I have about a million more bandslash fics to rec than any other fandom, so this is going to be a giant bandslash-only post. Sorry if that's not what interests you. I'll probably post again soon, with only other fandoms, because I should really get on that, too. Because there are so many in this post, they're separated by band. This is mostly older stuff, because that's what I'm up to in my list of things to rec. Just FYI. Also, mostly Panic, because I was mostly into them at the beginning, and my to-rec list is really, really, insanely backed-up. I've recced a lot of people multiple times... there were only so many good fic writers in this fandom, early on. Okay, shutting up and posting recs now.


Fall Out Boy
just like Virginia Woolf by iphignia939 (Pete/Patrick, NC-17, genderswap)
Author's Summary: "Okay. So you're a chick."
The good news: Patrick's pitch hadn't changed at all. He sounded maybe a little younger, the way he had on Grave; but other than that he was, to the outside world, a cute red-haired girl with a great natural tenor that sounded exactly like Patrick Stump from Fall Out Boy.

"Oh thank Christ," Patrick had muttered when he'd finished the song -- Through Being Cool by Saves the Day, because it had worked once and right now, Pete was in no way too good for any sort of good luck charm -- and put the guitar down. His hands were spaced the same way, too, and his fingers were the same length, except a little thinner and with tiny beads of nail on the end.

The bad news: Alicia had showed up four hours after Pete had called her and taken one look at Patrick, then burst out laughing.

***

Untitled by zoemargaret (Pete/Patrick, ficlet)
Too short for an excerpt.

***

Girls Who Are Boys (Who Like Boys To Be Girls Who Do Boys Like They're Girls Who Do Girls Like They're Boys): or, What Happened To Andy Hurley One Crazy-Ass Morning by jenish (Andy/Joe, NC-17)
Author's Summary: Andy wakes up with tits. Porn ensues. (This is Joseph Trohman we're talking about, when *doesn't* porn ensue?)
It had been three minutes since Andy woke up with breasts.

In the past, he’d gotten used to a pair of them being around when he opened his eyes, but before now, he hadn’t been on the other end of them. It was a little disconcerting. He kept cupping them, just to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating.

He hadn’t got up yet. There was an arm flung across his stomach, a nose buried in his neck, warm breath on his skin. He didn’t like to disturb Joe, not while he was sleeping. So he just kept on cupping. Hm. Interesting.

Then, of course, his eyes slid lower under the covers, and okay, the rest of him seemed to be female also. Well. This was. Um.

Joe made that snuffling sound that indicated he was waking up. He slid the arm that was across Andy’s hip further up, and connected slowly with the new curve. He went still.

“Uh,” he said. Cautiously, he felt higher, and oh yes, that was nipple and these were breasts and his hand jumped away in a split second. “Shit,” he whispered. “My boyfriend is going to kill me.”

***

You've Got a Lot on Your Mind, Honey (And I'm Just the Man to Make You Forget) by zoemargaret (Pete/Patrick, NC-17)
There’s a bang outside, and Andy stumbles onto the bus. “Oh, gross!” he shrieks. Patrick tries to leap away from Pete but is halted by Pete’s grip on his waist. (Patrick’s not that surprised; Pete’s been pretty damn adamant that Andy and Joe can just get over themselves and get used to the fact that he and Patrick are together. To which Andy replied that there was being cool with their relationship and there was walking in on Pete fucking Patrick on the couch. Andy, Joe and Patrick had then agreed on a “no sex on the bus” rule. Pete had been good so far, but dude. It was Pete.)

Patrick feels Pete lift his head from his neck. “Fuck off, Hurley,” Pete mock snarls. Patrick smiles, tips his head back and turns so his nose rests behind Pete’s ear. He sucks the lobe into his mouth and bites down gently. He feels more than hears Pete’s answering groan. They’re standing with their backs to Andy, but he apparently sees enough. Patrick hears a muttered, “Jesus,” and then Pete is pushing him into his bunk.

Patrick lands on his back and Pete clambers on top of him then pulls the curtain shut. Moments later, the familiar sounds of Grand Theft Auto reach them. Pete snickers and turns on the light. Patrick turns his head to see Pete on his side, watching him. In the dim light, his face is for once completely unstudied, no forced laughter or emotion. His eyes are soft, dark. Patrick’s breath catches and he feels a blush heating his cheeks and throat. Pete smiles, small and secretive and happy. He leans in and kisses Patrick so softly, so gently that Patrick has to close his eyes.

***

in which pete wonders why his life is an outline for a death cab for cutie song by one900 (pete/patrick, implied pete/mikey, r)
Pete smiles. It's a genuine one, and he finds that the muscles in his cheeks don't hurt as much. "That's a way shittier situation than the van, I've gotta say." Patrick hmms, then lets his arms flop down to his sides as Pete shoves a sleeping bag over and lays down next to him. Streetlights shine a yellow glow onto their faces in passing beats, as if they're getting Xeroxed over and over again.

Patrick sighs, quietly enough that Pete knows it wasn't meant to be heard. Their bodies shift slightly as the van switches lanes; Pete reaches down and squeezes Patrick's fingers. He squeezes back briefly, thumb pressing against Pete's knuckles, and asks, "where are we?"

Pete cranes his neck and tries to catch a glimpse of passing signs. "Highway 80, I think. Could be anywhere." Patricks hmms again. Pete stares up at the ceiling, at the skeletons of trees passing in the windows. He always finds that the world looks different this way.

***

cross the t's and dot the i's by chewychicle (Pete/Patrick, ficlet)
Too short for an excerpt.

***

You're the Only Place by quettaser (Pete/Patrick preslash)
So Patrick answers with a long and drawn out, "Yes, Pete?" because if they're going to talk on the phone while being one room apart, then Patrick's going to annoy Pete a little.

"I'm going to have a linen closet." Pete's voice is soft and Patrick can hear the rustle of covers through the phone. He can see Pete in his head, face down in the bed, phone tucked between his ear and the pillow, huddled in amongst the blankets, eyes still tired from just waking up or not sleeping at all.

"A linen closet?" Patrick echoes, still playing with the sound levels on the drums. He's not sure if this is one of those times where Pete just needs a willing ear or if Patrick's actually going to be having a conversation.

***

Half a Million Words and Nowhere to Start by one900 (Pete/Patrick, R)
"Hammertime, dude. New lyrics."

Pete passes his notebook over the seatback. His hand falters a little as Joe careens around a sharp turn but Patrick grabs it in time, this little red notebook that's only a tiny bit bigger than what cops use to write people up. It's got bent, separating corners, and the bottom is soft and expanded from a condensation puddle on the table of their last diner stop. There are slightly greasy fingerprints pressed into the fibers, probably Pete's. Patrick only ever holds it by the sides, the way he holds photographs.

As he reads between the pale blue lines, he wonders about the things that let Pete mix up letters into endless permutations and scratch words onto paper. The things that stitch veins and vessels together, that keep hearts beating "just so mine can get crapped on again," according to Pete. Sometimes Patrick wonders if he's getting the translation of Pete's words right and how hard to press consonants against his teeth, or about inflections and connotations and denotations and.

"You're the only messenger I'd ever have, Patrick Stump. Stop thinking about it so much," Pete says, and then sprinkles a handful of notebook matter he'd been picking out of the binding onto Patrick's head.

***

Call it Enough by joyfulseeker (Pete/Patrick)
Author's Summary: The trick with Pete was knowing when to believe him.
"Shut up," Patrick groaned, covering his face with his hands. "Can we just pretend I didn't say anything? Please?"

Pete clambered back on the bed, pulling the blankets after him. "A year? Really?"

"No," Patrick said through his fingers. "I was lying. I get it on with a different woman every night. Can we go to sleep?" Their next-door neighbors had finally subsided into blessed silence.

"You gotta fix that," Pete said, yawning. "A year." He didn't say anything else, and his breathing gradually evened out into a rhythm Patrick remembered from three years of more shared hotel rooms and naps in the back of the van than he could count.

Yeah, Patrick though, sarcasm twisting his mouth into a bitter shape Pete probably wouldn't recognize. He'd get right on that. Touring was easy for Pete in ways it wasn't for Patrick, who sometimes didn't even like his own family, much less the random people they met on tour and were obligated to socialize with. Pete shone brightly in those situations, where Patrick didn't even want to.

Patrick turned on his side, carefully. Pete was sleeping with his hand curled under his cheek, mouth ajar. He would have a small drool spot on the pillow when he woke up, which Patrick found helplessly endearing. So, Patrick thought. This was a liking Pete week. He closed his eyes, sleep already rising to snatch him under, and waited for the wind to shift. Pete was a storm. The weather always changed on him eventually.

***

slow moves by one900 (pete/patrick, ficlet)
Too short for an excerpt.

***

a silence knot by speccygeekgirl (Pete/Patrick, ficlet)
Too short for an excerpt.

***

Attached by anindeliblemark (Pete/Patrick)
Author's Summary: You are a danger area. Stay the fuck back.
Oh, God, that voice. As if you even need to say more—like, have you heard Patrick sing? Uh, yeah. But not needing to say more doesn’t stop you from filling a page and a half of real notebook paper and God knows how many pixels on the Internet freaking gushing about how amazing it is.

But, yeah, Patrick’s your friend. And after you get over your initial underage-kid fantasy (which you write off, because if anyone who saw of heard Patrick in those days didn’t have one, you’d remove all your ink), you actually start listening to him.

You start looking forward to just talking to Patrick about whatever, and, in retrospect, what a fucking warning sign right there.

So, friends, musical soulmates, PeteandPatrick as a unit. And it’s all good.

Until, you know, it’s totally fucking not.

***

Untitled by callsigns (Pete/Patrick, ficlet)
They've just finished with the Bigass Illinois-Wisconsin-Iowa Tour, during which time Pete discovered that Patrick's lap pretty much is the nicest for napping and getting absently petted (which Pete sort of loves, which makes him what, like an overgrown cat? He doesn't need to think about what his tactile issues say about him; he can just enjoy Patrick's fingers through his hair, thanks). He plans to claim Patrick's lap again for their upcoming Bigass Illinois-Indiana-Ohio Tour.

Bella's in a total state of bliss, belly-up in adoration sprawled over Patrick's legs, eyes slitted in pleasure. Pete watches the carelessly graceful movement of Patrick's hand over her back and thinks maybe his eyes are slitting too, like, sense-memory or whatever.

***

Eyes by slipsandtangles (Pete/Patrick, R, ficlet)
Author's Summary: You never could decide what color his eyes were.
Too short for an excerpt.

***

Existentialism on Prom Night by marigolde (Pete/Patrick)
Author's Summary: Ficus plants, pancakes, and a very surly Patrick.
The Britney Spears ring tone, when first downloaded, was highly amusing. The Britney Spears ring tone at 4:00a.m, emitting from somewhere within a heap of dirty laundry, is not. Pete digs into the pocket of a pair of jeans and flips open his phone. He is still mostly asleep so the greeting comes out as "Hnghh."

Patrick sounds miles away. Miles away and absolutely desperate. "Hi Pete how are you I bet you were asleep I know it's really late but can you come get me if you can't I'll call my mom but--"

"Inhale, Patrick," Pete says, shuffling toward his desk. "I'll be right there. Where are you? Wait, I need paper."

One stubbed toe and one scrawled note to his mother later, Pete is on the way.

(The note reads "stump liberation 0400hrs and counting, your car volunteered selflessly for the cause, pancakes for brave volunteers?" Mrs. Wentz reads it the next morning and sighs before getting out a bowl and a whisk. She just knows that Patrick will take all the fun out of her denying Pete pancakes--a fair punishment for grand theft auto, really--by refusing to eat his own stack till Pete gets a share.)

***

(sega) genesis by one900 (pete/patrick, ficlet)
Too short for an excerpt.

***

here in center frame by anindeliblemark (Pete/Patrick)
With several rather unhealthy-sounding cracks of the joints in his arm, he brings his watch up to check the time. 10:47. Jesus, and everyone asleep? They must be losing their touch.

A second’s pause, and wait, is everyone asleep? Trohman, curled on the seat behind him, check. Andy, reclined in the front passenger seat, and Patrick can see his glasses digging into his cheek from here, without glasses, check.

Peter. Absent. He really needs to stop being surprised by this.

***

squared triangles by one900 (pete, patrick, ficlet)
pete is exhausted. he thinks that maybe it's the constant movement of his mind - black and white notes, neon and patterned garments - or the speed of conversations; no time to stumble over words said or written. it's. it's.

"if you keep rambling like an idiot, i'm flying out there," patrick says.

***

Past the state line with the radio glowing bright by pre_emptive (Pete/Joe, R)
Sometimes, Andy tells Patrick and Joe stories about life in Milwaukee. Life in the hardcore scene. Playing the part of the wise old man. Patrick's always intrigued, leaning over diner tables and getting his elbow in Joe's ketchup.

One day Andy tells a story about The One Girl — he says it like that, laughing, with capital letters — The One Girl he was ever in a band with, because they might have been straightedge vegan anarchists, but they weren't letting a girl into their band.

"And the thing is," Andy says, still laughing, "we were right. Because then ... some dumb fuck in the band sleeps with her, and we break up three days later."

Patrick chokes on his 7-Up. When Joe falls back into the booth, laughing, he catches the look on Pete's face. Pete looks away.

"I really liked that band," Pete says, quietly. "It — you guys were really good."

Joe looks down at his fries, and if Andy gives Pete a look, he doesn't see it.

***

The Difference Between a Lock and a Key by zoemargaret (Pete/Patrick)
“Trick!” Patrick grunted as a laughing Pete barreled into him. “Have you seen who’s at this party?”

“Yeah, that guy over there has jeans even tighter than yours.” Patrick pointed to a boy who was in jeans that would be small on a prepubescent girl. “I mean, seriously, how does he take a piss in those?”

“Mmmm, yeah,” Pete said, eying the boy appreciatively. “Pretty. But dude, My Chem’s here!” He slung his arm around Patrick’s shoulder and pulled him around to see Frank, Ray and Gerard standing by the door. Frankie spotted them and waved. Patrick lifted his hand in reply, trying very hard to look cool and non-sell-outish. However, it was hard to maintain an aura of artistic credibility when you had Pete Wentz jumping up and down and shouting, “Frankie! Ray! Over here!” at the top of his lungs. Patrick rolled his eyes at Frank, who just grinned harder and started to make his way across the room.

“Hey, gu-” Frankie was cut off when Pete picked him up in a hug and spun him around. Frank’s arms came around Pete’s neck automatically. “Wentz!” he yelled, half outraged, half amused. “Put me down, you fucker!” Grinning maniacally, Pete did, but not before kissing Frank on the cheek.

“Ray!” Pete bounced through the crowd, leaving Frank to wipe his cheek and Patrick to stand there.

“Sorry about that,” Patrick offered. “He’s…umm, well. Pete?” He shrugged apologetically.

-----

My Chemical Romance
Distance in the Afterlife by sevenfists (Frank/Gerard, R)
Oh my god, this fic has EVERYTHING I WANT EVER in it: Coming out, humor, realism, angst that leads to a happy ending, completely oblivious boys, awesome porn, awesome writing in general, characters and relationships I just want to read about forever and ever... and if you're not rushing over there right now, why the hell not?

This is completely one of the best fics I've ever read, in case you can't tell from the above paragraph. Also, this is a link to part 1/2; part 2 is linked at the bottom.
During the show, he struts across the stage and talks a lot about self-confidence and being true to who you are. He's thinking about the angry mothers outside, and about the teenagers in the audience, and about how if he can change one person's life, just one, everything will have been worth it.

He sleeps like shit that night, shifting restlessly and banging his elbows against the wall of his bunk. His blankets are too hot, so he kicks them off and then he's too cold. When he finally drifts off to sleep, he has weird, unsettling dreams about being chased through an empty warehouse by a unicorn with a black hood on its head.

When they stop at a diner for breakfast, Mikey says, "Gerard wants us to talk about his sexuality."

"Oh my God," Gerard says. "Thanks, Mikes, but I really don't."

"It's important," Mikey says. "We need to have an atmosphere of acceptance and communication."

They all stare at him.

"That was a joke," Mikey says.

"It's too early in the morning for this," Ray says. "I want some scrambled eggs, can we have eggs?"

"It's a roadside diner, Toro," Brian says wearily. "They've got eggs."

"Who else wants a cigarette break," Gerard says.

"Me," Bob says.

"Breakfast first," Brian says. "We have to be back on the bus in an hour. You can smoke later."

"Okay guys, but seriously," Mikey says, "I think we've all been acting like nothing's happened, but this was a big step for Gerard, and maybe we should acknowledge that things are different for him, even if they maybe aren't different for the rest of us."

"Yeah, he's like a fucking butterfly emerging from his chrysalis," Frank says. "Pass the butter."

"Ha ha," Gerard says. "Seriously, I need a fucking cigarette." What he really needs is an entire fucking bottle of vodka, but if he says that out loud Mikey will probably start crying, and it's way too early in the morning for that.

"Gerard, we acknowledge that you would rather have intimate relations with dudes than with ladies," Bob says. "We're all very proud of you, and we think it's a great thing, and maybe Ray will give you a hug later, if you need one."

"Hey," Ray says.

"However," Bob continues, "none of us have ever been interested in the details of your sex life, and that hasn't changed, so please go on with that whole keeping it to yourself thing." He turns to Mikey. "If you don't take your fucking hands off my sausage links, I will castrate you."

"Jeez, sorry," Mikey says.

"That was a touching speech," Brian says. "Thank you, Bob."

"Your sarcasm's thick enough to kill a guy," Frank says.

"It's my specialty," Brian says.

"I hate all of you," Gerard says, when his voice finally starts working again. "Can we please never talk about this again?"

"Sounds good to me," Bob says.

-----

Panic at the Disco
A Therapeutic Chain of Events by beingothrwrldly (Ryan/Spencer, ficlet)
This is the first bandslash I ever read, back in November '06, for what that's worth. This is totally how I hope Ryan and Spencer's relationship was at that particular time in their lives.
So Spencer parks in this quiet spot they used to go to back in high school, and Ryan gets out before he's got the key out of the ignition. Spencer pauses, his hand on the key, watching him. Ryan walks to the edge of the lake and just stands there, his fingers curled tight into fists at his sides. Spencer's heart is pounding in his chest as he takes the key out and opens his door.

Ryan's still there by the time Spencer catches up to him. He's breathing hard, quick, and Spencer puts his hand on Ryan's shoulder. "Don't," Ryan says suddenly, and Spencer pulls his hand back like he's been burned. "Stop it."

"Ryan--"

"He was my father for my whole life," Ryan says quietly, and Spencer holds his breath.

***

This is no time for bravery by imochan (Brendon/Ryan)
Ryan rubs at his face; they're holed up in a hotel in Jersey, he's spent nine hours on a plane with Spencer drooling on his neck and watching Brendon's hands toy with a deck of cards, like some sort of young-adult novella of a hopeless case, and somewhere over Greenland he thinks the espresso-buzz of Europe wore off and the guilt set in, and now, in the middle of the early morning, something stings in his eyes that means he probably is starting to miss Vegas and stupid garage bands, maybe, probably, definitely. And now, in the middle of the early morning, he thinks, Brendon Urie is sprawled out on his bed, wide-awake and talking about lipstick and sequins. And maybe, probably, definitely, somewhere between the buzz and the guilt and the costumes and lights, he's had too much and not enough of Brendon Urie, of all of it.

***

Crush (With Eyeliner) by addictedkitten (GSF)
I think this was the first GSF ever written in this fandom. That I'm aware of, anyway. So, hey, random bandom trivia for you!
Author's Summary: Yeah, honestly, Jon Walker totally is that kind of guy. He just doesn't know it yet.
It wasn't like he hadn't expected this. Three days in he'd walked into the dressing room to find that his sensible black shirt had grown ruffles, and Brendon just gave him a big-eyed look and said, "That is so *weird*. Try it on!" and Jon had sighed, because Brendon was pretty much the polar opposite of subtle, but he had sincerity going for him in spades and the grin that Ryan shot him when he walked out wearing it was dangerously close to heart-melting. Spencer, of course, had just cut him a look that managed to convey that all was going according to plan (the accompanying malevolent laughter was silent, but implied).

He still felt like he'd gotten off lucky with regard to the main tour clothes, although he sometimes thought the roses on his shirt were spontaneously breeding in the middle of the night, like velvety gremlins springing up whenever Ryan stood near something unadorned for too long.

***

A Couple Miles Ahead by jzbell (Brendon/Ryan preslash, ficlet)
Author's Summary: Once upon a time, Ryan Ross was just a kid.
They're in the van because the last time they drove to LA in Ryan's car, Brent (and Spencer, naturally) spent the better part of the trip bitching about the lack of space. Of course, now that they've got enough space, all Brent can remember is that Ryan's AC worked better and his speakers might actually have been fucking awesome. Well, compared to Brendon's, at least. It's always something, springs in the bench seat, the too-sweet scent of spilled cappuccino blended with a tang something vaguely deep-fried, Spencer getting carsick if he doesn't get shotgun (no really, he does, he swears).

***

Said Too Much by awakeunafraid (Brendon/Jon, Ryan/Spencer, Ryan/Brendon, R)
Brendon had seen Spencer jerking Ryan off and that was all he could think about. He locked himself in the bathroom and bit down on his lip and forced himself to be quiet. He tried to pretend what he was doing wasn't completely horrible and wrong, sliding his hand into his sweatpants and thinking about that one image that was probably going to be burned into his mind for the rest of forever. The one that he'd told Spencer he'd forgotten but he hadn't and fuck, all he could think about was the way Ryan had made those tiny stifled noises.

Brendon bit his lip and closed his eyes and slowly moved his hand along the length of his cock, thinking about how maybe, if Ryan was getting too loud, Spencer would reach up and put a hand over his mouth to shut him up, and then the sounds would just be muffled. Maybe Ryan would buck his hips up against Spencer's hand, and Brendon wouldn't be able to stop himself and a noise would come out and --

Someone knocked on the door.

***

Stockholm Syndrome by pressdbtwnpages (Ryan gen, ficlet)
Solitude should be comforting. He's a moody musician compounded by being a writer and he's constantly struggling to be alone enough for thoughts to flow. But now he's too alone.

***

trophy boys by beingothrwrldly (gen, ficlet)
"I wrote a song," Brendon announces, grinning. "On a fucking box!"

Ryan looks around, raising an eyebrow at the state of the apartment. "Oh."

"Hold. On." Spencer waves a hand around the room. "You called us over here--"

"Correction!" Brendon raises a finger. "I called Ryan over here, it's not my fault you're attached at the hip."

"--At midnight," Spencer continues loudly. "Because you wrote a song on a box?"

***

There Isn't a Pill for That by of_evangeline (Jon/Spencer, ficlet)
Too short for an excerpt.

***

Holiday Traditions by ? (Brendon/Ryan, Spencer/Jon)
This was for a Secret Santa fic exchange, which is why I don't know who wrote it - that was never edited into the entry.
Author's Summary: Brendon gets a useful Christmas present from a fan during the Homocircus tour.
“Sweet, we got more Corn Pops,” Brendon grins, spotting the box of his favorite cereal. This box promises a Pirates of the Caribbean toy inside, and Brendon really hopes it’s Jack Sparrow. He tears the box open and fishes around inside it eagerly.

“Brendon, that’s gross,” Ryan says, wrinkling his nose.

“What? I want to get the toy,” Brendon says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. His fingers brush against something plastic, and he pulls it out, sending a few Corn Pops scattering. But it’s not Jack, it’s Elizabeth. “Damn,” Brendon says.

“Now that you’ve touched every single piece of cereal in that box, are you happy?” Ryan asks.

“Yep, because now you won’t eat it,” Brendon grins and pours himself a bowl. Ryan rolls his eyes.

As they get ready to leave the bus, Brendon picks up his favorite pink hoodie and finds the little red and green box underneath. He puts it close to his ear and shakes it; it makes a soft rustling noise, nothing too suspicious, which is good enough for him. He opens it and looks inside. There’s a small card with “Merry Christmas, P!ATD!” written in glittery, festive lettering, and underneath it, there’s something interesting. Brendon smirks and tucks it into the pocket of his hoodie.

***

and set this cruise control for crash by addictedkitten (Ryan/Spencer, implied Ryan/Brendon, NC-17)
This one hurts, just to warn you, but it's so good.
Author's Summary: We had to, Ryan says, for the band.
It's all happened too fast for them, and this is one more thing Spencer isn't ready for. He feels Ryan's forehead pressed to his shoulder, feels his bangs brush the back of his neck, lips moving upward, and Spencer's still cold at the edges from nerves sending blood rushing in around his heart.

Spencer thinks, it's not like I don't know what you and Brendon have been doing, says: nothing. He's seen them emerge from dressing rooms, Ryan wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Brendon lazy, smirking, seen Ryan sneak out of Brendon's hotel room once, when they all got singles, wobbling a little, murmuring writing, like Spencer couldn't put two and two together, like he hadn't noticed the way they just changed with each other, almost overnight. He remembers some of the first days out on tour, Brendon and Ryan shouting at each other, wound up from too much time in close quarters and the strain of too much, too fast. Remembers hiding out in his bunk with Brent, sheets tangled beneath them as they played cards, Go Fish, War, or poker, nothing bet.

He wonders if this is how Ryan fixes things now, and remembers a time when he would have been able to ask.

***

Both Sides Now by jzbell (Brendon/Ryan, Brendon/Ryan/Spencer, NC-17)
Author's Summary: Ryan and Brendon switch bodies, and it's weird. (Honestly, what am I supposed to say about something like this? You know what a bodyswap fic is like.)
Brendon was-- well, he wasn't Brendon, that was for sure. Ryan could only stare at him as he pushed his hair, a little too long in front and a little too light, out of his eyes.

Or, well, his eyes; Ryan was looking at himself.

Brendon (Ryan?) blinked at him, and promptly started laughing.

Ryan frowned. "Brendon? What the fuck did you do?" he asked, his throat still feeling strange. Everything felt fucking strange, like someone had taken apart his body during the night and then didn't have time put it back together right.

And jesus, if that was what Ryan actually sounded like when he laughed, he was never doing it again. "I didn't do anything!" Brendon gasped from between his giggles. "God, this must be a dream."

***

Red Red Red by joyfulseeker (Ryan/Spencer, ficlet)
Spencer smeared at a line with his thumb, and his breath ghosted across Ryan's face, cold on the lines of paint. His thigh bumped against Ryan's knee, and Ryan slid his hands up the warm, rough curve of Spencer's legs, anchoring his hands on Spencer's hips. Spencer's t-shirt gaped in the back, leaving a strip of smooth skin for Ryan to brush his fingers across.

"Ryan," Spencer said, and he sounded like he had in the back of the bus. Ryan took his hands back, balling them into loose fists on his thighs, and Spencer moved back an inch so their bodies were no longer touching. He paused for a long moment, before taking an audible breath. The brush skipped across Ryan's skin, like Spencer's hand was no longer quite steady.

"You don't have to," Ryan said, pulling away and opening his eyes. "I can finish."

***

Lullaby for the - by provetheworst (Brendon/Ryan)
Ryan says, "You know, the reason people keep saying we're gay probably has something to do with you trying to kiss me on stage."

"Or the sleepovers with Pete Wentz," the girl chimes in. "That's pretty gay too. Although I guess that doesn't implicate Brendon."

"He makes good pancakes," Ryan says. "So shut up."

"Right." Both girls, they have their shirts signed, and the first one says, "Don't kill each other, okay?" and after that they leave, and for a while after that Ryan and Brendon just sign things. Jon comes out for a while and holds some actual conversations with the fans, though even he can't quite keep up with the manic ten year olds and their parents.

Then mostly everyone's gone, and Jon asks, "So we actually felt like talking to fans tonight? You guys should have told me when you were going out." He says, "And weren't you two fighting?"

"He's just pissed because I didn't kiss him," Brendon says, right as Ryan says, "He fucked up my makeup."

"Uh-huh." Jon says, "I'll leave you two to that, then."

***

Sweeter Than Candy, Better Than Cake by jzbell (Brendon/Ryan/Spencer, GSF, NC-17)
Author's Summary: It's really no big deal that their male guitarist smells fruity and has unnecessarily glossy lips.
Jon had never had trouble getting along with Ryan. It was actually a rare talent, and he was absurdly proud of it, the ability to Get Along With Ryan Ross. Mostly, it was a matter of catching Ryan at just the right time for just the right conversation. Jon had had a peculiar knack for it. (In fact, he was pretty sure that's why he was in the band at all. Ryan had been upset and just a little wounded, maybe a little more open than usual, and needed desperately to Talk Seriously About Music. Jon, while he didn't particularly like talking seriously about some things, was always ready to have a serious discussion about music.)

But the lipgloss seemed to rob Jon of his intuition for when it was okay to approach Ryan about what. Instead of being able to read him and know it was the right moment to make a joke about some obscure 80s movie or bring up that jogging guitar line from that one song (Ryan would know which one), instead of knowing that Ryan needed to be left alone today and possibly for the rest of the week, all he saw when he looked was Ryan's mouth and the goddamn lipgloss. And the only impulses he had no longer consisted of "bring up that new cd you bought" or "definitely do not make fun of his sunglasses right now" but rather things he couldn't even bring himself to describe in a convenient quotation-marked phrase.

So he kind of stopped having real conversations with Ryan at all, for fear of a) pissing Ryan off, and b) saying something he might regret later, with later being whenever Brendon found out about it.

It was kind of depressing, because sometimes he caught Ryan watching him with a sad look on his face. At least, Jon thought it was a sad look; with Ryan it was often hard to tell.

And then, sometimes, the look would change, shift into something else, maybe a little darker, and Jon would catch a whiff of raspberry, and decide it wasn't his fault.

***

any lie or confession by parcae (ryan/spencer, ficlet)
Too short for an excerpt.

***

Opening Chords by quettaser (gen, ficlet)
Too short for an excerpt.

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fear of falling by provetheworst (ryan/spencer)
This is probably my favorite Ryan/Spencer fic ever, and I have a real weakness for this pairing, so that's saying something.
Spencer taps out another quick rhythm then goes back to the floor by the bed. "Sit up here," Ryan says. "There's a better view."

"Oh, okay." Spencer laughs but does as he's told. He rests on his stomach, propping his head up on his hands and looking over at Ryan. "So hi."

"Hi."

"You going to be okay?"

"Yeah," Ryan says. "Yeah. You guys said, yeah, she was a bitch anyway."

"Yeah."

"How many times do you think we can say yeah in two sentences?" Ryan says, and ends up curled up on his side laughing because every sentence Spencer says for the next five minutes involves the word yeah at least five times.

Spencer grins at him, teeth showing bright. He puts a hand on Ryan's shoulder. "Hey, yeah, don't die. Yeah, you've got to, you know, breathe."

Ryan's laughter subsides into something like a giggle, not that he'd do anything so undignified. He's breathing hard and smiling and meets Spencer's eyes. Spencer lowers his head a little -- "Seriously." His toothy grin softens, his eyes dark and warm.

Ryan freezes. His expression goes strange and distant and he sits up, pulling away from Spencer's hand. Spencer goes still and quiet, and Ryan can't quite work out what's going on. Usually when there's nothing to say he keeps quiet, but he can't bear silence right now. "So -- oh, shit, I can't even say that word anymore, I'll die."

"Yeah?"

"Y -- shut up."

And it's alright again, whatever that moment was is gone. Ryan was planning on staying over for the night, and he does, but he sleeps out on the couch. (Spencer says, "Hey, if you want, you can," and Ryan says, "Yeah, no, it's cool. I'm fine out here." Spencer never brings it up again.)

***

who'll stop the rain by slipsandtangles (ryan/jon, ficlet)
jon smiles at him, a small smile that says so much more than 'hello'. his smile is so honest and sincere, so quiet and kind; ryan wants to sink back into the shell he's been hiding himself in (he doesn't deserve this attention anymore).

***

swear to shake it up (if you swear to listen) by beingothrwrldly (Jon/Spencer)
He's on his bed in the hotel room when Jon comes back. He's been hanging out with Andrew and he smells like smoke and scotch when he falls onto his bed. "Not drunk," is the first thing he says. Then, "What're you doing?"

"Nothing." Spencer's on his laptop, reading an email from Ryan. Ryan, who's next door, and emailing him. "Email."

"Huh." Jon stares up at the ceiling, lacing his hands together on his stomach. "I'm bored."

Jon's nothing if not subtle, so Spencer sighs and closes his computer, sets it beside himself on the bed. "Okay."

"Spence," Jon says. He tilts his head until he's looking upside-down at Spencer. "Come lay with me."

***

untitled by gigantic (Brendon/Spencer, ficlet)
Too short for an excerpt.

***

That Left a Mark by addictedkitten (Brendon/Ryan)
Author's Summary: Alcohol initially serves as a stimulant, then induces feelings of relaxation and reduced anxiety. Consumption of two or three drinks in an hour can impair judgment, lower inhibitions, and induce mild euphoria.
"Don't die," Tom advises him. Brendon shuts the door with a little more force than was maybe necessary, and his thigh catches karmic retribution in the form of the sharp edge of the table. One hand lands on it, holding, and when he looks up he sees Ryan, not so sharply outlined as usual - Brendon blinks, better - coming toward him, in front of him, touching him. Hand on his shoulder, concerned look, and Brendon almost mutters something ridiculous like take care of me, but he's fine, he doesn't need it.

"Long night?" Ryan asks, and Brendon's not even sure. He wants to ask what time it is, but it doesn't matter, it's Too Late and he should be In Bed Asleep At A Reasonable Hour, the voice in his head says, adding emphatic caps and sounding scarily similar to his mother. Ryan's leading him to the couch, which is not his bunk, and where he can't lie down, which Brendon is having a problem with, but Ryan's tugging him down, the leather soft and Ryan so warm against him. "C'mere," Ryan says, and there's something in his voice that Brendon can't quite place, can't think of a word for. Can't think of much, right now, but Ryan's hands on him.

-----

Cross-band
(This is either untitled or called) waking up to a face is way scarier than it sounds by one900 (Ryan/Pete)
Squeezing itself into sight is a wisp of his bunk curtain, hanging half-open in his periphery. Then there's Ryan, who's face is occupying the half-openess. Which means he's sitting in the bus hallway, staring at Jon.

Jon breathes into his comforter and squints at him.

"What the hell does 'I'm only gay from the waist up' mean, anyway?" Ryan asks.

***

Electricityscape, or: The Subtlety is Always What Kills You by addictedkitten (Ryan/Patrick, others implied)
Author's Summary: In which Patrick is likable. Maybe too much so.
"Hey, come over to our bus later, I've got something you should listen to," Patrick said, and that was cool because Patrick always had random awesome music that Ryan had never even heard of, he was totally a music geek, but in the like, really cool way that Ryan couldn't really get the hang of. Ryan said okay and there was a moment where they were walking pretty closely together and the backs of their knuckles brushed and Ryan felt suddenly, absurdly electric, and he licked his lips and looked over but Patrick only smiled and said see you later. Ryan watched him go.

***

Is It Possible to Look This Way Forever by jenish (Spencer/Andrew from Jack's Mannequin, R)
Spencer watches from the side of the stage. Some nights Andrew can almost swear he can feel Spencer’s eyes on his back. Some nights Spencer’s right in his line of vision, off to the side but still there. The stage lights are blinding and he’s playing, but he’ll catch a glimpse of a hoodie and he knows, somehow, no matter how dark it is, the nights when Spencer is wearing eyeliner.

He doesn’t think about it much. Spencer never really says anything, just a “Good show” as Andrew passes him. At first, Andrew acknowledges it with a smile and a “Thanks”, but after three weeks, he presses a hand to Spencer’s arm and looks him in the eye when he says it.

Spencer always means it. Andrew starts to get the impression that Spencer never says anything he doesn’t mean.

***

You're Not Seeing my Loudest Point by jenish (Jon/Patrick)
He saw Patrick standing behind Pete, and beckoned him over with one hand. The moment Pete became aware Patrick was standing closer, he extended his arm and pulled away from William and Jon, hugging Patrick to his side.

“Isn’t this kid awesome?” he grinned. Patrick ducked behind his hat, but he looked pleased. “Joe found him in a book store, would you believe.”

“Yeah. Yeah, he is pretty awesome,” Jon agreed, making fleeting eye contact with Patrick before he looked away. William nudged Jon’s side with his elbow and tilted his head slightly towards Pete. Jon tried not to smile, and nodded almost imperceptibly. “So Patrick,” Jon said, moving to draw him away, “what kind of music do you listen to?” William used the opportunity to sling an arm around Pete’s shoulders.

Patrick walked with Jon a little further away. “William rope you into getting me away from Pete, huh?”

“Sort of,” Jon replied. “I told him about tonight, he wanted to come and asked me to help get him talking to Pete.” They glanced back at the two of them. “Doesn’t look like he needed much help, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Patrick agreed, a corner of his mouth smiling fondly as he looked at Pete.

“Besides,” Jon continued, “this way I get to talk to you.” He smiled. “So we all win.”

***

show me a starry-eyed kid by beingothrwrldly (Pete/Ryan, "sort of gen," ficlet)
Fall. Out. Boy. It's punctuated with screams as they go back onstage; Pete pushes his bass out of the way and steps up to the mic, one hand cupped around it. "Ladies and boys," he says, and Ryan can see him grinning behind his hand. "You guys are fucking nuts tonight, rock on." The crowd screams again, loud enough so Ryan's ears ring, and he winces and tries to focus. Patrick's standing at his mic, head down, a grin on his lips. Joe's bouncing from one foot to the other, and Andy's tapping his sticks on his thigh.

And Ryan's waiting backstage, his guitar strap heavy on his shoulders, waiting for his cue.

***

in between the rights and the wrongs by kissingchaos9 (Brendon/Patrick, NC-17)
And he wonders, now, about Brendon and Ryan's process. He doubts it's like theirs, doesn't know anyone else who works the way that they do, and he doesn't think he should tell Brendon that there are so many pieces that he keeps for himself, tiny pieces of paper that he keeps in the pockets of his jackets or tucked inside the lining of his hats. So many things that are too personal, too raw and open to sing over and over for the next however many years they're going to do this. There are lines he can't bear to read more than once, lines that grab him by the throat and drag him into this terrifying place where he doesn't understand anything about Pete, or himself. There are lines he's never used but he's memorized, kept for later, waiting for the right moment to slide them into a bridge because they're just too fucking perfect to keep to himself. For too much longer, at least.

Ryan's not Pete, though. He's insanely private and almost creepily shy, peeking out from behind a mask of eye makeup that Patrick's always believed is more for some semblance of privacy on stage than decoration. He's a secret diary in a locked box, where Pete is an online journal, no membership required.

A knock on the door wakes him from a dream about being locked in an underground library, which, okay, no more Red Bull. For at least, like, a day. He doesn't even think to put pants on, because if someone's knocking on his bedroom door in the middle of the night they should prepare for boxers.

***

A Party That's Also a Crime by pressdbtwnpages (Ryan/Brendon, with potential undercurrents of many, many pairings, ficlet)
So, this fic was written for me back in January '07, when those New Year's pictures came out - you know, the ones of Panic and Pete and everyone but Brendon's girlfriends, and they were very upsetting to me, for one reason and one reason only, but due to not wanting to cause trouble, I'm not going to elaborate on that. pressdbtwnpages and I were talking about it, and she wrote this, and it made me really, really, really happy.
Author's Summary: They say how you spend New Year’s Eve is how you’ll spend the rest of the year… it’s going to be a long year.
He doesn’t have the energy after Ryan’s little announcement to put on much of a stage show. His eyes keep drifting shut as he sings, and all he can see is Ryan five minutes ago telling him he’s not good enough. It’s no surprise that Brendon sings “I've got more wit, a better kiss, a hotter touch, a better fuck” with a little venom in his voice.

By the time they get off stage Brendon’s brief flare of anger has ebbed and has been replaced with exhaustion and hurt.

Happy New Year.

***

swimming at night by iphignia939 (Patrick/Jon)
Author's Summary: Sometimes you have to take them off before you enter (Garcia); Patrick/Jon, 995 words.
"Look," Jon says, and Patrick tries not to. This is not easy, especially when you have a mostly-naked Jon Walker standing ten feet in front of you, shoes tossed over by the hotel's towel bin and jeans and t-shirt piled at his felt. His belt looks like a sleeping snake on top of them. If snakes were white with tiny metal studs, anyway. "You can't let yourself have fun? For half an hour? That's a little depressing."

"I have fun," Patrick snaps. He glances back at the door. "You want to get going or what? I have no idea how long it'll be 'til security gets here."