Hate (I Really Don't Like You)
Title: Hate (I Really Don't Like You)
Author: Amanda, who goes by the aliasapodiopsys
Pairing: Danny Kurily/Ian Planet
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: mean girls references, Ian's hair, sexual tension, public sex, cigarettes, gay chicken.
Summary: He’s like, All Time Low’s new shiny fucking toy. They’re all obsessed with him because he knows new jokes and does new tricks and has really curly, really soft hair.
Danny doesn’t like him.
Disclaimer: i own the story line and the characters don't steal!!!!!!!!!!!!! title and cut belongs to Plain White T's
A/N: i am absurdly proud of this. like. this is my baby. it has an actual plot and it's not just mindless porn and just. ugh. this is my baby. please please please tell me what you think. please. i don't even care if it's an anonymous comment or ask in my ask box on tumblr but i would have sex with feedback. also, dedicated to cantsaythursday . gabe is the one who kind of pushed me into writing this. also, parts of this are based off of some drabbles i wrote (one | two) with a few minor tweaks.
tumblr is here, br0.
seriously cum tell me what you think i will not be appreciative if you read it and then make like a tree and leaf.
There isn’t really a logical reason for why. It’s just that there’s something about Ian that gets under his skin. His hair is too big and his smile is a little too wide and he’s irrationally jealous over how he’s just generally really liked by everyone. The way that he’s so cocky is really annoying too, it’s like he knows that he’s kind of everyone’s favorite and that everyone is like, ‘Oh Ian did this,’ and ‘Oh Ian said that,’ and ‘Did you see that thing that Ian did the other day?’
He’s like, All Time Low’s new shiny fucking toy. They’re all obsessed with him because he knows new jokes and does new tricks and has really curly, really soft hair.
Danny doesn’t like him.
Ian doesn’t really like him either. He thinks that Danny would be really nice (really hot) if he wasn’t such a douche, but he’s really cold and he’s always glaring at him and making these snide remarks about how “the only reason his hair is so big is because it’s full of secrets” - which, what?
They clash. Really hard. Matt doesn’t ever let anyone leave them alone in the same room together, because the first and last time they did that a vodka bottle flew across the room and smashed into the wall and a table broke. So, no. They don’t get left alone together.
But even when there are eleven odd other men around, they still clash like fire and water or yin and yang or whatever. Matt tells Danny constantly to get out of Ian’s face all the time.
“It’s not my fault that he rubs me in all the wrong ways,” Danny snaps at the tour manager, instantly pissed off because just hearing the other guitar tech’s name mentioned triggers that reaction in him.
Alex snorts from where he lying on the sofa, absently toying with Evan’s hair. “If there’s something that Ian isn’t doing, it’s rubbing you,” he says with this suggestive raise of his eyebrows and that does nothing to help Danny’s temper because, no, he really doesn’t want Ian to ‘rub him’.
He snarls something at Alex, kicks the bus door open and goes outside to have a cigarette.
It’s down to the last couple of sucks and Danny’s leaned up against the side of the bus, head tipped back and eyes closed as he exhales the smoke through his mouth.
“Smoking gives you cancer, you know.”
Danny’s eyes snap open at the sound of Ian’s voice. “Your mother is going to give me cancer,” he snaps, instantly irritated and, fuck. He just calmed down and he’s going to want another cigarette now and dammit, it’s Ian’s fault he’s smoking in the first place so he really shouldn’t be saying anything.
“Whatever,” Ian says, expression darkening. Danny inhales deeply, feeling the smoke itching at his lungs. “I hope you’re pleased when your lungs are fucking black and you’re coughing up ashes.” He slams the door to the bus behind him. He doesn’t move that much, just drops the cigarette to the tarmac and stubs it out with the toe of his shoe.
He doesn’t hesitate to take the packet of Marlboro Gold out of his back pocket, propping one between his lips as he cups his hand around it to light up. He closes his eyes as he exhales, face tipped up to the sky. It’s getting dark and cold fast; he wishes he’d thought to grab a hoodie on his way out of the bus but there’s no way he’s going back in there before he’s finished this cigarette.
The sound of sneakers on gravel tell him that someone else coming towards him. Danny keeps his eyes closed and keeps smoking like a fucking chimney. He assumes it’s Matt coming to yell at him about Ian again.
It’s Rian’s voice instead. “You shouldn’t smoke,” he says mildly, leaning against the bus. He offers him a hoodie that he clearly took with him.
“Thanks,” Danny says, balancing the cigarette between his lips as he shrugs into it. He ignores his remark about smoking.
“You’ll get lung cancer and die or something,” Rian tries again, arms crossed over his chest. Danny raises and drops his shoulders in a strictly noncommital gesture. “You really shouldn’t smoke,” he snaps finally, reaching forwards and pulling the death stick out of his mouth, dropping it to the ground and stepping on it.
When Rian’s gone, Danny can’t be bothered to light another one.
-
Ian’s general existence irks Danny.
He can’t pinpoint why, but there’s something about him that makes his hair stand on end and his teeth grind. The way he’s flirting with some chick who’s probably underage right now, for example, is making his jaw clench and his teeth grind. She’s obviously an All Time Low fangirl (she’s wearing a JAGK Boner shirt and has a Hustler wrist band on her wrist) which means that there’s a ninety nine percent chance that the only reason she’s even talking to him is because she wants to meet the band.
Danny watches him tip his head back and laugh, using his hands to tell some story that makes the girl laugh too - and that’s something else that’s really annoying, the way he uses his hands to tell a story by miming him socking someone, or to make the universal sign for blow job at Evan because Alex is whining about being bored.
He stubs out the cigarette he was smoking, striding over to them. “Fans aren’t allowed to be in the loading area right now, sorry,” he says with a smile at the girl, because he knows how important it is to ‘be nice to the fans otherwise All Time Low’s crew will get a bad reputation.’
The girl looks disappointed, giving Ian a pleading look. He kind of half shrugs his shoulders, not looking all that bothered. She huffs, her lips going all pouty before she turns and leaves him alone with Ian, and he realizes that this is the first time they’ve been alone together since that time with the vodka bottle.
“You should know better then to flirt with underaged bandsluts,” he says, and it’s rude, yeah, but Ian needs to learn, in his opinion.
“She was nineteen,” Ian interjects mildly, and the way he’s barely even reacting pisses Danny off even more.
He glares. “You do realize that the only reason she was interested in you was because you’re kind of All Time Low’s bitch, right?”
Ian laughs at him, smirking. “Awe, is little Danny K jealous of the girl?” he asks, clearly mocking him. Danny scowls, because no, why the fuck would he be jealous of some nineteen year old bandslut.
“No, I’m just saying, you’d get a lot of shit if you kept flirting with her.”
“She was asking if Alex and the guys would be coming out later because she traveled eight hours to see them, so excuse you Kurily,” Ian rolls his eyes, brushing past him as he walks away.
Danny kicks the wall and then cries out, wincing as he looks down at his foot. “Mother fucker,” he mutters, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette. He curses when he realizes that he has no more.
-
He’s having a midlife crisis.
Except it’s not quite midlife because he’s only twenty five, and he’s still got fifteen years before he can go for a midlife crisis, but the point is, Danny is have a crisis.
Danny didn’t tune one of Jack’s guitars. He completely forgot about it because he was tuning the other ones and then like, three strings snapped and they didn’t have the guitar strings he needed so he needed to go running around all of God’s creation because they’re in some fucking hick town that apparently doesn’t have guitar strings anywhere.
So now he’s standing side stage, cringing through the whole of Damned if I Do Ya because Jack’s guitar is not tuned and he’s pretty sure that he’s not the only one who’s noticing because he can see Ian from the other side of the stage looking like he just one a fucking Oscar or something.
When he takes Jack’s purple guitar to him, Jack raises both eyebrows, asking quietly what the fuck was going on with the guitar. Danny shrugs, looking apologetic. “My bad,” he says, shrugging again as he walks off the stage.
Mostly he blames Ian, this is his fault because he’s been distracted all day since he hasn’t had a cigarette in at least two and he wouldn’t be needing cigarettes if it wasn’t for the other man.
-
Danny and Ian keep colliding after the show, shoulders pushing each other out of the way.
“What the fuck is your damage?” he snaps finally, stepping in front of Ian so that he can’t push past him.
Ian shrugs, looking smug. “Someone should teach you how to properly tune a guitar,” he smirks, side stepping around Danny as he makes his way over to Alex’s guitars, putting the green one down in the case (carefully, because if anything happens to the guitar it’s being taken out of his paycheck.)
The other man makes a shocked noise, striding forward and putting a hand on his bicep, spinning him around roughly. “Like you even know how to tune a guitar,” he spits, right up in his face.
They’re close together (way, way to close) and the air is so fucking charged with electricity that Ian’s hair could practically stand up with it. Danny shoves him hard, turning on his heel and walking in the opposite direction, down the hall and towards load in. Ian snarls and follows him, shoving him against the wall, arms bracketing him in.
“You’re such a fucking whiny little bitch, you know that?” he asks rhetorically. Danny growls and surges forward. Their lips collide. Ian’s lip splits. It’s a harsh clashing of lips for a second, Ian’s hands slipping down the wall and then down, one hand resting on Danny’s shoulder, the other holding his neck.
The touch shocks him; he pushes him away, giving him an icy look.
-
It meant absolutely nothing. As far as Danny is concerned, that kiss didn’t happen. It never did. Non-existent. Some weird ripple in time that makes things different for half of a second.
Things get even more tense between them, the littlest things turn into full blown yelling and shoving and almost-fist fights. Ian can’t do anything that doesn’t make him want to deck him. He notices every tiny little thing, like the way he sometimes doesn’t wear socks with his sneakers, or makes the most irritating puns (like how he’s ‘reading a book about anti-gravity which is impossible to put down’, or ‘I knew this one guy who knew a guy who went to rehab. The place had a sign out on the lawn that said Please Keep Off the Grass!’)
Ian Planet has literally just gone and taken permanent residence in his head. He’s kind of almost obsessed with picking out his flaws and then pointing each and every one of them out.
“Would you quit fucking touching your hair?” Danny snaps at Ian from the sofa, watching him just tugging at his hair as he tries to watch the Simpsons.
Ian just gives him this dirty look, standing up and running both hands through his hair in an exadgurrated motion. “Merry Christmas,” he mutters, going down the hall to go to the back lounge. He doesn’t even care that Matt and Colussy told no one to go in there. He’s willing to risk being scarred by the parents of the band doing weird things in order to get out of Danny’s presence.
It’s silent for a few moments after Ian disappears.
“You should just let him fuck you already oh my God,” Vinny says, exasperated, rolling his eyes. It’s ten in the morning and he’s already holding onto a bottle of Captain Morgan.
“I should what?”
“Did I stutter?” Vinny snorts. “You should shut up and quit being a little bitch and let him fuck you already.”
“I’m not - he doesn’t - we wouldn’t,” Danny splutters, looking shocked. “If me and Ian ever fucked - which we won’t - he would not be fucking me because I am nobodies bitch.”
Vinny’s eyebrow quirks up, but he doesn’t say anything else.
-
It’s a seed that’s been planted in his brain. It grows and it kind of goes out of control and shit, Danny doesn’t know what to do about it.
He doesn’t really notice it at first, it’s just kind of a thing that’s there, a tiny voice saying that maybe he doesn’t actually hate him?
He’s jerking off when he does notice it, hand wrapped around his dick. He’s not watching porn because it’s like, four in the morning and he just woke up from a dream about lips and teeth and hands pulling him right to the edge of an orgasm and right now the only thing on his mind is getting off.
Danny isn’t thinking of anyone or anything in particular. Just - hands, lips, dick, tits, that guy in the porn he watched a few weeks back. He doesn’t have a preference, he doesn’t really care. He just wants to get off.
His hand is curled loosely into the sheet, pulling it out from under the mattress, but he doesn’t care because he is so fucking close. He’s biting hard on his lip, trying to keep sounds to a minimum because he’s kind of usually pretty vocal in bed and sound caries pretty well on a bus that’s standing still. Danny can hear his own breath catching, so he bites down harder, head tipped back and shoulders tense. The images in his head are less just flickers of things he's seen in magazines and in porn, settling into (presumably) whatever he was dreaming about: a blowjob. He’s pretty sure that he was dreaming about a fucking awesome blowjob too, he knows that whoever it was that was giving it knew what he or she was doing, going just right with the teeth and tongue, pressing and licking in all the right ways. And their hair was fucking soft, just long enough to curl his hands into and pull.
He’s still fantasizing about the blowjob when he comes, hips raising off the bunk mattress. Danny’s chest rises and falls slowly, hand still holding his softening dick loosely. He knows who he was dreaming about.
He knows who gave him the (dreamt up) blowjob.
He isn’t pleased at all. He’s kind of pissed off. And he also wants to go back to sleep.
But fuck. He almost just had a wet dream about Ian Planet giving him head.
-
It’s after then that he realizes okay, somethings weird. Because he’s still noticing all these things about Ian but they’re not as annoying or irritating as they were, once upon a time. Now they’re kind of.... endearing.
This time, it’s Vinny’s fault that he’s leaned up against the side of the bus, cigarette propped between his lips. It’s entirely his fault, if he hadn’t mentioned shutting up and letting him get fucked by Ian he probably wouldn’t have even had that dream in the first place.
(He’s had more dreams since then. He’s totally fucked, his dreams are about Ian's hands just touching him and being fucked by him and getting to go down on him and Jesus, he doesn’t even need porn anymore.)
Danny slides down the side of the bus, sitting on the asphalt. He rests his elbows on his knees, cigarette moving methodically to and from his mouth. He’s heard people say that hate and love aren’t all that different - they’re both very passionate emotions.
It kind of makes sense.
This new piece of information makes his head spin. He doesn’t know what to do with it; Danny has pretty much gone through a whole spectrum of emotions over the other man. Going from hate to in love in the time span of a few days is a huge jump.
The cigarette is down to the last puff. He inhales deeply, holding the smoke in his lungs until they itch. The smoke swirls in tendrils up and away. Danny watches it flirt with the air, disappearing quickly. He sighs.
He rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands, cigarette stubbed out.
When he sleeps that night, he dreams about Ian. It’s not even a remotely sexual dream; he dreams about a beach, and holding hands with Ian Planet.
-
The way he acts towards the other guitar tech doesn’t change - although, he does admittedly feel a little bit bad about it. He’s also less harsh about things, making fewer references about how big Ian’s hair is.
(Danny would actually quite like to touch it, feel it, run his hands through it.)
They still fight over everything: who gets to ride shotgun in the cab on the way to a bar, who ate the last poptart - most times it’s Jack. It’d be considered strange if he stopped acting the way he’d always acted around him.
But he knew that Ian hadn’t said anything about the one kiss. Danny would have known if Ian had told one of the other crew members. They gossip like women, he would definitely have known. Which means that it meant something to him. It had to. He’d have told otherwise.
Danny hopes.
He needs to know. He has to know.
But he can’t exactly just ask him, all casually, ‘Hey, Ian, I know that you think I hate your guts, but you remember that one time we kissed by accident? Did it actually mean anything to you?’
Yeah, no.
-
They kiss again (not by accident). Everyone is wasted, completely and totally bombed. They’re not even at a club, they’re in the back lounge of the bus, playing a game of gay chicken. Evan and Alex have been making out for the past five minutes, ignoring people yelling, “Okay! Okay! You guys win, you’re both extremely gay!”
Alex ignores them, flipping them off as he continues shoving his tongue down his boyfriend’s throat.
Jack looks around. “We should move on,” he says, leaning forward towards the empty bottle of Tequila, which is in the semi-circle of All Time Low’s band and crew members. He twists his wrist, making the bottle spin.
It twirls and they’re all laughing and pointing at each other, accusations of there’s no way you’re going to beat me flying at each other. Playing gay chicken with them is pretty much the most pointless thing possible. Pretty much all of them are at least flexisexual, if not bi and/or gay.
The bottle slows to a stop. The neck is pointing at Danny; the end of it is pointing at Ian. Danny’s heart pretty much falls out of his ass. There is no way this is happening; he’s not going against Ian because he doubts the he would pull back sober. He’s had enough alcohol to completely alter his judgment, enough that there’s an excellent chance of him not even remembering this in the morning.
He is going to have a beautiful hangover.
Ian is pretty out of it too. He grins at Danny, eyebrows rising suggestively. It’s gone kind of quiet, and Matt is prepared to have to pull them apart if they try and kill each other.
He’s surprised when they give a fine example of drunk making out at its finest.
They had both leaned forwards, the gap of space between them inching closed. Their eyes were locked together, blue on brown. Danny noticed that Ian’s eyes were surprisingly clear, considering that they both had roughly the same amounts of alcohol in their systems.
Drunk making out at its finest: too wet and too sloppy, Danny’s hands sliding into his hair. There’s cat calls and whistling and Matt is completely dumb struck, because he expected someone to get punched.
In the morning, Danny remembers it only vaguely. He knows that there was making out and a lot of vodka/tequila/beer, and that Ian’s hair is just as soft as it looks.
-
“How cute, you still haven’t learned how to tune a guitar.”
Ian’s voice is snide. He’s leaning over Danny’s guitar case, chin resting on the flat of his hands. Danny looks up at him and arches an eyebrow, face staying otherwise smooth. According to Matt, he’s gotten a good control over his temper lately. He stares at him, hands resting on the neck of the guitar that’s currently perched in his lap.
“It’s cute that you still haven’t found out what a brush is,” Danny mutters, rolling his eyes as he turns the tuning keys on the headstock running quickly through a few chords to make sure it sounds right.
“You should get someone to teach you how to play a guitar. It might help, considering you get paid to tune them.”
Danny sends an icy look in his direction, because even if he’s kind of in love with him, he’s still capable of pissing him off. “And maybe someone should take you to a hairdresser; they can cut your hair.”
He doesn’t understand what Danny has against his hair. He really, really doesn’t. “What is your deal?” he asks, exasperated.
“I don’t know, you’re a kind of a pretentious son of a bitch and you really know how to get under my skin.”
Ian strides forward, pulling Danny up and grabbing the guitar out of his hands, shoving it into the guitar case. He bends Danny over the amp he was sitting on, fingers hot and heavy on his hips. “Do you take it back?” he asks in his ear, voice hushed. Danny whines, wriggling to try and get out of his grip. “Do you?”
“No,” Danny bites out, twisting his head around so he can look at Ian. “I still think you’re a pretentious fucking son of a bitch.”
His hands shift from his hips to his belt, undoing it deftly. “At least I don’t go around wearing Louis Vuitton belts,” he says, biting down on his ear. Danny can’t help but moan, his fingers tightening on the edge of the amp. “Shhh, now, we don’t want someone hearing you.”
“Would you stop me if I made you my bitch right here?” Ian whispers in his ear, making sure that he can’t move at all as his right hand trails up and down his chest, toying with his nipples through the thin cotton t-shirt. “I don’t think you would.”
Danny can hear the smirk in his voice, he knows that Ian is testing him to see how far he’s willing to bend over backwards. It’s like a lethal game of gay chicken - except not really, because neither of them are going to back down.
“You have no idea what I would and wouldn’t do,” he snarls, shifting his hips back. Ian is half hard, he can feel him, pressing against his ass as he folds himself over the other guitar tech, lips pressing wet to his cheek.
Ian is still smirking when he replies. “I have a pretty good idea, though.” His hand curves over his ass, squeezing it lightly. “I think that you’d let me finger you open right here,” it moves to the front of his jeans, undoing them one-handed with ease (which, he’s a guitarist, he’s good with his hands. Mmm.) and then moving back around, hand dipping under the waist band of his boxers, fingertips teasing lightly across his entrance. “I doubt that you’d make me stop if Matt or Jack or Vinny came and caught us. You’d probably even beg for it.”
His breath catches when he feels his hands on him, so close to having everything but so far away. Danny can’t even say that he wouldn’t do any of those things because the truth is, he probably would. A finger presses against his lips, and then two and three, and Danny opens up, mouth closing around them. He hollows his cheeks, coating them liberally in spit because he knows this is what he gets instead of lube. The pads of his fingers are rough from playing the guitar.
The world kind of blurs together when Ian’s fingers press inside him, working him open as his lips stay close to his ear, whispering things like stay quiet and so tight. In the end, Ian’s other hand is clamped over Danny’s mouth, (somewhat) successfully muffling the noises he makes.
Ian stills once he’s completely pushed in, hips pressing against Danny’s ass. His fingers can’t get a good grip on the edges of the amp, short gasps echoing from his lips.
“Hey, hey. Are you okay?” Ian asks, voice a little bit high pitched, but that can totally be excused because dear Mother Maria, Danny is fucking tight, Jesus.
Danny manages a nod. “Yeah, just. Give me a minute,” he says, arms trembling a little bit. The words you’re just, big come to mind, because shit, he is bigger than Danny would’ve given him credit for, but if there’s one thing that Danny isn’t, it’s a porn star. And the words ‘you’re just, big’ aren’t relevant to anything in life that isn’t cheap porn.
Hands bracket his hips, just underneath the t-shirt that’s still on him. It’s kind of sticking to his back and chest, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t care because Ian’s started doing these tiny hip rotation things, and he isn’t quite moving but it’s enough to make Danny’s breath catch.
“Jesus, I - Yeah, yeah, okay, yeah,” he gasps, back arching as Ian just manages to brush his prostate. He’s slow at first, barely pulling out before thrusting back in.
When Danny starts getting vocal (“More, please, fuck - harder.”) the pace gets set up, fast and deeper and harder. Ian’s lips are moving against the back of his neck, mumbling phrases and quieting moans. His hand shifts from the edge of the amp backwards, curving around Ian’s skull and curling into sweaty curls. He turns his neck, pulling Ian’s face towards his, their lips meeting halfway as this kiss, dirtyhot and filthy.
His grip tightens every time he pushes back in, moaning low into his mouth. The fact that literally anyone could turn the corner and see Ian fucking him over an amp makes this whole thing that much more.
“Fuck, you’re so,” Danny gasps against his lips. They’re not even kissing anymore, just their lips touching each other, practically just breathing each other in. “So,” he can’t finish his sentence, every time he tries Ian just thrusts in again, making him actually see stars.
He’s never seen stars during sex before.
-
They’re holding hands when they join the rest of the group, fingers laced loosely together. Vinny spots them first, nudging Grieco in the side and pointing at them.
“Oh,” he says. He looks surprised.
“You owe me fifty bucks,” Vinny says smugly. They watch them walking towards them, Danny looking slightly sheepish because he knows he’s about to get a round of I told you so from the merch guy.
He isn’t disappointed.
“I told you so,” crows Vinny, looking way to proud of himself. “I told you so.”
Danny blushes.
“And he totally fucked you, right?”
He blushes harder. “Who did the fucking and who got fucked is none of your business,” he sniffs.
From behind him, Ian holds his hands right over his hips, not quite touching, making a hip thrusting motion.
Vinny doubles over from laughter.
FIN
A/N II: I'm going to answer some questions you guys probably weren't asking:
Author: Amanda, who goes by the aliasapodiopsys
Pairing: Danny Kurily/Ian Planet
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: mean girls references, Ian's hair, sexual tension, public sex, cigarettes, gay chicken.
Summary: He’s like, All Time Low’s new shiny fucking toy. They’re all obsessed with him because he knows new jokes and does new tricks and has really curly, really soft hair.
Danny doesn’t like him.
Disclaimer: i own the story line and the characters don't steal!!!!!!!!!!!!! title and cut belongs to Plain White T's
A/N: i am absurdly proud of this. like. this is my baby. it has an actual plot and it's not just mindless porn and just. ugh. this is my baby. please please please tell me what you think. please. i don't even care if it's an anonymous comment or ask in my ask box on tumblr but i would have sex with feedback. also, dedicated to cantsaythursday . gabe is the one who kind of pushed me into writing this. also, parts of this are based off of some drabbles i wrote (one | two) with a few minor tweaks.
tumblr is here, br0.
seriously cum tell me what you think i will not be appreciative if you read it and then make like a tree and leaf.
There isn’t really a logical reason for why. It’s just that there’s something about Ian that gets under his skin. His hair is too big and his smile is a little too wide and he’s irrationally jealous over how he’s just generally really liked by everyone. The way that he’s so cocky is really annoying too, it’s like he knows that he’s kind of everyone’s favorite and that everyone is like, ‘Oh Ian did this,’ and ‘Oh Ian said that,’ and ‘Did you see that thing that Ian did the other day?’
He’s like, All Time Low’s new shiny fucking toy. They’re all obsessed with him because he knows new jokes and does new tricks and has really curly, really soft hair.
Danny doesn’t like him.
Ian doesn’t really like him either. He thinks that Danny would be really nice (really hot) if he wasn’t such a douche, but he’s really cold and he’s always glaring at him and making these snide remarks about how “the only reason his hair is so big is because it’s full of secrets” - which, what?
They clash. Really hard. Matt doesn’t ever let anyone leave them alone in the same room together, because the first and last time they did that a vodka bottle flew across the room and smashed into the wall and a table broke. So, no. They don’t get left alone together.
But even when there are eleven odd other men around, they still clash like fire and water or yin and yang or whatever. Matt tells Danny constantly to get out of Ian’s face all the time.
“It’s not my fault that he rubs me in all the wrong ways,” Danny snaps at the tour manager, instantly pissed off because just hearing the other guitar tech’s name mentioned triggers that reaction in him.
Alex snorts from where he lying on the sofa, absently toying with Evan’s hair. “If there’s something that Ian isn’t doing, it’s rubbing you,” he says with this suggestive raise of his eyebrows and that does nothing to help Danny’s temper because, no, he really doesn’t want Ian to ‘rub him’.
He snarls something at Alex, kicks the bus door open and goes outside to have a cigarette.
It’s down to the last couple of sucks and Danny’s leaned up against the side of the bus, head tipped back and eyes closed as he exhales the smoke through his mouth.
“Smoking gives you cancer, you know.”
Danny’s eyes snap open at the sound of Ian’s voice. “Your mother is going to give me cancer,” he snaps, instantly irritated and, fuck. He just calmed down and he’s going to want another cigarette now and dammit, it’s Ian’s fault he’s smoking in the first place so he really shouldn’t be saying anything.
“Whatever,” Ian says, expression darkening. Danny inhales deeply, feeling the smoke itching at his lungs. “I hope you’re pleased when your lungs are fucking black and you’re coughing up ashes.” He slams the door to the bus behind him. He doesn’t move that much, just drops the cigarette to the tarmac and stubs it out with the toe of his shoe.
He doesn’t hesitate to take the packet of Marlboro Gold out of his back pocket, propping one between his lips as he cups his hand around it to light up. He closes his eyes as he exhales, face tipped up to the sky. It’s getting dark and cold fast; he wishes he’d thought to grab a hoodie on his way out of the bus but there’s no way he’s going back in there before he’s finished this cigarette.
The sound of sneakers on gravel tell him that someone else coming towards him. Danny keeps his eyes closed and keeps smoking like a fucking chimney. He assumes it’s Matt coming to yell at him about Ian again.
It’s Rian’s voice instead. “You shouldn’t smoke,” he says mildly, leaning against the bus. He offers him a hoodie that he clearly took with him.
“Thanks,” Danny says, balancing the cigarette between his lips as he shrugs into it. He ignores his remark about smoking.
“You’ll get lung cancer and die or something,” Rian tries again, arms crossed over his chest. Danny raises and drops his shoulders in a strictly noncommital gesture. “You really shouldn’t smoke,” he snaps finally, reaching forwards and pulling the death stick out of his mouth, dropping it to the ground and stepping on it.
When Rian’s gone, Danny can’t be bothered to light another one.
-
Ian’s general existence irks Danny.
He can’t pinpoint why, but there’s something about him that makes his hair stand on end and his teeth grind. The way he’s flirting with some chick who’s probably underage right now, for example, is making his jaw clench and his teeth grind. She’s obviously an All Time Low fangirl (she’s wearing a JAGK Boner shirt and has a Hustler wrist band on her wrist) which means that there’s a ninety nine percent chance that the only reason she’s even talking to him is because she wants to meet the band.
Danny watches him tip his head back and laugh, using his hands to tell some story that makes the girl laugh too - and that’s something else that’s really annoying, the way he uses his hands to tell a story by miming him socking someone, or to make the universal sign for blow job at Evan because Alex is whining about being bored.
He stubs out the cigarette he was smoking, striding over to them. “Fans aren’t allowed to be in the loading area right now, sorry,” he says with a smile at the girl, because he knows how important it is to ‘be nice to the fans otherwise All Time Low’s crew will get a bad reputation.’
The girl looks disappointed, giving Ian a pleading look. He kind of half shrugs his shoulders, not looking all that bothered. She huffs, her lips going all pouty before she turns and leaves him alone with Ian, and he realizes that this is the first time they’ve been alone together since that time with the vodka bottle.
“You should know better then to flirt with underaged bandsluts,” he says, and it’s rude, yeah, but Ian needs to learn, in his opinion.
“She was nineteen,” Ian interjects mildly, and the way he’s barely even reacting pisses Danny off even more.
He glares. “You do realize that the only reason she was interested in you was because you’re kind of All Time Low’s bitch, right?”
Ian laughs at him, smirking. “Awe, is little Danny K jealous of the girl?” he asks, clearly mocking him. Danny scowls, because no, why the fuck would he be jealous of some nineteen year old bandslut.
“No, I’m just saying, you’d get a lot of shit if you kept flirting with her.”
“She was asking if Alex and the guys would be coming out later because she traveled eight hours to see them, so excuse you Kurily,” Ian rolls his eyes, brushing past him as he walks away.
Danny kicks the wall and then cries out, wincing as he looks down at his foot. “Mother fucker,” he mutters, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette. He curses when he realizes that he has no more.
-
He’s having a midlife crisis.
Except it’s not quite midlife because he’s only twenty five, and he’s still got fifteen years before he can go for a midlife crisis, but the point is, Danny is have a crisis.
Danny didn’t tune one of Jack’s guitars. He completely forgot about it because he was tuning the other ones and then like, three strings snapped and they didn’t have the guitar strings he needed so he needed to go running around all of God’s creation because they’re in some fucking hick town that apparently doesn’t have guitar strings anywhere.
So now he’s standing side stage, cringing through the whole of Damned if I Do Ya because Jack’s guitar is not tuned and he’s pretty sure that he’s not the only one who’s noticing because he can see Ian from the other side of the stage looking like he just one a fucking Oscar or something.
When he takes Jack’s purple guitar to him, Jack raises both eyebrows, asking quietly what the fuck was going on with the guitar. Danny shrugs, looking apologetic. “My bad,” he says, shrugging again as he walks off the stage.
Mostly he blames Ian, this is his fault because he’s been distracted all day since he hasn’t had a cigarette in at least two and he wouldn’t be needing cigarettes if it wasn’t for the other man.
-
Danny and Ian keep colliding after the show, shoulders pushing each other out of the way.
“What the fuck is your damage?” he snaps finally, stepping in front of Ian so that he can’t push past him.
Ian shrugs, looking smug. “Someone should teach you how to properly tune a guitar,” he smirks, side stepping around Danny as he makes his way over to Alex’s guitars, putting the green one down in the case (carefully, because if anything happens to the guitar it’s being taken out of his paycheck.)
The other man makes a shocked noise, striding forward and putting a hand on his bicep, spinning him around roughly. “Like you even know how to tune a guitar,” he spits, right up in his face.
They’re close together (way, way to close) and the air is so fucking charged with electricity that Ian’s hair could practically stand up with it. Danny shoves him hard, turning on his heel and walking in the opposite direction, down the hall and towards load in. Ian snarls and follows him, shoving him against the wall, arms bracketing him in.
“You’re such a fucking whiny little bitch, you know that?” he asks rhetorically. Danny growls and surges forward. Their lips collide. Ian’s lip splits. It’s a harsh clashing of lips for a second, Ian’s hands slipping down the wall and then down, one hand resting on Danny’s shoulder, the other holding his neck.
The touch shocks him; he pushes him away, giving him an icy look.
-
It meant absolutely nothing. As far as Danny is concerned, that kiss didn’t happen. It never did. Non-existent. Some weird ripple in time that makes things different for half of a second.
Things get even more tense between them, the littlest things turn into full blown yelling and shoving and almost-fist fights. Ian can’t do anything that doesn’t make him want to deck him. He notices every tiny little thing, like the way he sometimes doesn’t wear socks with his sneakers, or makes the most irritating puns (like how he’s ‘reading a book about anti-gravity which is impossible to put down’, or ‘I knew this one guy who knew a guy who went to rehab. The place had a sign out on the lawn that said Please Keep Off the Grass!’)
Ian Planet has literally just gone and taken permanent residence in his head. He’s kind of almost obsessed with picking out his flaws and then pointing each and every one of them out.
“Would you quit fucking touching your hair?” Danny snaps at Ian from the sofa, watching him just tugging at his hair as he tries to watch the Simpsons.
Ian just gives him this dirty look, standing up and running both hands through his hair in an exadgurrated motion. “Merry Christmas,” he mutters, going down the hall to go to the back lounge. He doesn’t even care that Matt and Colussy told no one to go in there. He’s willing to risk being scarred by the parents of the band doing weird things in order to get out of Danny’s presence.
It’s silent for a few moments after Ian disappears.
“You should just let him fuck you already oh my God,” Vinny says, exasperated, rolling his eyes. It’s ten in the morning and he’s already holding onto a bottle of Captain Morgan.
“I should what?”
“Did I stutter?” Vinny snorts. “You should shut up and quit being a little bitch and let him fuck you already.”
“I’m not - he doesn’t - we wouldn’t,” Danny splutters, looking shocked. “If me and Ian ever fucked - which we won’t - he would not be fucking me because I am nobodies bitch.”
Vinny’s eyebrow quirks up, but he doesn’t say anything else.
-
It’s a seed that’s been planted in his brain. It grows and it kind of goes out of control and shit, Danny doesn’t know what to do about it.
He doesn’t really notice it at first, it’s just kind of a thing that’s there, a tiny voice saying that maybe he doesn’t actually hate him?
He’s jerking off when he does notice it, hand wrapped around his dick. He’s not watching porn because it’s like, four in the morning and he just woke up from a dream about lips and teeth and hands pulling him right to the edge of an orgasm and right now the only thing on his mind is getting off.
Danny isn’t thinking of anyone or anything in particular. Just - hands, lips, dick, tits, that guy in the porn he watched a few weeks back. He doesn’t have a preference, he doesn’t really care. He just wants to get off.
His hand is curled loosely into the sheet, pulling it out from under the mattress, but he doesn’t care because he is so fucking close. He’s biting hard on his lip, trying to keep sounds to a minimum because he’s kind of usually pretty vocal in bed and sound caries pretty well on a bus that’s standing still. Danny can hear his own breath catching, so he bites down harder, head tipped back and shoulders tense. The images in his head are less just flickers of things he's seen in magazines and in porn, settling into (presumably) whatever he was dreaming about: a blowjob. He’s pretty sure that he was dreaming about a fucking awesome blowjob too, he knows that whoever it was that was giving it knew what he or she was doing, going just right with the teeth and tongue, pressing and licking in all the right ways. And their hair was fucking soft, just long enough to curl his hands into and pull.
He’s still fantasizing about the blowjob when he comes, hips raising off the bunk mattress. Danny’s chest rises and falls slowly, hand still holding his softening dick loosely. He knows who he was dreaming about.
He knows who gave him the (dreamt up) blowjob.
He isn’t pleased at all. He’s kind of pissed off. And he also wants to go back to sleep.
But fuck. He almost just had a wet dream about Ian Planet giving him head.
-
It’s after then that he realizes okay, somethings weird. Because he’s still noticing all these things about Ian but they’re not as annoying or irritating as they were, once upon a time. Now they’re kind of.... endearing.
This time, it’s Vinny’s fault that he’s leaned up against the side of the bus, cigarette propped between his lips. It’s entirely his fault, if he hadn’t mentioned shutting up and letting him get fucked by Ian he probably wouldn’t have even had that dream in the first place.
(He’s had more dreams since then. He’s totally fucked, his dreams are about Ian's hands just touching him and being fucked by him and getting to go down on him and Jesus, he doesn’t even need porn anymore.)
Danny slides down the side of the bus, sitting on the asphalt. He rests his elbows on his knees, cigarette moving methodically to and from his mouth. He’s heard people say that hate and love aren’t all that different - they’re both very passionate emotions.
It kind of makes sense.
This new piece of information makes his head spin. He doesn’t know what to do with it; Danny has pretty much gone through a whole spectrum of emotions over the other man. Going from hate to in love in the time span of a few days is a huge jump.
The cigarette is down to the last puff. He inhales deeply, holding the smoke in his lungs until they itch. The smoke swirls in tendrils up and away. Danny watches it flirt with the air, disappearing quickly. He sighs.
He rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands, cigarette stubbed out.
When he sleeps that night, he dreams about Ian. It’s not even a remotely sexual dream; he dreams about a beach, and holding hands with Ian Planet.
-
The way he acts towards the other guitar tech doesn’t change - although, he does admittedly feel a little bit bad about it. He’s also less harsh about things, making fewer references about how big Ian’s hair is.
(Danny would actually quite like to touch it, feel it, run his hands through it.)
They still fight over everything: who gets to ride shotgun in the cab on the way to a bar, who ate the last poptart - most times it’s Jack. It’d be considered strange if he stopped acting the way he’d always acted around him.
But he knew that Ian hadn’t said anything about the one kiss. Danny would have known if Ian had told one of the other crew members. They gossip like women, he would definitely have known. Which means that it meant something to him. It had to. He’d have told otherwise.
Danny hopes.
He needs to know. He has to know.
But he can’t exactly just ask him, all casually, ‘Hey, Ian, I know that you think I hate your guts, but you remember that one time we kissed by accident? Did it actually mean anything to you?’
Yeah, no.
-
They kiss again (not by accident). Everyone is wasted, completely and totally bombed. They’re not even at a club, they’re in the back lounge of the bus, playing a game of gay chicken. Evan and Alex have been making out for the past five minutes, ignoring people yelling, “Okay! Okay! You guys win, you’re both extremely gay!”
Alex ignores them, flipping them off as he continues shoving his tongue down his boyfriend’s throat.
Jack looks around. “We should move on,” he says, leaning forward towards the empty bottle of Tequila, which is in the semi-circle of All Time Low’s band and crew members. He twists his wrist, making the bottle spin.
It twirls and they’re all laughing and pointing at each other, accusations of there’s no way you’re going to beat me flying at each other. Playing gay chicken with them is pretty much the most pointless thing possible. Pretty much all of them are at least flexisexual, if not bi and/or gay.
The bottle slows to a stop. The neck is pointing at Danny; the end of it is pointing at Ian. Danny’s heart pretty much falls out of his ass. There is no way this is happening; he’s not going against Ian because he doubts the he would pull back sober. He’s had enough alcohol to completely alter his judgment, enough that there’s an excellent chance of him not even remembering this in the morning.
He is going to have a beautiful hangover.
Ian is pretty out of it too. He grins at Danny, eyebrows rising suggestively. It’s gone kind of quiet, and Matt is prepared to have to pull them apart if they try and kill each other.
He’s surprised when they give a fine example of drunk making out at its finest.
They had both leaned forwards, the gap of space between them inching closed. Their eyes were locked together, blue on brown. Danny noticed that Ian’s eyes were surprisingly clear, considering that they both had roughly the same amounts of alcohol in their systems.
Drunk making out at its finest: too wet and too sloppy, Danny’s hands sliding into his hair. There’s cat calls and whistling and Matt is completely dumb struck, because he expected someone to get punched.
In the morning, Danny remembers it only vaguely. He knows that there was making out and a lot of vodka/tequila/beer, and that Ian’s hair is just as soft as it looks.
-
“How cute, you still haven’t learned how to tune a guitar.”
Ian’s voice is snide. He’s leaning over Danny’s guitar case, chin resting on the flat of his hands. Danny looks up at him and arches an eyebrow, face staying otherwise smooth. According to Matt, he’s gotten a good control over his temper lately. He stares at him, hands resting on the neck of the guitar that’s currently perched in his lap.
“It’s cute that you still haven’t found out what a brush is,” Danny mutters, rolling his eyes as he turns the tuning keys on the headstock running quickly through a few chords to make sure it sounds right.
“You should get someone to teach you how to play a guitar. It might help, considering you get paid to tune them.”
Danny sends an icy look in his direction, because even if he’s kind of in love with him, he’s still capable of pissing him off. “And maybe someone should take you to a hairdresser; they can cut your hair.”
He doesn’t understand what Danny has against his hair. He really, really doesn’t. “What is your deal?” he asks, exasperated.
“I don’t know, you’re a kind of a pretentious son of a bitch and you really know how to get under my skin.”
Ian strides forward, pulling Danny up and grabbing the guitar out of his hands, shoving it into the guitar case. He bends Danny over the amp he was sitting on, fingers hot and heavy on his hips. “Do you take it back?” he asks in his ear, voice hushed. Danny whines, wriggling to try and get out of his grip. “Do you?”
“No,” Danny bites out, twisting his head around so he can look at Ian. “I still think you’re a pretentious fucking son of a bitch.”
His hands shift from his hips to his belt, undoing it deftly. “At least I don’t go around wearing Louis Vuitton belts,” he says, biting down on his ear. Danny can’t help but moan, his fingers tightening on the edge of the amp. “Shhh, now, we don’t want someone hearing you.”
“Would you stop me if I made you my bitch right here?” Ian whispers in his ear, making sure that he can’t move at all as his right hand trails up and down his chest, toying with his nipples through the thin cotton t-shirt. “I don’t think you would.”
Danny can hear the smirk in his voice, he knows that Ian is testing him to see how far he’s willing to bend over backwards. It’s like a lethal game of gay chicken - except not really, because neither of them are going to back down.
“You have no idea what I would and wouldn’t do,” he snarls, shifting his hips back. Ian is half hard, he can feel him, pressing against his ass as he folds himself over the other guitar tech, lips pressing wet to his cheek.
Ian is still smirking when he replies. “I have a pretty good idea, though.” His hand curves over his ass, squeezing it lightly. “I think that you’d let me finger you open right here,” it moves to the front of his jeans, undoing them one-handed with ease (which, he’s a guitarist, he’s good with his hands. Mmm.) and then moving back around, hand dipping under the waist band of his boxers, fingertips teasing lightly across his entrance. “I doubt that you’d make me stop if Matt or Jack or Vinny came and caught us. You’d probably even beg for it.”
His breath catches when he feels his hands on him, so close to having everything but so far away. Danny can’t even say that he wouldn’t do any of those things because the truth is, he probably would. A finger presses against his lips, and then two and three, and Danny opens up, mouth closing around them. He hollows his cheeks, coating them liberally in spit because he knows this is what he gets instead of lube. The pads of his fingers are rough from playing the guitar.
The world kind of blurs together when Ian’s fingers press inside him, working him open as his lips stay close to his ear, whispering things like stay quiet and so tight. In the end, Ian’s other hand is clamped over Danny’s mouth, (somewhat) successfully muffling the noises he makes.
Ian stills once he’s completely pushed in, hips pressing against Danny’s ass. His fingers can’t get a good grip on the edges of the amp, short gasps echoing from his lips.
“Hey, hey. Are you okay?” Ian asks, voice a little bit high pitched, but that can totally be excused because dear Mother Maria, Danny is fucking tight, Jesus.
Danny manages a nod. “Yeah, just. Give me a minute,” he says, arms trembling a little bit. The words you’re just, big come to mind, because shit, he is bigger than Danny would’ve given him credit for, but if there’s one thing that Danny isn’t, it’s a porn star. And the words ‘you’re just, big’ aren’t relevant to anything in life that isn’t cheap porn.
Hands bracket his hips, just underneath the t-shirt that’s still on him. It’s kind of sticking to his back and chest, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t care because Ian’s started doing these tiny hip rotation things, and he isn’t quite moving but it’s enough to make Danny’s breath catch.
“Jesus, I - Yeah, yeah, okay, yeah,” he gasps, back arching as Ian just manages to brush his prostate. He’s slow at first, barely pulling out before thrusting back in.
When Danny starts getting vocal (“More, please, fuck - harder.”) the pace gets set up, fast and deeper and harder. Ian’s lips are moving against the back of his neck, mumbling phrases and quieting moans. His hand shifts from the edge of the amp backwards, curving around Ian’s skull and curling into sweaty curls. He turns his neck, pulling Ian’s face towards his, their lips meeting halfway as this kiss, dirtyhot and filthy.
His grip tightens every time he pushes back in, moaning low into his mouth. The fact that literally anyone could turn the corner and see Ian fucking him over an amp makes this whole thing that much more.
“Fuck, you’re so,” Danny gasps against his lips. They’re not even kissing anymore, just their lips touching each other, practically just breathing each other in. “So,” he can’t finish his sentence, every time he tries Ian just thrusts in again, making him actually see stars.
He’s never seen stars during sex before.
-
They’re holding hands when they join the rest of the group, fingers laced loosely together. Vinny spots them first, nudging Grieco in the side and pointing at them.
“Oh,” he says. He looks surprised.
“You owe me fifty bucks,” Vinny says smugly. They watch them walking towards them, Danny looking slightly sheepish because he knows he’s about to get a round of I told you so from the merch guy.
He isn’t disappointed.
“I told you so,” crows Vinny, looking way to proud of himself. “I told you so.”
Danny blushes.
“And he totally fucked you, right?”
He blushes harder. “Who did the fucking and who got fucked is none of your business,” he sniffs.
From behind him, Ian holds his hands right over his hips, not quite touching, making a hip thrusting motion.
Vinny doubles over from laughter.
FIN
A/N II: I'm going to answer some questions you guys probably weren't asking:
- yes, I'm a little bit obsessed with Ian's hair
- Danny did think that Ian would have a small dick
- I did end up being the first person to write fic about Ian Planet. this pleases me.