Bandslash: two of a kind // most compatible ride
So, a while back
foxxcub hosted this porn meme Save a Horse, Ride a Band Boy, and the concept made me go AHAHAHAHAnnggghh. I was first going to write this for the meme, but as usual I was pretty late to the party so I decided to just write it as porny ficlet instead.
Don’t know what these guys look like? Consult the Quick and Somewhat Dirty Visual Reference Guide.
Title: two of a kind // most compatible ride
Author: Mistress Kat /
kat_lair
Fandom: Bandslash, Cobra Starship & Fall Out Boy
Pairing/Category: Gabe/Pete, PWP
Rating: NC-17 (for porn folks, for dirty, dirty gay porn \o/)
Word count: ~2000
Disclaimer: Not true. If you got here by googling yourself… Well. *shrugs* Enjoy the fic boys.
Summary: It’s a game with rules, even if they only exist in his head. Gabe pushes and pushes, with his hands inside Pete’s clothes and his tongue inside Pete’s mouth, and himself always in Pete’s space like a goddamn puppy wanting attention.
Author notes: Title from Dirty by Darren Hayes - you can consider that the unofficial soundtrack of the fic (full lyrics here). Beta by
razorxrosary,
ssstevie and
bloodrebel333 - all red-hot talented ladies made entirely of awesome. Thank you also to
pushkin666 for all the encouraging noises she made. First time writing bandslash, all feedback, including concrit, is very welcome.
two of a kind // most compatible ride
It’s a game with rules, even if they only exist in his head. Gabe pushes and pushes, with his hands inside Pete’s clothes and his tongue inside Pete’s mouth, and himself always in Pete’s space like a goddamn puppy wanting attention. And Pete just gives in, laughing and easy and so fucking unaffected by all of it, like he doesn’t even see Gabe, not really, like Gabe is nothing but another skinny scene-kid, trying to be different and failing.
There are limits, Gabe’s sure of it, but he hasn’t come across them yet. Hands on Pete’s hips, fingers stroking the strip of skin between his clothes, long full-body hugs that end with him dragging his open mouth against the edge of Pete’s jaw - he does it all and more, but Pete just leans in, accommodating every intrusion with amused tolerance, pretending he doesn’t notice the hard line of Gabe’s dick pressing against his ass.
It goes on like that for weeks, months, forever, he doesn’t even know, but when Pete finally, finally pushes back, Gabe ends up sprawled on the dressing room floor, dizzy from alcohol and Pete’s impressively sneaky footwork.
“Huh,” Pete says, standing above him, hands casually shoved into the pockets of his purple hoodie. “You look even better on your back than I thought you would.” He tips his head contemplatively to the side and lets his eyes travel all the way from Gabe’s trainers to the top of his hair and back again. It’s a long journey.
Gabe really wants to just flail a bit and maybe surreptitiously check his back pocket for condoms (never leave the tour bus without them) but dammit, he’s already lost more cool points than he can probably afford, so he forces a cocky smile and leans back on his elbows, crossing his feet casually. “Oh yeah?” he says, returning Pete’s gaze with a look he hopes is closer to smoldering than panicked. “Is that so?”
Pete drops to his knees smoothly, straddling Gabe’s legs, his palms landing heavy and warm on Gabe’s thighs. “Patrick told me I should just fuck you already.” He grins roguishly, giving Gabe’s kneecap a friendly squeeze. “Seems you’ve been after that for a while now.”
And Gabe. Well. It’s not like he’s going to deny it, not when he has Pete-fucking-Wentz practically in his lap.
“You gonna?” he asks, curling his hips up a little bit, just a suggestion, though not exactly subtle.
“Nah,” Pete says, but his hands are inching toward the waistband of Gabe’s skinny jeans which makes things a little confusing. Not to mention tight.
Pete notices, notices Gabe noticing that he notices, and then skims his hand deliberately over Gabe’s erection, still trapped under a layer of denim (only prudes and very new Decaydance bands wear underwear). “You see, Patrick’s working under a slightly uninformed assumption.”
“What- fuck!” Gabe bucks up, Pete’s clever fingers unbuttoning his jeans. “What’s that?” He’s panting open-mouthed now, transfixed on Pete’s face, the heavy-lidded flush spreading across his features, eyeliner smudged and dirty like drunken promises.
“Patrick thinks I like to do the fucking.” Pete yanks Gabe’s jeans past his thighs, his cock bumping against his stomach, smearing precome on the white Clandestine t-shirt. “He’s wrong,” Pete continues, matter-of-factly. “I just haven’t gotten around to telling him that yet.”
Pete grabs the hem of his own hoodie, pulling it off in one smooth movement. In the low light of the room his tattoos look warm and shadowy and Gabe wants to lick them so bad he can practically taste it.
“I prefer to be the one getting fucked,” Pete says, rocking forward on to his knees to ease open his pants. “That work for you?”
There’s really only one answer to that. “Nnngghh,” Gabe says, rearing up and crashing their mouths together. Pete hums against his lips, pleased and maybe a little surprised, like maybe he hadn’t expected the kissing to feature now that Gabe was getting what he wanted.
They stay like that for a while, trading sharp bites and harsh moans, Pete’s open zipper digging into the soft skin of Gabe’s stomach.
Finally Pete wrenches free, pushing up onto his feet. He’s swaying a little, smile in place despite the glazed eyes. Gabe doesn’t have the muscle coordination left for much of anything and he feels his face slacken even more as Pete kicks off his shoes and skims out of his skin-tight pinstripes.
Pete is back before Gabe can muster enough energy to complain, dropping two foil packets onto his stomach and sitting higher up this time, thighs on either side of Gabe’s ribcage. Pete’s ass keeps brushing against his cock on every squirm and Gabe’s palms close over his hips almost at their volition, and god, intellectually he knew Pete wasn’t exactly the biggest guy around, but it’s the sight of his own hands, almost large enough to circle Pete’s entire waist that drives the point home, and it probably shouldn’t be such a turn-on but oh jesusfuckingchrist it is.
His grip tightens instinctively, pulling Pete down into another sloppy kiss, Gabe’s mouth sliding wetly over his cheek and their cocks rubbing together, a long sweet drag of flesh on flesh that leaves both of them breathless and spitting obscenities.
“I-” Pete leans back unsteadily and Gabe can’t help but feel a bit smug. “I’m just gonna.” His fingers scramble between their bodies, pressing the condom into Gabe’s hand and ripping the other packet open himself.
Pete scoots down enough to give Gabe some room to maneuver, and for the next thirty seconds or so he has to concentrate very hard on rolling the rubber over his erection and not coming all over his own fist in the process.
The moment he lifts his eyes back to Pete is almost enough to ruin all that effort.
Pete’s up on his knees, making little broken-off sounds, one hand wrapped around the base of his cock and the other curled behind him, arm muscles flexing. He’s fucking himself open on his own fingers, head thrown back and the tanned line of his throat contracting visibly at every swallow.
It’s probably the hottest thing Gabe has ever seen, and that’s including the time he walked in on Travis and Bill and a bottle of baby oil. Pete’s cock is flushed dark, the tip pearling with moisture and holy shit those pictures did not do him justice at all. Gabe reaches over and swipes a thumb over the head, bringing it to his lips and licking it clean. Pete’s hips jerk forward like a snap of a whip and Gabe’s mouth literally floods with saliva at the thought of Pete pushing his cock inside, the shape and weight of it on his tongue, down his throat, fast and ruthless and just this side of too much.
His whole body shakes with the need of it, but before he has time to ask if Pete would mind holding him by the hair and fucking his mouth until it’s raw, Pete is kissing him again, and that’s good and wet and messy in the best of ways. “Hold- Fuck, Gabe. Hold still.” Pete presses his shoulders firmly to the floor and god that feels good too, and Gabe’s kind of struggling a little bit just so Pete has to do it harder and yeah yeah.
“Please,” he gasps, not really sure what he’s asking for, but Pete’s already there, hand holding Gabe’s cock steady as he sinks down onto it, hot and tight and so fucking filthyperfect that Gabe is clawing the carpet by the time he’s all the way in, their hips grinding together sharply.
Pete hisses through his teeth and lifts himself up minutely, just enough for pleasure to spark at the end of Gabe’s spine, before settling back down. “This-?” Pete does it again, higher and slower, getting a rhythm going. “This what you wanted?” he asks, voice sex-rough like Gabe’s only heard it after concerts when Pete stumbles off-stage sweaty and wired and hoarse from making people fall in lovelustaweneed with him.
And fuck him, fuck Pete for turning Gabe into one of the groupies with his wide smile and narrow hips and easy meaningless touches and. “Yes. Yes,” Gabe says, planting his feet flat and thrusting up hard, meeting Pete half-way and making him choke, and goddamn, he’s going to fuck that attitude right out of him.
Except Pete only moans louder, wilder, picking up the tempo, his hands seizing Gabe’s wrists and pinning them above his head. Gabe bites down on the exposed side of Pete’s neck in retaliation, mouthing along the circle of thorns winding over his collarbones, and god, god, it’s better than he imagined, Pete writhing above him, lithe and slippery.
They’re fucking in earnest now. Pete lets go of Gabe’s arms and braces himself on his thighs, riding him with a lazy rhythm that makes Gabe’s eyes roll back into his head, his knuckles scraping uselessly against the floor. His hands are still where Pete put them and moving them doesn’t even occur to him, like the fact that Pete wants him laid bare and stretched tight is enough, and Gabe strains against the invisible bonds, chest heaving.
Pete’s jerking himself off, fist moving in short nasty little tugs that make Gabe’s cock twitch in sympathy, and Pete must feel it because he drives down harder, a low whine spilling out like a secret. Gabe watches the hollows of Pete’s hips, the narrow tapering of bone and muscle and sweat that he can taste on his own lips, blood-hot and salty.
He wants to touch, run his hands over all that ink-stained skin but somehow he doesn’t think it would be welcome, not even sure it’s him Pete is really fucking right now and the idea of being used like that, being some sort of substitute, just makes everything better, worse, more.
Then Pete looks at him, his eyes black, black (the same color as his, the same), his mouth falling open and he’s coming in long shudders, squeezing around Gabe and oh oh fuck. Gabe pushes up once, twice, three times, ass lifting off the ground, spine screaming, and when he shakes through his own orgasm, helpless and hurting from the pleasure of it, Pete is still watching him.
It takes what feels like forever but can’t be longer than a few minutes for full awareness to return. Gabe blinks slowly. His throat feels raw and too dry, it’s like waking up in the desert all over again. Pete is collapsed on top of him, boneless and heavy, tongue moving slowly over the curve of Gabe’s shoulder.
He brings his arms down, hands settling on Pete’s waist. “We doing this again?” he asks, wincing because he already knows an answer to that.
Pete stills. “Maybe,” he says, breath gusting against Gabe’s ear.
Right.
“Right.” It’s nothing less than what he expected, but the sting is still there.
But Pete’s kissing him again and okay, okay, it isn’t what he wanted, but Gabe can roll with the punches, has practically made it into a fucking art form. He flips them over, startling a laugh out of Pete as his back hits the worn dressing room carpet.
“You got anywhere else to be right now?” Gabe grins, elbows on either side of Pete’s head, their ribs lined closely together like joints of the same house.
Pete smiles up at him, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Not for a while yet, no,” he says, and Gabe can see why it’s better this way then, because it’s like looking into a mirror. They’re too similar, sliding against each other easily but never sticking.
Doesn’t mean Gabe’s not going to enjoy what time he has. He leans down and slots their mouths together and underneath him Pete is already arching up to meet him, both of them greedy and selfish and a little bit desperate.
Fin.
foxxcub hosted this porn meme Save a Horse, Ride a Band Boy, and the concept made me go AHAHAHAHAnnggghh. I was first going to write this for the meme, but as usual I was pretty late to the party so I decided to just write it as porny ficlet instead.
Don’t know what these guys look like? Consult the Quick and Somewhat Dirty Visual Reference Guide.
Title: two of a kind // most compatible ride
Author: Mistress Kat /
kat_lair
Fandom: Bandslash, Cobra Starship & Fall Out Boy
Pairing/Category: Gabe/Pete, PWP
Rating: NC-17 (for porn folks, for dirty, dirty gay porn \o/)
Word count: ~2000
Disclaimer: Not true. If you got here by googling yourself… Well. *shrugs* Enjoy the fic boys.
Summary: It’s a game with rules, even if they only exist in his head. Gabe pushes and pushes, with his hands inside Pete’s clothes and his tongue inside Pete’s mouth, and himself always in Pete’s space like a goddamn puppy wanting attention.
Author notes: Title from Dirty by Darren Hayes - you can consider that the unofficial soundtrack of the fic (full lyrics here). Beta by
razorxrosary,
ssstevie and
bloodrebel333 - all red-hot talented ladies made entirely of awesome. Thank you also to
pushkin666 for all the encouraging noises she made. First time writing bandslash, all feedback, including concrit, is very welcome.
two of a kind // most compatible ride
It’s a game with rules, even if they only exist in his head. Gabe pushes and pushes, with his hands inside Pete’s clothes and his tongue inside Pete’s mouth, and himself always in Pete’s space like a goddamn puppy wanting attention. And Pete just gives in, laughing and easy and so fucking unaffected by all of it, like he doesn’t even see Gabe, not really, like Gabe is nothing but another skinny scene-kid, trying to be different and failing.
There are limits, Gabe’s sure of it, but he hasn’t come across them yet. Hands on Pete’s hips, fingers stroking the strip of skin between his clothes, long full-body hugs that end with him dragging his open mouth against the edge of Pete’s jaw - he does it all and more, but Pete just leans in, accommodating every intrusion with amused tolerance, pretending he doesn’t notice the hard line of Gabe’s dick pressing against his ass.
It goes on like that for weeks, months, forever, he doesn’t even know, but when Pete finally, finally pushes back, Gabe ends up sprawled on the dressing room floor, dizzy from alcohol and Pete’s impressively sneaky footwork.
“Huh,” Pete says, standing above him, hands casually shoved into the pockets of his purple hoodie. “You look even better on your back than I thought you would.” He tips his head contemplatively to the side and lets his eyes travel all the way from Gabe’s trainers to the top of his hair and back again. It’s a long journey.
Gabe really wants to just flail a bit and maybe surreptitiously check his back pocket for condoms (never leave the tour bus without them) but dammit, he’s already lost more cool points than he can probably afford, so he forces a cocky smile and leans back on his elbows, crossing his feet casually. “Oh yeah?” he says, returning Pete’s gaze with a look he hopes is closer to smoldering than panicked. “Is that so?”
Pete drops to his knees smoothly, straddling Gabe’s legs, his palms landing heavy and warm on Gabe’s thighs. “Patrick told me I should just fuck you already.” He grins roguishly, giving Gabe’s kneecap a friendly squeeze. “Seems you’ve been after that for a while now.”
And Gabe. Well. It’s not like he’s going to deny it, not when he has Pete-fucking-Wentz practically in his lap.
“You gonna?” he asks, curling his hips up a little bit, just a suggestion, though not exactly subtle.
“Nah,” Pete says, but his hands are inching toward the waistband of Gabe’s skinny jeans which makes things a little confusing. Not to mention tight.
Pete notices, notices Gabe noticing that he notices, and then skims his hand deliberately over Gabe’s erection, still trapped under a layer of denim (only prudes and very new Decaydance bands wear underwear). “You see, Patrick’s working under a slightly uninformed assumption.”
“What- fuck!” Gabe bucks up, Pete’s clever fingers unbuttoning his jeans. “What’s that?” He’s panting open-mouthed now, transfixed on Pete’s face, the heavy-lidded flush spreading across his features, eyeliner smudged and dirty like drunken promises.
“Patrick thinks I like to do the fucking.” Pete yanks Gabe’s jeans past his thighs, his cock bumping against his stomach, smearing precome on the white Clandestine t-shirt. “He’s wrong,” Pete continues, matter-of-factly. “I just haven’t gotten around to telling him that yet.”
Pete grabs the hem of his own hoodie, pulling it off in one smooth movement. In the low light of the room his tattoos look warm and shadowy and Gabe wants to lick them so bad he can practically taste it.
“I prefer to be the one getting fucked,” Pete says, rocking forward on to his knees to ease open his pants. “That work for you?”
There’s really only one answer to that. “Nnngghh,” Gabe says, rearing up and crashing their mouths together. Pete hums against his lips, pleased and maybe a little surprised, like maybe he hadn’t expected the kissing to feature now that Gabe was getting what he wanted.
They stay like that for a while, trading sharp bites and harsh moans, Pete’s open zipper digging into the soft skin of Gabe’s stomach.
Finally Pete wrenches free, pushing up onto his feet. He’s swaying a little, smile in place despite the glazed eyes. Gabe doesn’t have the muscle coordination left for much of anything and he feels his face slacken even more as Pete kicks off his shoes and skims out of his skin-tight pinstripes.
Pete is back before Gabe can muster enough energy to complain, dropping two foil packets onto his stomach and sitting higher up this time, thighs on either side of Gabe’s ribcage. Pete’s ass keeps brushing against his cock on every squirm and Gabe’s palms close over his hips almost at their volition, and god, intellectually he knew Pete wasn’t exactly the biggest guy around, but it’s the sight of his own hands, almost large enough to circle Pete’s entire waist that drives the point home, and it probably shouldn’t be such a turn-on but oh jesusfuckingchrist it is.
His grip tightens instinctively, pulling Pete down into another sloppy kiss, Gabe’s mouth sliding wetly over his cheek and their cocks rubbing together, a long sweet drag of flesh on flesh that leaves both of them breathless and spitting obscenities.
“I-” Pete leans back unsteadily and Gabe can’t help but feel a bit smug. “I’m just gonna.” His fingers scramble between their bodies, pressing the condom into Gabe’s hand and ripping the other packet open himself.
Pete scoots down enough to give Gabe some room to maneuver, and for the next thirty seconds or so he has to concentrate very hard on rolling the rubber over his erection and not coming all over his own fist in the process.
The moment he lifts his eyes back to Pete is almost enough to ruin all that effort.
Pete’s up on his knees, making little broken-off sounds, one hand wrapped around the base of his cock and the other curled behind him, arm muscles flexing. He’s fucking himself open on his own fingers, head thrown back and the tanned line of his throat contracting visibly at every swallow.
It’s probably the hottest thing Gabe has ever seen, and that’s including the time he walked in on Travis and Bill and a bottle of baby oil. Pete’s cock is flushed dark, the tip pearling with moisture and holy shit those pictures did not do him justice at all. Gabe reaches over and swipes a thumb over the head, bringing it to his lips and licking it clean. Pete’s hips jerk forward like a snap of a whip and Gabe’s mouth literally floods with saliva at the thought of Pete pushing his cock inside, the shape and weight of it on his tongue, down his throat, fast and ruthless and just this side of too much.
His whole body shakes with the need of it, but before he has time to ask if Pete would mind holding him by the hair and fucking his mouth until it’s raw, Pete is kissing him again, and that’s good and wet and messy in the best of ways. “Hold- Fuck, Gabe. Hold still.” Pete presses his shoulders firmly to the floor and god that feels good too, and Gabe’s kind of struggling a little bit just so Pete has to do it harder and yeah yeah.
“Please,” he gasps, not really sure what he’s asking for, but Pete’s already there, hand holding Gabe’s cock steady as he sinks down onto it, hot and tight and so fucking filthyperfect that Gabe is clawing the carpet by the time he’s all the way in, their hips grinding together sharply.
Pete hisses through his teeth and lifts himself up minutely, just enough for pleasure to spark at the end of Gabe’s spine, before settling back down. “This-?” Pete does it again, higher and slower, getting a rhythm going. “This what you wanted?” he asks, voice sex-rough like Gabe’s only heard it after concerts when Pete stumbles off-stage sweaty and wired and hoarse from making people fall in lovelustaweneed with him.
And fuck him, fuck Pete for turning Gabe into one of the groupies with his wide smile and narrow hips and easy meaningless touches and. “Yes. Yes,” Gabe says, planting his feet flat and thrusting up hard, meeting Pete half-way and making him choke, and goddamn, he’s going to fuck that attitude right out of him.
Except Pete only moans louder, wilder, picking up the tempo, his hands seizing Gabe’s wrists and pinning them above his head. Gabe bites down on the exposed side of Pete’s neck in retaliation, mouthing along the circle of thorns winding over his collarbones, and god, god, it’s better than he imagined, Pete writhing above him, lithe and slippery.
They’re fucking in earnest now. Pete lets go of Gabe’s arms and braces himself on his thighs, riding him with a lazy rhythm that makes Gabe’s eyes roll back into his head, his knuckles scraping uselessly against the floor. His hands are still where Pete put them and moving them doesn’t even occur to him, like the fact that Pete wants him laid bare and stretched tight is enough, and Gabe strains against the invisible bonds, chest heaving.
Pete’s jerking himself off, fist moving in short nasty little tugs that make Gabe’s cock twitch in sympathy, and Pete must feel it because he drives down harder, a low whine spilling out like a secret. Gabe watches the hollows of Pete’s hips, the narrow tapering of bone and muscle and sweat that he can taste on his own lips, blood-hot and salty.
He wants to touch, run his hands over all that ink-stained skin but somehow he doesn’t think it would be welcome, not even sure it’s him Pete is really fucking right now and the idea of being used like that, being some sort of substitute, just makes everything better, worse, more.
Then Pete looks at him, his eyes black, black (the same color as his, the same), his mouth falling open and he’s coming in long shudders, squeezing around Gabe and oh oh fuck. Gabe pushes up once, twice, three times, ass lifting off the ground, spine screaming, and when he shakes through his own orgasm, helpless and hurting from the pleasure of it, Pete is still watching him.
It takes what feels like forever but can’t be longer than a few minutes for full awareness to return. Gabe blinks slowly. His throat feels raw and too dry, it’s like waking up in the desert all over again. Pete is collapsed on top of him, boneless and heavy, tongue moving slowly over the curve of Gabe’s shoulder.
He brings his arms down, hands settling on Pete’s waist. “We doing this again?” he asks, wincing because he already knows an answer to that.
Pete stills. “Maybe,” he says, breath gusting against Gabe’s ear.
Right.
“Right.” It’s nothing less than what he expected, but the sting is still there.
But Pete’s kissing him again and okay, okay, it isn’t what he wanted, but Gabe can roll with the punches, has practically made it into a fucking art form. He flips them over, startling a laugh out of Pete as his back hits the worn dressing room carpet.
“You got anywhere else to be right now?” Gabe grins, elbows on either side of Pete’s head, their ribs lined closely together like joints of the same house.
Pete smiles up at him, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Not for a while yet, no,” he says, and Gabe can see why it’s better this way then, because it’s like looking into a mirror. They’re too similar, sliding against each other easily but never sticking.
Doesn’t mean Gabe’s not going to enjoy what time he has. He leans down and slots their mouths together and underneath him Pete is already arching up to meet him, both of them greedy and selfish and a little bit desperate.
Fin.