kat_lair | A Bandom Gets Spanked Meme

Yay, it's here! \o/

*runs over to journal to pimp this*

*then runs to open a text doc to see who gets spanked* ;)

Yay, spanking! I'm going to pimp this like a mad pimping thing, and then I'm going to try and work out which pairings I want to write for you.

\m/

spank the pale people!! ;)

Oh, is this where I rec this will hurt you more (http://megyal.livejournal.com/63547.html#cutid1), one of my favorite fics ever? It's by

megyal, and it's amazing. Go. Read. Love.

(Oh, and I'm looking forward to following this one for a while. ;) )

A possible aftermath of the Manchester gig. (http://kat-lair.livejournal.com/112186.html)

***

Ryan rounds on him the moment they get back-stage, face like a storm cloud. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

Brendon doesn’t back away. He spreads his arms, effectively blocking the way for Spencer and Jon who were walking behind him and are now forced to stop as the whole band comes to a standstill in the middle of a grimy narrow corridor. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ryan. That was an awesome show. What’s your problem?”

“My problem? My problem? ” He’s mad, nothing fake about it, and the change is amazing. Gone is the passive, doll-like façade Ryan has been sporting for most of the tour, unreadable, uninterested, un-fucking-caring.

Inside Brendon is crowing with victory. It feels like the first time in weeks Ryan is really seeing him, really looking. He affects an expression of nonchalance, shrugging casually. “Yeah, Ryan. I don’t understand what’s so—”

“You don’t understand how coming out in front of a several hundred screaming teenagers is maybe something that should have been discussed with the rest of your band beforehand? For fuck’s sake, you know that’s going to be all over the internet within an hour!”

“Sooner, I think,” Jon pipes out from behind Brendon. “Web-enabled cells.” He sounds amused.

Ryan glares. “Stay out of this Jon, you’re already done enough damage tonight, playing straight into—”

“That’s enough.” Spencer’s voice snaps like a whip. He pushes past Brendon, dragging Jon with him by the wrist. “What Brendon did was perhaps a bit… unadvisable, but you have no business taking it out on Jon. He’s got nothing to do with it. This is between you and Brendon, and you know it.”

Ryan exhales sharply, his eyes cutting to Jon in a quick apology.

Spencer nods curtly. “We’re going to clean up. The transport to the hotel leaves in an hour.”

Ryan steps aside, letting Spencer and Jon past, but slapping his palm against the wall when Brendon tries to follow.

“You act stupidly at times, but you’re not actually stupid.” Ryan’s expression shifts from fury to something more… calculating. The anger is still there too, simmering just under the surface.

He takes a step closer and now Brendon backs away, though it’s still mostly for show. He can feel his body thrumming, his breath coming faster just from having Ryan’s whole focus on him. This is what he wants, what he’s been pushing for.

“So what is it, Brendon? You were bored? Not enough under-aged girls throwing themselves at you, so you thought you should add the boys to that as well?” The question is derisive but there’s an edge to it, like Ryan really thinks Brendon might be looking like he said he was.

Brendon feels an ugly spike of satisfaction at that, at making Ryan jealous. It’s underhanded and petty, but he needs Ryan to notice him, to notice other people noticing him, and if this is what it takes, then Brendon is not above doing it. He grins. “Hey you know what they say; all publicity is good publicity.”

Ryan moves fast when he wants to. Brendon finds himself against the wall, shoulder blades curving against the painted concrete.

“Are you trying to piss me off, Brendon? Because it’s working.” He leans closer, their chests pressing together painfully. “Is that what this is about? You want my attention?”

Brendon’s fingers scrabble uselessly over Ryan’s shoulders, his mouth slack and too empty. Yes, he thinks, back arching off the wall, yes.

“You got it.”

Oooh, must camp out here and enjoy the sights.

*wants Frank to get spanked by Ray SO BAD*

"Left!" Brendon screams at the television, "go left, go left, go left!".

Ryan shoots him an annoyed look and kept on calmly pressing buttons, his competitive streak in the sharp edge of his shoulders, the way he hunches over the controller, his face set serious and intent. Brendon seems to view video games as a full-contact sport: he shouts, he whoops, he jerks around in time with his character on the screen and, occasionally, he starts flailing one-handed at his opponent in an attempt to sabotage them. It almost always ends in his own character crashing into a wall.

Curled up against the arm of the sofa, Spencer catches Jon's eye. Jon rolls them dramatically and mouths 'crazy', with a matching twirl of his finger against the side of his head. Spencer grins. He's gratified when Jon smiles back.

"Right! Go right, you fucker!" Brendon shouts.

Predictably, the little wheeled figure onscreen hits a wall, spins, and ends up facing the wrong direction.

Brendon howls as Ryan's character steers deftly past him and sails over the finish line.

"You cheated, Ryan Ross," he accuses, with a venomous glare and a point of his finger.

"No, Brendon, you just suck," deadpans Ryan. He reaches out to turn off the console and Spencer wonders briefly when they reached the unspoken decision to stop playing. Or, for that matter, how Brendon can manage to look both sour and heartbroken at the same time.

"Whatever," he says, standing up and with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I'm going to bed. Some of us--" he glares at Ryan "-- need sleep to be this awesome."

"Face it, Brendon: you lost, fair and square," Spencer says.

Brendon pouts at him, and his eyes are ridiculously shimmery. "Et tu, Spencer. Et tu?"

"Come on, drama queen," Ryan says, as he gets to his feet. He nudges Brendon gently. "We can have a rematch in the morning. I'll even get Jon to make sure I don't cheat". He nudges again, subtly but firmly propelling Brendon towards the bunks. They all know how important it is that Brendon gets at least a few hours of sleep each night. "Are you guys coming?"

"Nah," Jon says. "I'm just going to hang out here for a while. Spence?"

Spencer can feel the molasses-slow pull of drowsiness at the edge of his consciousness, but for some reason, instead of saying 'yeah, wait up', what he actually says is "I'll be there in a minute". He pretends not to notice the way Jon beams at him and tells himself that the flutter in his stomach is just hunger.

Ryan glances between Spencer and Jon with something like suspicion, as if he suspects them of plotting something. Spencer looks back, evenly, and wills Ryan not to say something that'll ruin this. It must work, because eventually Ryan shrugs, wishes them a good night, and continues to shove Brendon out of the lounge. Jon and Spencer are left by themselves, sat on opposite ends of the couch, the murmur of Ryan and Brendon's voices fading to thick, peaceful silence.

"You want a beer?" Jon asks.

Spencer knows that, if he starts drinking now, he probably won't sleep for hours.

"Sure," he says, with deliberate nonchalance.

He listens to the sounds of Jon clattering around the tiny kitchen, as quietly as possible, and resists the urge to turn and watch him. He knows that, if he does, he'll only stare and give himself away. Spencer has a better poker face than anyone else on Decaydance, but not when he's this tired, and especially not where Jon is concerned.

Jon returns, handing Spencer a cold beer, wet with condensation. He takes his place on the couch again; except, if Spencer isn't completely mad, this time he sits a little closer. He watches as Jon crosses his bare feet at the ankle and stretches out with a low, pleased purr, eyes slipping closed and a look of peaceful bliss on his face.

"That good, huh?" Spencer's voice startles even himself.

Spencer watches, expressionless, from behind his kit when Brendon made his public service announcement for the audience. They'd agreed, they'd all agreed, that it was better, easier, if they went with the lie that Brendon was the single bandmember, and he'd known that Ryan and Brendon would make some big deal about it before Lying, so he has no reason to be jealous. There's no reason for the rumbling snarl of possessiveness he feels. He knows whose bed Brendon will be sleeping in tonight, and it isn't some anonymous person from the crowd. He lets Ryan and Jon handle the crowd reaction.

Still.

The publicity requirements and gigs have kept them on the road and busy non-stop for pretty much all of the European tour. After over a dozen shows of increasingly outrageous statements, ending with Brendon's invitation to girls -- and dudes! -- in the audience, he's had enough. And maybe Spencer is also mildly annoyed by the way Brendon had flirted with the interviewer and shaken his ass at the photographer this morning. Brendon needs to be reminded to whom he belongs.

It's a hotel night, and they're all glad when the show's over and they can relax. Spencer is quiet in the elevator, standing near enough that he can feel Brendon's body heat, but not quite touching. When the doors open, he lets Ryan and Jon precede them, and when the other two peel off to go to their rooms, he grips Brendon's wrist firmly, preventing him from doing the same. Usually they'd go their separate ways, and he'd wait for Brendon to come to him. But tonight Spencer doesn't let go until the door to his room is closed behind him, and even then he's tugging Brendon further in, twisting him so that his face is to the wall, his weight is pushing Brendon against it, and leaning down so that his lips are at Brendon's ear.

"You'd do nasty things? To random strangers?" Spencer's voice is low, coming from deep in his chest.

Brendon rolls his shoulders and hips, pushes back against Spencer, turns his head enough that Spencer can see the edge of his smirk. "Maybe. Since I am the only single one in the group, supposedly. People should think that I'm living the rockstar life."

And that -- that was a taunt. Spencer actually growls, and then he's manhandling Brendon across the room to the bed, stripping Brendon's clothes off before pushing him down and crawling after him. Brendon twists beneath him, bucking and rocking against Spencer's weight until Spencer's hands are shackles on Brendon's wrists, and he pushes and pulls and lifts until Brendon is on his belly across his lap, his arms stretched above his head, pinned to the mattress.

"Leave them there." It's not a request. Spencer doesn't know where this dominant streak came from, and he doesn't care, as long as Brendon obeys. When he loosens his grip, Brendon's hands flex, but they stay where he left them. He slides his own down Brendon's arm, lets his hand rest heavily on the back of his neck. When Brendon arches into it, he squeezes until Brendon settles again. He's not expecting it when Brendon's dick, which had been half-hard from their struggle, twitches against his thigh. He tightens his grip again, and Brendon's hips rub against his legs.

He lets his free hand rub firmly down length of Brendon's spine until it rests on the small of his back, then slides it lower to brush the curve of his ass. Seriously. Brendon's ass. Spencer has an entire mental gallery of images of Brendon's ass, in jeans, in boxers, in sweatpants, in dress pants, naked, a towel falling from his hips, and he wanked to them for months before they actually started fucking. The high, round curve tempts him, the pale skin a dare. He lifts his hand, brings it down smartly enough to leave a pink handprint. Brendon's head drops against the covers, and he muffles a groan.

"You want to do nasty things to other people? I think the truth is that you want dirty, nasty things done to you. You want me to remind you who you do nasty things with."

Gabe isn't entirely sure as to how he got in this position. Obviously he knows how he got there- he'd be a bit worried if he didn't know how he ended up naked on the bed in their motel room, sucking Alex's cock whilst Ryland stands somewhere behind him. What he can't quite remember is how they went from shooting the shit in the bar downstairs, to full-out gay sex in the room upstairs. He's fairly sure alcohol was involved. He's also quite sure that, at some point, he may have been flirting with Alex.

He's not complaining, of course. Not when Alex's cock is hot and thick in his mouth, the head nudging at his tongue and Alex clenching his hands in Gabe's hair. The sounds he's making are celestial.

Then Ryland steps up behind him, one hand resting on the curve of Gabe's hip, and he says, in a voice usually reserved for slimy building managers: "you have a thing for Alex, don't you, Gabe?"

Gabe goes to pull off, to say that, no, he really doesn't have a 'thing' for Ryland's best friend and possible casual boyfriend (or so we think, and if so can you keep it on the down low, otherwise I owe Vicky fifty bucks), not at all, no really; but Alex's hand suddenly tightens in his hair, holding him down.

Gabe dimly thinks he hears the 'snap' of a trap closing, but that might just be the sound of Ryland's hand when it lands heavily on his upturned ass.

He jerks, almost bites down before he realises what's in his mouth, and even then he ends up making a startled sound around Alex's cock. Alex doesn't seem to mind very much, though; Gabe can hear him moaning, the double-crossing bastard.

"Don't think we haven't noticed," Ryland continues, smoothly. His hand ghosts along Gabe's skin, deceptively gentle, and Gabe shudders and moans. "The way you flirt with him all the time. It's different than it is with me, right? Because you can't have him. Because he's mine."

One of the hands in Gabe's hair slides down to cup the side of his face; to gently, fondly stroke the arch of a cheekbone. Alex presses his own fingers to where his cock disappears into Gabe's mouth and they come away spit-shiny. He starts to roll his hips in tiny increments, never enough to hurt or choke, but enough that Gabe can feel the pressure of it, enough that the head of his cock rubs against the roof of Gabe's mouth.

Gabe whimpers, his own hand sliding down his stomach, towards his neglected erection.

He's almost ready for the next slap, and this time he arches the sting and moans.

"Really, Gabe," Ryland says, softly, rubbing the abused skin. "You're kind of obvious."

end.

Am I allowed to write het as well as slash? Pretty please?

Personally, there is nothing Ryan loves more than Brendon writhing and begging beneath his hand, the way the boy flinches at every harsh slap but still stays obediently right where he is, even pushing back a little every time Ryan waits a bit too long in between the slaps. Ryan likes to tease Brendon to tears of frustration, altering the force and rhythm of the slaps - from playful ones to harsh smacks that echo in the room and make Brendon hiss sharply in between gritted teeth. Ryan waits for unpredictable amounts of time in between the hits so that Brendon is nearly driven insane as he doesn't know how forceful the following slap will be; how soon it’s going to land.

Ryan pulls back slightly to examine his handiwork. Brendon is still bent over the backrest of the couch, his breathing ragged and his face flushed, hands trembling slightly as he's holding on to the couch.

"Too harsh?" Ryan asks and leans to kiss the pink skin of Brendon's buttocks softly. Brendon just whimpers, but shakes his head in a way that indicates he's not done with this yet. Ryan smirks and aims a final slap on the boy's ass, leaving a white handprint that slowly fades and merges into the redness of the surrounding skin. Then Ryan turns to look behind him. "Your turn."

Jack, who has been lying sprawled over the armchair, lazily sits up and smirks, sliding his hand over his naked body once more as he stands up. He's been following the events quietly from his position, waiting for Ryan to pass dominance over that firm, round ass that is in front of them like on a silver tray. Ryan and Jack exchange a glance behind Brendon's back, and then Ryan sits down on the couch, right beside Brendon who's still lying over the backrest. Jack measures the distance in between Brendon's ass and his hand for a while, letting anticipation gather thick in the air, and then brings the hand forcefully down on Brendon's right ass cheek. Brendon lets out a strangled groan and his body twitches. Ryan quickly smoothes a hand over Brendon's ass, sliding his fingers over the heated skin, and Brendon moans at the touch. The moan turns to a whimper as Jack slaps him again, but then Ryan ghosts his hand in between the couch and Brendon's body, wrapping his fingers around Brendon's unmistakably hard cock, stroking it lazily, nodding Jack to continue - Brendon is still definitely good to go if he's sprouting such a hard-on. Brendon is torn in between the two sensations, the harsh prickling of his nerve-endings and the lazy jerk of Ryan's wrist as the boy strokes him.

Brendon arches and whimpers, and Ryan's hand stills on his cock. "Don't come." Brendon is groaning and panting and sweaty, but he manages to stop the heat-wave threatening to hit him down, manages to prevent himself from coming. Jack's slaps on his ass are now more playful than anything else as he exchanges glances with Ryan. They reach an agreement silently, Brendon twisting in frustration as Jack's hand is now just sliding over his achy skin, touching the reddened skin merely with his fingertips.

Ryan leans in and licks Brendon's neck, breathing, "I want you to get the hell spanked out of you... while you're fucking me."

Brendon's body twitches at this, and he just nods weakly. Ryan's tongue licks up to his jawline, and Brendon turns hastily, meeting Ryan's mouth with his own. There is a long silent moment as they kiss, but Jack breaks it with a swift slap on Brendon's ass. Brendon gasps into Ryan's mouth, and they break apart, Ryan pulling Brendon up from the couch. Ryan turns the boy around and marches him out of the living room and into the bedroom. Jack sneaks an arm around Ryan's waist as they go, pushing Brendon ahead of them and admiring the view this gives on his ass - now red and raw and clearly aching.

"How--" Smack! "--many--" Smack! "--times--" Smack! "--have I--" Smack! "--told you--" Smack! "--not--" Smack! "--to--" Smack! "--climb--" Smack!"--my--" Smack! "--KIT?"

"M'sorry."

"Not--" Smack! "--sorry--" Smack! "--enough!"

"I'm sorry! I won't do it again, I promise!"

Bob's wrists were sore, and now his hand stung also. Frank's ass was red, and so was his face when he wriggled around and propped himself up on his elbows.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to knock over the kick-drum."

Bob sighed. It wasn't just the drums he worried about, but somehow Frank never understood that.

"I know. It's fixable."

Frank smiled a tentative smile, which turned into a wince when he tried to sit up. Bob tugged him closer and stroked a gentle hand on his hip.

"Here, let me kiss it better."

gerard should spank patrick, y'all.

just saying.

will be pimping this over in my LJ. and comming back to write maybe (maybe i'll actually get something finished for one of these things for once, as i flaked on both laura's Sex-pollen and on the bottom!jon meme. we shall see. i have high hopes. because i'm all about spankings.

On some level, Gerard knows he's being a bitch. He knows he shouldn't poke at people like that, just because he's bored and restless and jittery. But he just can't help it.

He shifts unhappily in the hard plastic airport chair. Goddamn, what evil genius designed these things, anyway? Checks his watch again. 11:27:30. 31. 32. 33. Christ. It's the waiting that's the worst. Preoccupied with watching the second hand of his watch go around and wishing his iPod battery wasn't being a pissy little bitch that ran out of power at the worst moments, he doesn’t notice her until –

"Boo."

He doesn't jump out of his chair. Barely.

"Hey, rockstar." She drapes her arms around his neck and kisses his cheek. "Let's go home, yeah?"

"Mmm." He rests his head back against her. "Hi."

"C'mon; we can snuggle at home."

He makes an unhappy little noise, and bites at his lip, refusing to move. She's warm and comforting and he's been stuck in airports and planes for the last 31 hours straight.

"Gerard." He draws in a sharp breath; he knows that voice, the one that cuts through to the need he pushes down to keep it hidden from the rest of the world. And yes. Yes. He stands, grabs the handle of his suitcase. "Mmm. Good." She trails one fingernail down the veins on the side of his neck. He shivers.

Lindsay grabs his hand and grins. "So tell me the promised epic story of your fucked up plane ride including why you were six hours late. I'm expecting at least one fiery crash."

"Um. So there was a flood in, like, Texas or some shit, and..."

*

By the time they pile through the door into their apartment he's finished with his epic tale and they're brainstorming ways to creatively punish the airline agent who routed him through Toronto instead of Chicago, causing him to miss that connection waiting in the customs line.

He's also spent the half hour drive from the airport trying not to show how jittery he is. His self-control is starting to fray around the edges.

"So, you want to take a shower first or just collapse?"

He’s too needy, strung out from the whole week; he hadn’t come since he left, when she tied him up against the wall and whispered to him that he wasn't allowed, her breath hot in his ear. Please don't be that cruel. I can't, can't..."Lyn, please."

Gerard gets a little carried away sometimes. He's been told this many times by many different people. Once in a while, though, it works out in his favor.

He and Patrick are taking advantage of one of the rare moments when they've got the bus to themselves. He's sprawled out on the couch with Patrick on top of him, grinding down between his legs, and it's hard not to get just a bit too caught up in the moment. What's unexpected is that when he brings his hand down against Patrick's ass with a hard slap, Patrick groans wantonly into his mouth and presses his hips down harder.

Gerard pulls away, gasping for breath, and asks, "You liked that?"

Patrick nods, biting his lip, and Gerard is hit with a sudden flash of inspiration. He maneuvers them around so that he's sitting up and Patrick is face-down over his lap. Gerard strokes the curve of his ass, unsure of how far to take this, until Patrick speaks up. "Do it."

Gerard slaps him once, and Patrick whimpers; twice, and he moans; a third time, and he's writhing, rubbing his cock against Gerard's thigh. Gerard works his hands under him and unfastens his pants, pulls them down around his knees, and hits him again, deepening the blush that's already starting to form.

Patrick's face is buried in his folded arms, and Gerard hears his breath hitch with every slap. Gerard reaches out and strokes the back of his neck, feeling him relax under his hand before catching him off guard with another blow. Patrick sobs, his entire body seizing up, and Gerard is afraid he might actually come in his pants if this continues.

"Get up," he says, and Patrick crawls off his lap and sits beside him. Gerard kisses him once before placing a hand on his shoulder and forcing him off the couch and down onto his knees. Patrick unbuttons his pants and frees his cock. Gerard traces his fingertips along the side of Patrick's face as he sucks him off, feeling his own hardness straining against the inside of Patrick's cheek. It isn't long before the wet heat brings him to release, and Patrick pulls back and lets it splash onto his face. He reaches down and brings himself off with a few quick strokes, whimpering high in the back of his throat and coming all over his hand.

Gerard pulls him back onto the couch and uses his own discarded shirt to wipe the come from his face. Patrick sighs and leans against him, resting his head on his shoulder, and only then does the full reality of the situation hit him. "Are you--" Gerard swallows, his throat suddenly dry. "Was that okay?"

Patrick snorts. "I wouldn't have let you do it if I hadn't wanted it, ass." Gerard is silent, and Patrick lifts his head to look at him. "Seriously, don't freak out on me now."

"I'm not freaking out, just...." Gerard waves his hand vaguely.

Patrick kisses him, a gentle brush of lips, and says, "You think too much."

Frank against the wall, begging for it.

(http://s112.photobucket.com/albums/n163/kat_lair/My%20Chemical%20Romance/?action=view&current=mcr02.jpg)

Discuss.

Gabe's ass:

(http://s112.photobucket.com/albums/n163/kat_lair/Cobra%20Starship/?action=view&current=l_aa7b53328c471743fa0e7c2cb065615f.jpg)

Would you spank that?
1. Yes.
2. No.
3. Until he cried.

Who should spank that?
1. Me!
2. Alex
3. Ryland
4. Nate
5. Vicky
6. All of the above
7. Someone else, I'll discuss it in the comments with drawings.

Brendon's ass is clearly the most beatable for any number of reasons, here in no particular order:

1) It's high and tight and round, and you could serve tea on it, if you like had a really miniature tea set.

2) Brendon vibrates and quivers in everyday life, bent over someone's lap? His ass would practically leap into your hand, begging to be met with anything, pinch, strokes, slaps or massage, just stimuli.

3) Spankings force you into your body and into the present. Really good ones are mentally and physically engulfing and that's the kind of shit that someone as all over the place as Brendon would quickly become addicted to.

4) The best part of pain as physical stimuli is how it goes hand in hand with pleasure - either directly by the person inflicting, or through the triggering of endorphins. Either way, Brendon appears to me as someone who would embrace the extremes, especially coming on top of one another.

and why Jon or Patrick. Both strike me as easygoing, contained, serene. Definitely good top archetype for Brendon's bottom articulated above. Ryan would be more of a mind f**k top, Pete is clearly a masochist (and since no one has been reigning him in, he sets himself up all over the place) and Spencer would seek out a more challenging bottom. He'd be interesting in enticing Ryan to switch for instance.

Just my thoughts.

LETS DISCUSS THIS, AND WHY BRENDON AND/OR PATRICK SINGING THIS AND THEN SPANKING SPENCER AND/OR PETE WOULD BE AWESOME.

Pete sighed and leant his head back against the wall.

Bored, he was bored and his whole body ached with standing here like this. It felt like he'd been here
for hours although he knew in reality he hadn't. He shifted slowly easing the ache in his legs before
becoming still again. Moving to stop himself from stiffening up was allowed but nothing more. He
shivered although he wasn't cold even though he was naked; Patrick ensuring the room was warm
before ordering him against the wall. The wall was cool against his ass and he was grateful for that
coolness against the burning skin.

His eyes moved to the room's other occupant. Patrick's head was down, his attention on the laptop
in front of him but Pete knew that Patrick was aware of every move he made and every sigh and it
would all be remembered, stored away. He closed his eyes trying not to think about his actions that
had led to him being stood here, against the wall.

He knew he was buying trouble for himself but sometimes he just couldn't stop himself. Patrick's
attention had been elsewhere this evening; and he'd reverted to being a 12 year old on e-numbers;
bouncing, poking Patrick, and generally annoying him until Patrick's attention was fully on him.

The thing with Patrick was you never knew quite how he was going to react. Oh he'd react eventually,
of that Pete could be assured, but Patrick liked to keep him on edge wondering just what he was
going to do to him. Sometimes he'd just be held down until he calmed, Patrick lying on him; other
times he'd be fucked over one of the couches but tonight well tonight he'd been pulled down over
Patrick's knee and held down by his neck as Patrick's other hand pulled his jeans down, the tight
denim scraping over his cock eliciting an involuntary gasp. Patrick chuckled before bringing his
hand down hard on Pete's bare skin, hitting him at the top of his thighs before starting to spank him in
earnest, making Pete count along with each stroke of his hand. He'd stopped short of one hundred
strokes, Pete now calm beneath his hands, quiet except for the hiccupping brought on by his crying.
Patrick slowly stroked his back, whispering soft words to him, words that Pete couldn't quite hear but
it was the tone more than anything that he was listening to; that soft, loving, and reassuring tone.
After a few moments Patrick pulled him up onto his lap, holding him in place even as Pete tried to
move away, the pain of his raw spanked backside and thighs exacerbated against the rough texture
of Patrick's jeans. Patrick held him still before kissing him forcefully, his teeth biting at Pete's lips,
making him in yet another way. All of Pete's focus was on Patrick; the reassuring feel and smell of
him as he held him. And then, he was making him stand up and pushing him toward the wall where
he could see him; where as he told Pete "his attention would be wholly on him!”

Pete sighed again and this time Patrick looked up, his gaze pulled from his work, toward him. He
set aside his laptop and stood up from the couch, walked over to him his steps slow and easy.
Patrick stopped in front of him and grasped his jaw with his hand, holding him steady. Pete wanted
to close his eyes, to avoid Patrick's knowing, loving look but he couldn't. He swallowed and tried to
duck his head Patrick's grip tightened on his jaw. He hated this, probably more than anything else,
the way Patrick would just stop and look at him. As though he could read everything that Pete was,
ever had been and would be in the future. It made him extremely uncomfortable, made him want to
squirm, to look away from the other man. This was attention that he didn't desire; it scared him how
Patrick would see all the way into his soul and still want him. Being held down by Patrick, feeling
himself lulled under by Patrick's words, being spanked, all of that was easy compared to this.

"Turn around." Pete blinked not immediately realising that he was being spoken to. The fingers on
his jaw tightened. "Turn around, Pete. I want to see the colour of your ass." Patrick's fingers dug
into the soft skin around his jaw before letting go. Pete turned slowly, away from Patrick and toward
the wall. He rested his hands on the wall, automatically moving into presentation position; backside
jutting out, legs spread slightly and head down. His breath began to quicken as Patrick stroked
down his back, the movement calming him. He cried out as Patrick's hand grasped his cheeks, hard
fingers digging into the sensitive flesh.

"Nice," Patrick whispered. "But you seem to be losing the colour and we can't have that now can
we? I think we should keep this red all night long, don't you?" His fingers were now softly trailing over
Pete's ass and Pete shivered.

"Brace yourself," he said. "Don't forget to count for me, Pete." Pete gulped but held himself steady
waiting for the first slap. "Ready?"

Pete whimpered as Patrick's hand comes down forcefully on his backside, trying not to flinch away at
the pain. It's always like this, the first strokes inflaming his skin, jolting from him soft whimpers before
the pain begins to increase and his whimpers become cries of pain, the sounds torn from him.
Patrick knows exactly what he's doing, how much strength to put behind each stroke. Pete cries out
as Patrick's hand comes down again and again. The strokes aren't consistent as though Patrick is
determined that this time Pete won't zone out, won't get to the point where the pain really doesn't
mean anything anymore other. Patrick clearly wants him to be aware for this, to hear what he's
saying and wants to feel him coming apart.

"Such a pretty little slut for me, aren't you?" Patrick tells him. "Can you even imagine how you look
right now, all spread out and shaking under my hand? Can you even hear the noises you make?
Such needy little whimpers and desperate little gasps! You love this, don't you? How long can you
keep this up, hmmm? Because I can do this all night just to watch you shake and tremble, scream
and fall apart underneath my hand"

Low dark words whispered into his ear that turn his legs to jelly and send shivers down his spine,
threatening to take him apart, break his defences down. It's what he wants, what he's been pushing
for all night.

His can hear his own breathing, harsh and ragged through the sound of the slaps and he scrunches
his eyes tight trying without fail to stop the tears from falling, to ensure that he counts each stroke
without missing one. Pete pushes his fingers against the wall as though it's the only thing holding him
up, listening to Patrick's whispered words.

It's only when his cries become full out sobs and he's trembling that hard that he thinks his knees will
collapse under him that Patrick begins to slow the slaps until his hand is just resting on Pete's
backside. Pete gasps in surprise as he's pulled round and into Patrick's arms. He burrows into
Patrick's embrace, his tears soaking into Patrick's t-shirt as he's held tight safe in Patrick's arms.

William Beckett needs to be spanked. Someone write it, please

It was a mistake. Or at least, it wasn't intentional, not at first. It was just that Mikey was all upset about something--Bob didn't even remember what, later. He thought maybe Gerard had been missing, or his bass had somehow made it to the wrong stage or something else that was enough to justify Mikey being upset but not the edge of hysteria that Bob could see creeping in. And Bob, who hadn't lifted a hand to anyone in years--not since he'd started working the boards and found there were better ways to fuck someone's shit up--grabbed Mikey by the arm and smacked him on the ass twice in quick succession.

If asked, Bob couldn't have said why he chose to go that route. It was the same idea as slapping someone who was mildly hysterical across the face, only the thought of hitting Mikey in that way made Bob feel slightly nauseated. There was nobody but the two of them in the dressing room at that time, and Bob wasn't sure it would have changed things had there been, if he would have let someone else handle Mikey, calm him.

The last smack was still echoing slightly in Bob's ears when he snatched his hands back and said, "Oh shit, Mikey, I'm sorry, I don't know--"

Mikey planted his palm over Bob's mouth. There wasn't anything sexy or even coordinated about it. Mikey was blinking at him somewhat furiously, but Bob noticed that his breathing, which had been a little short before, had normalized. Mikey said, "Oh," short and surprised.

Bob repeated the sentiment into Mikey's palm.

I blame Make Me a Supermodel for this. I know, it's mind-killing, soul-sucking trash, but it's kinky mind-killing, soul-sucking trash.

Frank had known this was a bad idea, was certain of it long before his legs began to ache from hours spent kneeling on the concrete floor. Even under the harsh studio lights, the skin of his naked back was cold, frozen except the burning welts where Gerard had gotten too enthusiastic with riding crop, biting the leather into thin skin covering his spine. Frank shivered, clenching his teeth. The next blow fell lower, stinging the tender flesh just above the waist of his pants. It was too much. Dragging the black rubber bit from his mouth, he glared at Gerard.

“Okay, I understand your need for the whole costume thing, but this? Who does equestrian kink, really?”

Gerard sneered, pressing the side of his patent leather boot into Frank’s exposed ribs. “Well, clearly, it’s a metaphor. About dehumanization, and utilitarianism, and those sorts of things. We’re just draft animals, deep down, desirable only as long as we give the masses what they want. What they need.” Pressing the riding crop under his chin, Gerard forced Frank to meet his gaze. “Plus,” he whispered, “the fans will love it. So put the bit back in your mouth and just look good for the camera.”

A quick jerk of the reins brought his eyes in line with the photographer’s lens. He felt Gerard shift above him, drawing the crop back for yet another blow. Dropping his voice still lower, Gerard bent foward, pressing his lips to Frank's ear.

“And, if you behave, we’ll even bring the whip back to our room.” Frank barely heard the click of the shutter over his own gasp.

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Aftermath 1/3 - Panic At The Disco - Brendon/Ryan - NC-17

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'Lock on the Door and a Mirror on the Wall' 1/3 - Spencer/Jon - NC-17

Spencer/Brendon, NC17, 1/2

'Untitled' 1/1 - Ryland/Gabe/Alex - NC17

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Three is Company | Ryan/Brendon/Jack Marin | NC-17 | 1/3