i have a list in my head; a list titled: top 5 fics that desperately need to exist in this world:
ok, let's pretend for a second here that it's still my bday and hence i'm entitled to some wishful thinking yeah?
1. there was a time, possibly, that i did not love john mayer as much as i do now, and possibly thought he was a Tool. turns out, he is indeed one and, by some ironic twist of fate, i love him even more for that.
so i woke up this morning only to discover that pete wentz and john mayer have openly declared their love for each other overnight. on their blogs, like some sort of modern day shakespearian star-crossed lovers, except instead of letter messengers, they use blogs! my delighted face, it's like this: 8DDD.
so this got me thinking, one of the simpsons' family gathering must've gone something like this:
he hasn't lasted 5 minutes (4 mins and 39 secs, he's been timing; at least that ridiculously expensive watch turned out to be good for something after all) since he walked through that front door, and pete's already going out of his mind with boredom.
besides, joe's already starting to give him the stinkeye like it's pete's fault his party is as lively as a doornail. he fidgets uncomfortably and twists slightly so that his back is facing joe instead. pete suppresses another sigh. he briefly considers bailing, but squashes that thought immediately when ashlee shoots him a warning glare.
this time he can't help it, he sighs loudly, and hears a voice just by his ear say, "let's blow this popsicle stand, you and me."
the truth is, pete's always suspected that john mayer was something of a douchebag, like brandon flowers level of douchebaggery. what with his serial dating pop starlets then condescendingly denying rumours by answering in japanese, and internet camwhoring ways. patrick tells him once that it's a bit rich, you know, coming from him; pete just tells him to stfu, and logs onto ontd to make sure that everybody still loves him.
still, that doesn't stop him from ducking out onto the balcony once he gets the chance, and accepting that beer john hands to him gratefully.
"so i'm backstage after my performance at the viper room, in walks 16 of the hottest groupies i've ever seen before, wearing nothing but kimonos and body glitter. i mean," he waves his beer around. "we're doing zippers and zoomers, jalepeno poppers you name it. suddenly one of the twins starts yelling at me, omg, your eyes are bleeding. so they rush me to the hospital, where i was legally dead for 17 minutes. finally they shock me back to life, and i say, thanks, doc, i've got a few ladies to entertain. so 11 orgasms later, 2 and a 1/2 of them mine, the next thing i know i'm on fire, running through the château marmont."
he turns and looks at pete, who pauses mid-sip, and says with a glint in his eye, "that didn't happen, but man. that would've been a wild night."
pete blinks, and nods, "way wilder than this," and lifts the bottle to his lips.
john breaks into a wide grin, bumps his shoulder into pete's, "hey, it's not so bad," and pulls a drink from his own bottle.
a week later, john shows up at pete's door without so much as a warning. "so how about it, i brought alcohol," he waves the case in his left hand, "and hannah montana," then the box in his right.
pete closes his eyes and presses his palm to his chest, "a man after my own heart," then swings the door further open. john smiles, and slides past him easily.
they're halfway through disc 1, when john finally decides he's had enough of warm beer ("tastes like piss," and makes a face) and wanders into pete's kitchen for some ice. pete settles back into his couch comfortably, still slowly sipping on his drink at room temperature.
"so what's bang the doldrums really about?" his voice is slightly muffled, but pete hears the curiosity all the same.
"what's your body is a wonderland really about?" pete counters.
"about a guy with a guitar, too many mirrors and a serious narcissistic streak." john walks back into the room, a bucket of ice in hand. "ahahah, i see what you did there! and don't try to lie peter, i read the internet."
"you really are a dick, you know that?"
john shrugs, "so i've been told." he takes pete's bottle and dumps it in the bucket, then drops down heavily beside pete.
pete looks up at him, but john doesn't take his eyes off the screen, and pete. pete thinks about the summer, about the backs of tour vans and bare feet swinging just above the water, about lopsided smiles and goodbyes scribbled in lipstick on the inside of his arm.
he lets his hand fall into the space between them, and curls it into a loose fist, knuckles brushing against the outside of john's thigh, and thinks about keeping his breaths even and slow.
"it was about a guy with a bass, in a band, and a song to fill."
john glances at him, corner of his mouth tugged into a lopsided sort of smile, and nods, once. then flips the tv on.
pete heads down to the nearest music store the next day and picks up a copy of continuum. he eyes the rest of the shelf, hesitates for a second, then sweeps their entire mayer collection.
he pops them into the cd player in his car, and mouths along on the way back.
and i don't know where they go from here, but i'm thinking their future's looking bright with more internet declarations of love and collaborations with music videos jm will finally get to star in, tyvm.
2. i love blair, GOD knows i love blair. but summer, summer. *_*
why does this not exist. WHY. ;_;
3. me and my imaginary girlfriend. ♥_♥
4. UGH Wretched Serbian OT3 of My ♥, Or, Nole You Big Slut. i can't help it, i'm just putty in the face of their epic love story of braces and matching fugly scarves, and kissing and HANDHOLDING.
but this really is all nole's fault, because i'll just bet he's being his usual obnoxious self right there, whining away about janko's prickly beard.
like, he pretends that he hates it whenever janko kisses him, (partly) because janko always laughs, the sort that make his eyes crinkle deeply in the corners, and tries to kiss him again. he'll scrunch up his face, stick his tongue out and mock push janko away.
"you just gave me beardburn, jerk," rubbing at the side of his face exaggeratedly. janko just laughs, loud and happy, and leans in nuzzling at his cheek again.
but then he can't stop touching his face for the rest of the day, presses the pads of his thumbs gingerly into his cheeks. sometimes he accidentally-on-purpose presses too hard against them, and it burns. he refuses to do anything about it; he thinks it's janko's way of marking him and almost blushes, then thinks GOD when did he turn into such a sap. but it's not like he minds when they meet up again later that night and janko greets him with a cheeky grin and a kiss a little closer to his mouth than before, and it's not as if he doesn't lean into it as well, and quietly slips his hand into janko's, and avoids his eyes.
and maybe I'M the sap here, but dude. all i want is fic detailing their epic story of LOVE and beardburn and spectacles and ok, tennis (and occasional 3somes with one ana ivanovic, if only because then they can have the most beautiful unbeatable tennis babies ever), spanning from when they were 5 and playing tennis in an abandoned swimming pool, and suddenly they were awkward gangly teenagers with braces and equally Awkward Crushes, and finally blossoming into where they are now. is that so much to ask, tennislash???
5. alex turner/luke pritchard. look, i don't know ok?
but i've been thinking, you know what will be really excellent? if you take one arctic monkey, mix in another kooky sort of boy, then stand back and wait for the inevitable explosion.
the thing is, it's been boiling for awhile now, this thing between them.
and he realises in hindsight he really couldn't possibly have picked a worse time, but it was just a prank okay? just a fucking dare. does pritchard really have to wear those stupid boots all the damn time? he slumps lower on the sofa and stretches his jaw gingerly, prodding at it cautiously with his fingers.
the door swings open, he looks up but it's only pritchard, with a sheepish sort of look on his face. he makes to stand up, but pritchard steps right up and blocks him off. for a skinny fucker, he sure can take up a lot of space.
"how's the," he clears his throat, awkwardly. "how's the face?"
"get out of my way, pratchard." he knocks his shoulder against pritchard's and tries to force his way past him, but pritchard grabs a hold of his elbow instead.
"god you really are a wanker, aren't you? i'm trying to apologise here."
"yeah?" he snatches his elbow out of pritchard's grasp, and his fingers close in on themselves. "save it."
he doesn't need an apology, what he needs is some fucking ice for his jaw, he can feel it starting to swell already; he stalks out of the room without another glance behind.
and he would've been happy just to leave it at that, you know, and never have to see luke pritchard's face within any sort of proximity ever again. the problem is, they keep playing the same gigs, and recording at the same studios, all the damn time.
he keeps telling timm to line up better events for them that aren't overflowing with arrogant arseholes who're convinced they're the best damn thing, but timm just pats his shoulder twice condescendingly, and says, "when you find one, let me know yeah?"
he still could've worked with that, though, he can be pretty determined when it comes down to it. unfortunately for him, it seems like pritchard can be too.
once, he turns a corner and almost rams smack into pritchard; he steadies himself before pritchard's hands can. pritchard lets them fall uselessly to his sides, there's a long moment of silence between them and he's about to turn around and leave when pritchard suddenly speaks up.
"listen, about that time with the..." he gestures vaguely around his jawline. "just, i'm really- " pritchard grimaces, looks down and rubs his palm against the back of his neck. "listen, hey, you wanna jam sometime together?"
he looks at pritchard, incredulous, like, you've got to be kidding me here, then spins on his heel and decides he can take the long way around.
they head out that night after a show, band and crew, same club, different city. halfway through, he waves off another round and ducks into the men's room. he leans forward and rests his head heavily against the wall. man, he has no idea what time it is, or what time they started, but he's more than a little buzzed, and there's a beginning of a migraine just starting to niggle at the back of his head; something about the combination of overeager eyes and even more eager hands.
he's splashing his face generously when the door slams open, and pritchard staggers in. their eyes meet in the mirror and the laughter dies in pritchard's throat. he looks away, cuts the water and closes his eyes, focuses on steadying his breathing.
there's a long silence, and he thinks maybe that means pritchard's turned around.
"you know, you really shouldn't have messed with my guitar."
he groans and glares up at pritchard, looming over him, "so what are you stalking me now man?"
they're the only two in the room, and the music filtering in from the club is loud enough to rattle the door on its hinges. still, "'cause i'll scream," he says in a monotone.
he makes to move past pritchard, and pritchard stares at him for a long moment, as if regarding him silently, then looks away. "yeah okay, whatever."
he shakes his head lightly, it feels like something's swimming inside, and clumsily makes his way to the door, bumping into pritchard hard on the way.
"okay, no," pritchard grabs his arm, abruptly. "shit, will you stop trying so hard to shove your head up your arse for a second and just hear me out here?"
he spins around and spits out, "and why should i?" and tries to shrug pritchard's hand off. pritchard's grip only tightens around him, "fuck you man."
"you sure you're up for that?" he sneers, looks down at pritchard exaggeratedly, and barks out a laugh.
he senses more than sees pritchard take a swing at him, and tries to duck belatedly. pritchard's fist ends up catching him along that same sore jaw and he stumbles backwards.
"shit, i didn't- " he knocks the air out of pritchard's lungs as he lunges at him, unsteadily. he buries his fist into the side of pritchard's ribs, and pritchard. pritchard, that little shit, fights dirty. he sinks his teeth viciously into his shoulder, and bangs their knees together. hard.
he buckles, and chokes out a laugh, more than a little surprised. pritchard looks up at him wildly, "what- " but he backs pritchard up against the filthy wall, and gnashes their teeth together, more to shut him up than anything.
and then? they have hate!sex. eventually they do get to the point where they can finally be on a first name basis, or smth, but i'd imagine it'd take a whole lot of scuffling in backrooms and petty sniping at each other while down each others' throats. quite literally. sometimes i think i like things just to be contrary, but idk, i'm just sort of really really enamoured with these two feuding assholes. :*
1. there was a time, possibly, that i did not love john mayer as much as i do now, and possibly thought he was a Tool. turns out, he is indeed one and, by some ironic twist of fate, i love him even more for that.
so i woke up this morning only to discover that pete wentz and john mayer have openly declared their love for each other overnight. on their blogs, like some sort of modern day shakespearian star-crossed lovers, except instead of letter messengers, they use blogs! my delighted face, it's like this: 8DDD.
so this got me thinking, one of the simpsons' family gathering must've gone something like this:
he hasn't lasted 5 minutes (4 mins and 39 secs, he's been timing; at least that ridiculously expensive watch turned out to be good for something after all) since he walked through that front door, and pete's already going out of his mind with boredom.
besides, joe's already starting to give him the stinkeye like it's pete's fault his party is as lively as a doornail. he fidgets uncomfortably and twists slightly so that his back is facing joe instead. pete suppresses another sigh. he briefly considers bailing, but squashes that thought immediately when ashlee shoots him a warning glare.
this time he can't help it, he sighs loudly, and hears a voice just by his ear say, "let's blow this popsicle stand, you and me."
the truth is, pete's always suspected that john mayer was something of a douchebag, like brandon flowers level of douchebaggery. what with his serial dating pop starlets then condescendingly denying rumours by answering in japanese, and internet camwhoring ways. patrick tells him once that it's a bit rich, you know, coming from him; pete just tells him to stfu, and logs onto ontd to make sure that everybody still loves him.
still, that doesn't stop him from ducking out onto the balcony once he gets the chance, and accepting that beer john hands to him gratefully.
"so i'm backstage after my performance at the viper room, in walks 16 of the hottest groupies i've ever seen before, wearing nothing but kimonos and body glitter. i mean," he waves his beer around. "we're doing zippers and zoomers, jalepeno poppers you name it. suddenly one of the twins starts yelling at me, omg, your eyes are bleeding. so they rush me to the hospital, where i was legally dead for 17 minutes. finally they shock me back to life, and i say, thanks, doc, i've got a few ladies to entertain. so 11 orgasms later, 2 and a 1/2 of them mine, the next thing i know i'm on fire, running through the château marmont."
he turns and looks at pete, who pauses mid-sip, and says with a glint in his eye, "that didn't happen, but man. that would've been a wild night."
pete blinks, and nods, "way wilder than this," and lifts the bottle to his lips.
john breaks into a wide grin, bumps his shoulder into pete's, "hey, it's not so bad," and pulls a drink from his own bottle.
a week later, john shows up at pete's door without so much as a warning. "so how about it, i brought alcohol," he waves the case in his left hand, "and hannah montana," then the box in his right.
pete closes his eyes and presses his palm to his chest, "a man after my own heart," then swings the door further open. john smiles, and slides past him easily.
they're halfway through disc 1, when john finally decides he's had enough of warm beer ("tastes like piss," and makes a face) and wanders into pete's kitchen for some ice. pete settles back into his couch comfortably, still slowly sipping on his drink at room temperature.
"so what's bang the doldrums really about?" his voice is slightly muffled, but pete hears the curiosity all the same.
"what's your body is a wonderland really about?" pete counters.
"about a guy with a guitar, too many mirrors and a serious narcissistic streak." john walks back into the room, a bucket of ice in hand. "ahahah, i see what you did there! and don't try to lie peter, i read the internet."
"you really are a dick, you know that?"
john shrugs, "so i've been told." he takes pete's bottle and dumps it in the bucket, then drops down heavily beside pete.
pete looks up at him, but john doesn't take his eyes off the screen, and pete. pete thinks about the summer, about the backs of tour vans and bare feet swinging just above the water, about lopsided smiles and goodbyes scribbled in lipstick on the inside of his arm.
he lets his hand fall into the space between them, and curls it into a loose fist, knuckles brushing against the outside of john's thigh, and thinks about keeping his breaths even and slow.
"it was about a guy with a bass, in a band, and a song to fill."
john glances at him, corner of his mouth tugged into a lopsided sort of smile, and nods, once. then flips the tv on.
pete heads down to the nearest music store the next day and picks up a copy of continuum. he eyes the rest of the shelf, hesitates for a second, then sweeps their entire mayer collection.
he pops them into the cd player in his car, and mouths along on the way back.
and i don't know where they go from here, but i'm thinking their future's looking bright with more internet declarations of love and collaborations with music videos jm will finally get to star in, tyvm.
2. i love blair, GOD knows i love blair. but summer, summer. *_*
Click to viewwhy does this not exist. WHY. ;_;
3. me and my imaginary girlfriend. ♥_♥
4. UGH Wretched Serbian OT3 of My ♥, Or, Nole You Big Slut. i can't help it, i'm just putty in the face of their epic love story of braces and matching fugly scarves, and kissing and HANDHOLDING.
but this really is all nole's fault, because i'll just bet he's being his usual obnoxious self right there, whining away about janko's prickly beard.
like, he pretends that he hates it whenever janko kisses him, (partly) because janko always laughs, the sort that make his eyes crinkle deeply in the corners, and tries to kiss him again. he'll scrunch up his face, stick his tongue out and mock push janko away.
"you just gave me beardburn, jerk," rubbing at the side of his face exaggeratedly. janko just laughs, loud and happy, and leans in nuzzling at his cheek again.
but then he can't stop touching his face for the rest of the day, presses the pads of his thumbs gingerly into his cheeks. sometimes he accidentally-on-purpose presses too hard against them, and it burns. he refuses to do anything about it; he thinks it's janko's way of marking him and almost blushes, then thinks GOD when did he turn into such a sap. but it's not like he minds when they meet up again later that night and janko greets him with a cheeky grin and a kiss a little closer to his mouth than before, and it's not as if he doesn't lean into it as well, and quietly slips his hand into janko's, and avoids his eyes.
and maybe I'M the sap here, but dude. all i want is fic detailing their epic story of LOVE and beardburn and spectacles and ok, tennis (and occasional 3somes with one ana ivanovic, if only because then they can have the most beautiful unbeatable tennis babies ever), spanning from when they were 5 and playing tennis in an abandoned swimming pool, and suddenly they were awkward gangly teenagers with braces and equally Awkward Crushes, and finally blossoming into where they are now. is that so much to ask, tennislash???
5. alex turner/luke pritchard. look, i don't know ok?
but i've been thinking, you know what will be really excellent? if you take one arctic monkey, mix in another kooky sort of boy, then stand back and wait for the inevitable explosion.
the thing is, it's been boiling for awhile now, this thing between them.
and he realises in hindsight he really couldn't possibly have picked a worse time, but it was just a prank okay? just a fucking dare. does pritchard really have to wear those stupid boots all the damn time? he slumps lower on the sofa and stretches his jaw gingerly, prodding at it cautiously with his fingers.
the door swings open, he looks up but it's only pritchard, with a sheepish sort of look on his face. he makes to stand up, but pritchard steps right up and blocks him off. for a skinny fucker, he sure can take up a lot of space.
"how's the," he clears his throat, awkwardly. "how's the face?"
"get out of my way, pratchard." he knocks his shoulder against pritchard's and tries to force his way past him, but pritchard grabs a hold of his elbow instead.
"god you really are a wanker, aren't you? i'm trying to apologise here."
"yeah?" he snatches his elbow out of pritchard's grasp, and his fingers close in on themselves. "save it."
he doesn't need an apology, what he needs is some fucking ice for his jaw, he can feel it starting to swell already; he stalks out of the room without another glance behind.
and he would've been happy just to leave it at that, you know, and never have to see luke pritchard's face within any sort of proximity ever again. the problem is, they keep playing the same gigs, and recording at the same studios, all the damn time.
he keeps telling timm to line up better events for them that aren't overflowing with arrogant arseholes who're convinced they're the best damn thing, but timm just pats his shoulder twice condescendingly, and says, "when you find one, let me know yeah?"
he still could've worked with that, though, he can be pretty determined when it comes down to it. unfortunately for him, it seems like pritchard can be too.
once, he turns a corner and almost rams smack into pritchard; he steadies himself before pritchard's hands can. pritchard lets them fall uselessly to his sides, there's a long moment of silence between them and he's about to turn around and leave when pritchard suddenly speaks up.
"listen, about that time with the..." he gestures vaguely around his jawline. "just, i'm really- " pritchard grimaces, looks down and rubs his palm against the back of his neck. "listen, hey, you wanna jam sometime together?"
he looks at pritchard, incredulous, like, you've got to be kidding me here, then spins on his heel and decides he can take the long way around.
they head out that night after a show, band and crew, same club, different city. halfway through, he waves off another round and ducks into the men's room. he leans forward and rests his head heavily against the wall. man, he has no idea what time it is, or what time they started, but he's more than a little buzzed, and there's a beginning of a migraine just starting to niggle at the back of his head; something about the combination of overeager eyes and even more eager hands.
he's splashing his face generously when the door slams open, and pritchard staggers in. their eyes meet in the mirror and the laughter dies in pritchard's throat. he looks away, cuts the water and closes his eyes, focuses on steadying his breathing.
there's a long silence, and he thinks maybe that means pritchard's turned around.
"you know, you really shouldn't have messed with my guitar."
he groans and glares up at pritchard, looming over him, "so what are you stalking me now man?"
they're the only two in the room, and the music filtering in from the club is loud enough to rattle the door on its hinges. still, "'cause i'll scream," he says in a monotone.
he makes to move past pritchard, and pritchard stares at him for a long moment, as if regarding him silently, then looks away. "yeah okay, whatever."
he shakes his head lightly, it feels like something's swimming inside, and clumsily makes his way to the door, bumping into pritchard hard on the way.
"okay, no," pritchard grabs his arm, abruptly. "shit, will you stop trying so hard to shove your head up your arse for a second and just hear me out here?"
he spins around and spits out, "and why should i?" and tries to shrug pritchard's hand off. pritchard's grip only tightens around him, "fuck you man."
"you sure you're up for that?" he sneers, looks down at pritchard exaggeratedly, and barks out a laugh.
he senses more than sees pritchard take a swing at him, and tries to duck belatedly. pritchard's fist ends up catching him along that same sore jaw and he stumbles backwards.
"shit, i didn't- " he knocks the air out of pritchard's lungs as he lunges at him, unsteadily. he buries his fist into the side of pritchard's ribs, and pritchard. pritchard, that little shit, fights dirty. he sinks his teeth viciously into his shoulder, and bangs their knees together. hard.
he buckles, and chokes out a laugh, more than a little surprised. pritchard looks up at him wildly, "what- " but he backs pritchard up against the filthy wall, and gnashes their teeth together, more to shut him up than anything.
and then? they have hate!sex. eventually they do get to the point where they can finally be on a first name basis, or smth, but i'd imagine it'd take a whole lot of scuffling in backrooms and petty sniping at each other while down each others' throats. quite literally. sometimes i think i like things just to be contrary, but idk, i'm just sort of really really enamoured with these two feuding assholes. :*