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You know you've thought about it, though.
In the deepest, darkest recesses of your imagination, it's there.
You don't tell anyone your secret thoughts, not even your best friend, but they're there.
At night, when you're going to sleep, you let them out to play. Images of your favorite band boy or girl. Crazy AU scenarios where they are IN YOUR STARBUCKS AND NEED A DOLLAR. SEQUENCE OF CRAZY EVENTS, THEN SEXING.
Whatever.
Your shame. Show me it.
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Mary Sue Meme
Comment with no less than 100 words of your private Mary Sue bandom fantasy/fantasies. You know you want to.
Mary Sue Meme
Comment with no less than 100 words of your private Mary Sue bandom fantasy/fantasies. You know you want to.
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nell (http://pics.livejournal.com/violentfires/pic/0004afzz) and cami (http://savvygambols.livejournal.com/18088.html) do it for me. hahaha. \o/
OH WAIT. That actually happened. :D
(I have no idea how we met. Possibly when I was being an awesomesauce sound engineer on their next world tour. Whatever. My fantasies are usually the schmoopy domestic kind that happen between people who have been dating for a while. Here goes. Written in second person.)
My Chem is playing some awards show in LA, which means Bob's going to be gone for a couple of days, what with rehearsals and press and the actual performance. She elects to stay home in Chicago this time. She went to the VMAs, and the Fuse/Fangoria Chainsaw Awards, and more afterparties than she really cares to recall. It's nice to spend time with Bob, but neither of them are big on publicity. Plus, the music industry reminds her eerily of high school, with everyone seperating off into their own little groups, and people trying to look cool.
Bob kisses her goodbye on Friday. He hasn't even been gone for twenty minutes when she gets the first text: miss you already. She smiles, and shakes her head fondly. Bob's pretty much a hopeless romantic. A big tough shell with a soft marshmellow center. The kind of guy that has three cats when he meant to adopt one, because he felt bad for the other two. The kind of guy who buys you flowers and makes time to take you on proper dates, even though it's four weeks into a world tour and you're both tired and smelly and don't really know what country you're in. (She's pretty gone on the fucker, to be honest.)
Bob calls every night before she goes to bed. He figured out the time difference before he left, 10 PM Chicago time to 8 PM in Los Angeles. He tells her about Frank's antics and LA traffic. She updates him on the cats and the leaky faucet in the kitchen.
(continued below)
Four days. They've been apart for longer. She keeps herself busy, visits old friends, goes shopping, reads all the books she's been meaning to read. Finds a photography studio that will let her use their darkroom to make oversize prints of some photographs she took on the last tour. Three days. She goes to the gym, the independant coffee house on the corner. Goes and sees a local band in a seedy club on North Racine. Eats cereal for dinner and falls asleep on the couch. Two days. Day of the awards show. My Chem is playing in the afternoon, and she doesn't bother getting out of bed before one o'clock Chicago time. Tries to fix the leaky sink, gives up after half an hour and three bloody knuckles. She's a sound engineer, not a fucking plumber, okay? Give her a break. Watches My Chem perform. They're in top shape, but there could have been more close-ups on Bob, in her opinion. But she might be a little biased. She calls Bob after My Chem gets offstage. She gets his voicemail and leaves a two-minute message about how hot he is when he drums. He calls her back not ten minutes later, and they talk until Gerard confiscates Bob's phone and tells her he needs his drummer back, please. She can hear Frank in the background telling them that they "flirt like a couple of teenagers, Jesus Christ, it's gross". She laughs and hangs up.
She falls asleep that night in bed. Granted, she's on top of the covers and the lights are still on, but it's still an improvement over the couch.
She's woken a few hours later by a prickly kiss on her cheek. A familiar prickly kiss. She smiles and stretches before opening her eyes. "I thought you weren't getting home until tomorrow."
Bob shrugs. A sliver of a grin darts across his face. "The guys said I was getting insufferable. They sent me home early."
"What if I had been in the middle of a torrid affair?" She asks.
"...Surprise?"
"Mmm," she agrees, and pulls Bob down to curl around her, big spoon and little spoon. He comes easily enough, shifting only slightly to pull the throw blanket over them and turn out the light.
"Are you glad I'm home?" He whispers into her tangled hair, as if he's unsure of the answer. She smiles, rolls over and tucks her head into the curve of his neck.
"You smell like airplane." She whispers back. Bob laughs.
"I missed you, too."