Sooooooooooo I love you. I don’t think I’ve mentioned this ever. No. *eye roll* I’m totally sick and gross feeling and ready to sleep for the next five years And I see you updated this and I squee and get all happy And it totally made my shitty morning so much better Just knowing you’ve updated. So I will be commenting while I read ‘kay?? XD
Now, it's sixteen-year-old mornings, setting the alarm five minutes early every day because you know, inevitably, you'll be waking up hard to a less than faceless image carried over from your dreams; now, it's Spencer's basement, Monday-Thursday-Friday-Sunday, the debate over whether to start the evening with a tablet of Ritalin: it'll make it easier to focus, but there's a high risk that focus will slide from the music over to the curve of Ryan's neck arching out of his pink Fall Out Boy tee as he bends over his guitar; the way he rubs at the calluses on his fingertips and bites his lip when he fucks up a chord, leaving his mouth red and swollen by the end of the night. Now, it's the first time walking toward Ryan in front of five thousand people, scripted poetry on your lips and wondering what would happen if you both... just… Mother of God Colin this whole fucking paragraph made my head spin (more than it already was) and my breath shorten and my smile threaten to split my face. Fucking Poetry. Um. Yeah.
"'One bite from a furry little fella, next thing you know you're foamin' like Old Yeller!'" Okay, so I can totally picture you and Keri sitting in front of the computer making this up on the spot and singing randomly to your hearts content (thank you youtube!)
That's kind of the incredible thing about dancing -- it lets you do things you could never do otherwise, move in ways that wouldn't be permitted outside of the music; feel things and be things you couldn't anywhere else. And apparently Ryan's just discovered this, because his exploitation of it is resulting in nothing Brendon's ever felt on the dance floor, not even that time the day after he blew Spencer, when they went stir-crazy and drove two hours from the cabin one night just to hit up some nightlife, spent till two a.m. in their skinny jeans, grinding up against each other in a club where no one knew their names, laughing and sweating and touching and dancing and, and maybe a little kissing, and Spencer's hips, holy fucking hell. Because yeah. You are God. And you totally went there. And now I am demanding a prequel when PCCF is done that entails a LOT of Brendon/Spencer action at some snaky night club followed up by an amazing blowjob in a swanky hotel room. Just. Yes.
Ryan smirks. Replacing his sunglasses, he rearranges the position of his Ayn Rand book in front of him and shuffles into a better spot in his chair, legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles, his wide straw hat shading the parts of him not drenched in 8,000 SPF sunscreen. His free hand reaches down for the spiked lemonade awaiting him on the ground, a lemon wedge perched on the rim of the glass, and he takes a sip. Dainty and languid, careful not to spill any on the fluttery scarf draped loosely around his neck, fabric swooping down over his bare chest. Brendon would laugh oh so hard if this weren't oh so unfair. I’m making my friend sit here and be bored while I read this and laugh out loud because unfortunately I can TOTALLY see Ryan outside wearing that you just described. Holy Fuck.
"It wasn't -- it wasn't like -- dude, 'cause I knew you'd be all critical! You always are. Even when I was like, sort-of-barely-whatever dating Sarah, the only woman like, ever, to actually restore my faith that all females aren't, y'know, screaming fourteen-year-olds, you still had to find something wrong with her. You're always critical of my relationships, man, always." We totally are all fourteen year old girl at heart. How can we not be with a fandom like this and Band Boys who make our hearts fall out our stomach.
no subject
I don’t think I’ve mentioned this ever. No. *eye roll*
I’m totally sick and gross feeling and ready to sleep for the next five years
And I see you updated this and I squee and get all happy
And it totally made my shitty morning so much better
Just knowing you’ve updated.
So I will be commenting while I read ‘kay??
XD
Now, it's sixteen-year-old mornings, setting the alarm five minutes early every day because you know, inevitably, you'll be waking up hard to a less than faceless image carried over from your dreams; now, it's Spencer's basement, Monday-Thursday-Friday-Sunday, the debate over whether to start the evening with a tablet of Ritalin: it'll make it easier to focus, but there's a high risk that focus will slide from the music over to the curve of Ryan's neck arching out of his pink Fall Out Boy tee as he bends over his guitar; the way he rubs at the calluses on his fingertips and bites his lip when he fucks up a chord, leaving his mouth red and swollen by the end of the night. Now, it's the first time walking toward Ryan in front of five thousand people, scripted poetry on your lips and wondering what would happen if you both... just…
Mother of God Colin this whole fucking paragraph made my head spin (more than it already was) and my breath shorten and my smile threaten to split my face. Fucking Poetry. Um. Yeah.
"'One bite from a furry little fella, next thing you know you're foamin' like Old Yeller!'"
Okay, so I can totally picture you and Keri sitting in front of the computer making this up on the spot and singing randomly to your hearts content (thank you youtube!)
That's kind of the incredible thing about dancing -- it lets you do things you could never do otherwise, move in ways that wouldn't be permitted outside of the music; feel things and be things you couldn't anywhere else. And apparently Ryan's just discovered this, because his exploitation of it is resulting in nothing Brendon's ever felt on the dance floor, not even that time the day after he blew Spencer, when they went stir-crazy and drove two hours from the cabin one night just to hit up some nightlife, spent till two a.m. in their skinny jeans, grinding up against each other in a club where no one knew their names, laughing and sweating and touching and dancing and, and maybe a little kissing, and Spencer's hips, holy fucking hell.
Because yeah. You are God. And you totally went there. And now I am demanding a prequel when PCCF is done that entails a LOT of Brendon/Spencer action at some snaky night club followed up by an amazing blowjob in a swanky hotel room. Just. Yes.
Ryan smirks. Replacing his sunglasses, he rearranges the position of his Ayn Rand book in front of him and shuffles into a better spot in his chair, legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles, his wide straw hat shading the parts of him not drenched in 8,000 SPF sunscreen. His free hand reaches down for the spiked lemonade awaiting him on the ground, a lemon wedge perched on the rim of the glass, and he takes a sip. Dainty and languid, careful not to spill any on the fluttery scarf draped loosely around his neck, fabric swooping down over his bare chest. Brendon would laugh oh so hard if this weren't oh so unfair.
I’m making my friend sit here and be bored while I read this and laugh out loud because unfortunately I can TOTALLY see Ryan outside wearing that you just described. Holy Fuck.
"It wasn't -- it wasn't like -- dude, 'cause I knew you'd be all critical! You always are. Even when I was like, sort-of-barely-whatever dating Sarah, the only woman like, ever, to actually restore my faith that all females aren't, y'know, screaming fourteen-year-olds, you still had to find something wrong with her. You're always critical of my relationships, man, always."
We totally are all fourteen year old girl at heart. How can we not be with a fandom like this and Band Boys who make our hearts fall out our stomach.
Mooooooore to come.