So this is how I spent my Friday night:

( Fall Out Boy At North Star Bar, Philadelphia )

It has come to my attention that a certain band that we are all fond of bear an uncanny resemblance to another band that we (and our parents) tend to be fond of. With the pot-induced happy-go-lucky guitar plucking of Pretty. Odd. to Ryan Ross's new haircut, there is no mistaking the transformation into the modern-day Beatles. And though Panic has a long way to go before they can ever fill the Beatles shoes (because, really--the BEATLES), by the looks of it, they're well on their way.

And thus, I present the Panic At The Disco Looks So Much Like The Beatles It Hurts Picspam.

( Ob-la-di, ob-la-da. )

Lesson of the day: hero worship can sometimes go too far. BUT THE BEATLES ROCK SO IT'S OK IN MY BOOK.

So turnpikedarling and I were roadtripping it when we got a flat tire. We pulled over in Northhampton, MA and were directed to a lovely establishment called Pete's Tire Barn, where we were helped by none other than good ol' Pete himself.



And then, because we're douchebags, we wrote a short AU on the back of our tire invoice.

Title: And That Is What She Said
Author: turnpikedarling and aubateau
Rating: PG-13 (for lewd jokes)
Pairing: Pete/Patrick

Title: When Shit Hits The Fan
Author: aubateau
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
Pairing: Spencer/Jon (with Ryan/Brendon undertones)
POV: Third
Word Count: ~3,200
Summary: He stabs at the power button a few times, opens and closes it again, and hits a few more keys. Nothing. “What the—” He checks the power cord, punches the power button a few more times, and stares, horrified, at the dark looming blankness. “FUCK!”
Disclaimer: Not real! Last I checked, Panic boys were not in college, they were rock stars. So, uh, clearly none of this ever passed.
Author Notes: This is for my dear friend, paraserpiente! Because she's had a shitty week full of lots of work and broken computers. Spencer can sympathize, I'm sure. AND THANKS TO MY FAVORITE turnpikedarling FOR BETA-ING YOU ARE MY FAVORITE EVER.



( When Shit Hits The Fan )

tlea105: You'll find love yet, "Bee".
aubateau: Meh.
tlea105: Oh, so now you don't care?
aubateau: Nah, I'm just bitter and sexually starved. I try not to dwell on it.
tlea105: Just look at some good porn. You'll be fine.
aubateau:Ahahahaha!
tlea105: Believe me. Porn is WAY better than sex.
aubateau: It just LOOKS that way. It's boring, there's no surprise to it. Porn is so calculated!
tlea105: Calculated to GET YOU OFF.


I miss him so much when we have conversations like that.

RADIOHEAD WAS THE BEST THING EVER. OH GOOD LORD.

If you ever get a chance, see them live. I think they had the best set list they've ever had. It's like I died and went to heaven.

Just finished watching Michael Phelps's final Olympic race. EIGHT GOLDS, BABY. WHAT A PRO.

Still want to get started on that Olympics AU, because Bob Bryar, professional gymnast is exactly what this world needs right now. Problem is, it would turn into a long!fic and I SUCK AT LONG!FIC.

Examples of my suckage:
1. Camp AU, which died a painful death after I got all self-conscious about it
2. Romance novel AU, which sputtered and fell apart because I never had time to write

Long stories are too much of a commitment. Gimme short stuff, and I'll gladly oblige. Any ideas?

Title: Sport of Champions
Author: aubateau
Rating: R
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon
POV: Third
Word Count: ~2,200
Summary: A good five seconds pass, and he hears Ryan grunt above him. He opens one eye. Ryan is bracing himself with one arm, hand splayed on the couch above Brendon’s shoulder. His other hand is furiously working between his legs. Ryan Ross is jacking himself off over a very naked Brendon Urie.
Disclaimer: Though I am a firm supporter of all things Ryden, I cannot claim any of this to be canon, as I do not, in fact, know Panic at the Disco. It's all in my debauched imagination, I'm afraid.
Author Notes: The existence of this story is entirely due to the ever-awesome katchatters and our embarrassingly fannish conversations! She sparked the idea in my head with our discussion over confusing pronoun usage in gayfic, she gave me building blocks to work off of, and she betaed it MAGNIFICENTLY. I shall love her forever and ever. She gets an A+ in life.


Feedback always appreciated!

Oy! Fannish journal! (Who'da thunk I'd go so low?)

You only wish you knew my identity. I'm like Gossip Girl, except in Seattle. And I'm not spreading malicious rumors. And I'm not Kristen Bell.

Okay, so I'm nothing like Gossip Girl. ACCEPT AND MOVE ON.