: don't own any of the boys.
Summary: “Do you love me anymore?”
Warnings: Angst. No, really. Angst.
A/N: I hope you like it.

The world carries on without you
But nothing remains the same

AD FOR BANDOM BED HEAD (BANDOM DREAM COMMUNITY)

Mon, 09 Jun 2008 18:39:47 GMT

Hey, bandomers!

If you missed the word, don't despair! penceyprepster and i (daybreak25) have created a new BANDOM DREAM COMMUNITY (bandom_bedhead) dedicated to the lols of our favorite bandom bands showing up in our dreams. Our first ROUND UP POST has just started, but you'll need to check out our INTRODUCTION POST for rules and details!

AD FOR BLA BLA... Just kidding. High-school RPG :)

Sat, 07 Jun 2008 21:27:42 GMT

Located in the outskirts of Portland, Maine; The Arts Academy is a place for boys and girls of the high school age [13-18] to come and perfect their art. Be it dance, photography, instrumental, painting, acting or something else, this school offers everyone the chance to exceed in their talent. Students are housed on campus, in one of two dorms, depending on gender. Academics are also offered in: Maths, English, Science, Foreign Language, History, depending on grade level. Teachers are housed in on-campus apartments.

We have pretty much all characters still available and OCs/PBs are welcome. All age groups are pretty much catered for, there aren't exactly very many restrictions; as long as you play nice. For rules and information please visit artsacademy

To apply, click here.

For more information IM frankieroftw or email omgdansane@gmail.com. please note this is not the same as the old Greatest Journal community; I was just too lazy to come up with a new name. Let's say it's new and improved! Comment here (or in the community) for holds, I'll keep them for up to (but not exceeding) 7 days :)

Bloodshot Forget Me Not [s/a]

Fri, 06 Jun 2008 23:55:05 GMT

Title: Bloodshot Forget Me Not [1/1]
Author: ribbonsonwrists
Rating: PG. light swearing, but no sexual situations.
Characters: Pete Wentz, Patrick Stump, Andy Hurley, Joe Trohman, Ashlee Simpson, Hemy, made up ass families for Andy and Joe
Summary: If there was anything she'd learned from the pair, it was that Patrick would always protect Pete, even from her.
Disclaimer: I don’t know or own any of the men in this story. If you googled yourself/your best friend/coworker/boyfriend to get here, please, please don’t click the cut.
Author’s Notes: I was listening to Blinded by the Light by Manfred Mann, and it was just a super awesome trip and I thought: this requires a whacked out Pete fic. It's NOT an Ashlee basher, so if you're looking for that look somewhere else. I may not really like her 100 percent, but Pete does, and for that alone we should live and let live.
Beta'd by and Dedicated to: petitechanteuse, otherwise known as the Patrick to my Pete
x-posted to secretsbyramen

Pete got weird when he got old. No, he's not. Patrick reminded himself. He's 37, he's not old. After he married Ashlee, and the fall out from that pretty much stifled Fall Out Boy, Pete got a little more introverted. The fans all stoned her as a new age Yoko Ono, some silicone sister that came in, wrecked a good thing and dropped out. Not a single friend blamed Ashlee, who, when she discovered that as much as she loved Pete, she couldn't stay, especially when their child was at risk if he went off the deep end. She gave him a kiss and said goodbye, packing up their toddler and moving back home. She tore the prenup up, figuring that she and the baby would be fine without it, and Patrick, Pete's Patrick, the one true mate to his soul, would need the money and empire more than she ever could. Her father protested, suggesting she milk the mentally unstable man for all she could while she could, but she refused. If there was anything she'd learned from the pair, it was that Patrick would always protect Pete, even from her. There was no way she'd gut the man she loved while he was down. She gave the blonde a kiss on the cheek and told him if he ever needed anything to call her, let her know how Pete was.

That was six years ago.

Patrick rubbed his eyes and sighed, that stiff feeling in his shoulders from acting older than his 32 years should settling in again after another day of chasing Pete around, trying to keep the older man calm, sane, and at peace. He watched Pete scrawling in elaborate streams of nonsense in complicated patterns over massive Post-It Notes, and insisting that he was predicting the next day's weather. He spent hours trying to compare the scribbles, checking if it was safe outside any time Patrick wanted to leave. Some days he asked about his Baby, his Pretty Lady, or the Canvas, or Ol' Blue Eyes, but he only remembered Patrick's real name. He pet the dog he adored, but never remembered to give the old Bulldog his medication or to walk him or even how they used to fall asleep together, the dog on his body and the man content under the weight. Pete never remembered anything about the old life, and often asked Patrick to sing to him without knowing that Patrick once sang for thousands of people a night, that he was right beside Patrick, and he'd run into Ol' Blue Eyes, and he'd grin at the Canvas, and the girls loved him as much as he loved them. Every now and then he'd see a flash of it, just a bright light shimmering across his field of vision, getting foiled confetti and the heat of fire in his eyes and letting it go about blinding him for a moment before it was gone, and he was left sitting on the curb in the morning, a neighbor boy with bright, glossy curls sometimes dropping by on his motor scooter and asking if he needed a ride somewhere.

Andy dropped by sometimes, his beautiful wife and three gorgeous little girls breathing life into the quiet house while Pete watched them all. He asked the Canvas how he'd been doing, but was distracted by the young girls dancing on the lawn, their mother sitting under a tree and weaving bands of daisies to wear in their hair, and take to their Uncle Pete. The youngest, Pete always called her Sunny, although her name was Patricia, would come and sit at his feet, staring at him with her mother's dark eyes and father's wild red hair. She'd beg him to tell her stories, often listening to him recount stories of how Petey slew Goliath with a well placed pebble shot. "You gotta hit it in it's funnybone, 'cause that's where they expect it least." he told her, and Sunny giggled, hugging Uncle Pete tightly before running off to her mother. The girls were doing slow, funny waltzes around Pete's flower garden, laughing and falling together. He loved the little girls, that much he knew. Sunny's sister, Rainbow would always come up with a painting for him, all the colors in the world shown on them, and she'd kiss his cheek and run away, giggling. The eldest took most after their father, and always watched, twirling strings of her long hair between her small, nimble fingers. She had wonderful advice for Pete, and always gave him a notebook to write in, because she said she loved to see what he thought when he wasn't thinking. He always called her Athena, and looked for her first to give her the black notebook they'd traded since she could read.

Joe never really understood what happened. One day he was in the biggest band on the planet, and the next he was married to the girl of his dreams, with two kids who he was fairly sure hated him (and, unfortunately, Joe always thought, inherited his speech impediment), a mortgage he wasn't sure he could make payments on and a hero that fell off the side of the sanity boat almost a decade ago. He didn't stop by as often as the Canvas, but when Ol' Blue Eyes was there, Pete lit up. It was like he remembered who he was and why he was when he saw the curly hair and heard the soft lisp saying "Pete, you're an asshole, you know that?" Ol' Blue Eyes swore a lot, but Pete liked it. He laughed when he heard "asshole" come out like "ath-ole" and everything he said or did made Pete clap gleefully, especially when he handed Pete a strange toy that made different noises when he pulled the strings. Ol' Blue Eyes had a different toy, but it sounded wonderful when he played with it. Some days Patrick would come down and sing with them, songs Pete knew he should know better, but couldn't grasp them just yet. Sometimes Patrick cried, and those days, Pete promised him the world if he'd just stop, if he'd just sing again, just keep Pete safe from himself. Patrick always cried harder at that and ran out, and that's usually when Ol' Blue Eyes just sighed and packed the toys away. Sometimes the Canvas and Ol' Blue Eyes would be there together, and the Canvas would tap his thighs, hum along with Patrick and Ol' Blue Eyes songs with funny names like "Chicago is So Two Years Ago" and "I'm Like A Lawyer With The Way I'm Always Trying To Get You Off" Pete often asked who would give the songs such long, silly names when "Burn" or "Fire" would totally work too. Patrick would shrug, and say "A genius, Pete," Canvas would agree, and Ol' Blue Eyes would snort, adding something about "A genius who drove himself crazy."

Pete woke up one day in a cold sweat, and padded down to the room where Ol' Blue Eyes kept the toys. He worked the door open, pawing at his eyes with the hoodie he was fairly sure he'd stolen from Patrick who had undoubtedly stolen it from him after he'd stolen it from Joe. "Joe." Pete muttered, looking at the cases, fingering the clasps on the one Ol' Blue Eyes always picked out for him, a red and black one with four thick strings and a deep thumming sound when he plucked at them. He took the case out and slipped the strap around his neck, touching the neck of it. The lights flashed in his mind, and Pete closed his eyes against them. The fingers on his left hand moved into almost natural positions on the neck, the lights brighter and more intense now. He began to pluck and strum, moving around a little, and he heard a sound like the ocean in his ears. He took a slow breath and spoke, "You motherfuckers out there ready for this? Sugar, We're Going DOOOOOOWN!" and he played. For the first time since his fans pushed his wife, his Ashlee and the baby he wasn't sure remembered him away. The first time since he told Andy he was scared, he was sorry and he just needed his Patrick. The first time since Joe had looked at him and truly been disappointed. He stood there and played, moving his feet like he used to, jumping off the stack of cases he set up. He opened his eyes, the light blinding, but Pete refused to close his eyes this time. He looked to his left and there she was, bobbing her head in time with the music, a motherly hand over her swollen belly. To his right and there he was, singing his heart out, the words Pete knew he'd written. Further right and he saw a blur of white t-shirt and rich brown curls pointing at the mess of color, skin and flashing cymbals behind them. Pete grinned, and ran up to Patrick, pressing a long, wet kiss to the side of his face, listening to the cheers, and waiting the one, two, three count for Patrick to push him off and glare at him.

Pete's mother had always told him not to look into the eyes of the sun, but if this was the light blinding him, he'd take it any day.