x_zeitgeist

x_zeitgeist @ 2006-12-08T00:17:00

2006-12-08T00:17:20Z

A selection of Jack/Ianto Torchwood graphics.

5 icons.
3 banners.

Assumptions

2006-12-05T18:39:16Z

Title: Assumptions (1/2).
Pairing: Uruha/M Shadows.
Rating: NC-17.
Summary: In highschool stereotypes are rife, along with a fair amount of hypocrisy and prejudice. All these things combine in a first meeting, and are shattered in the second.
Genre: AU. PWP.
Dedications: Kirsssteh.

1234. Easiest bloody locker combination in the world. Then again, even something as direly complicated as 7435 would have been easy for this little mathematical genius.

Smooth transition, I know.

It wasn't as though he flaunted his brain power. He kept his brainy self to his brainy self.

Think Malcolm from Malcolm In The Middle, only hotter, and slightly more laid-back.

Slightly.

The similarities were there, though, and just in case you've been living on planet Lack of Humour for the last decade, I won't go too deeply into them. Just know he's smart, know he's bitchy. Know he knows it. And wasn't scared of others knowing it. Or others knowing he knew that they knew he knew.... what he knew.

And stuff.

1234. Twist twist twist twist. Pop. Pull. Grab the books, sling them in the bag. Slam. Turn. Walk. Pad pad pad pad slap slap slap. Open. Walk. Turn. Sit. Scowl.

Routine was a wonderful thing. Very rhythmic, too. Good for the soul.

1234. Twist twist twist twist. Pop. Pull. "Hey." ... hey? Not part of the routine!

The rhythm of Uruha's morning was given a shocking remix. Full of 'Hey' and dimples and smiles and twinkling hazel eyes. And a bit of 'oooooh', too. Maybe some extra scowling.

Grab the books, sling them in the bag, "What?"

A harsh tone, full of disdain at being distracted, and being spoken to. Of course, he was a perfectly sociable young man.

When the mood took him. And the moon was in alignment. And pigs were flying.

"Your face."

The dark gaze was ripped away from the contents of his locker and narrowed venomously at the bulk of man standing beside him. Amusing contrast, really. Tiny little Asian glaring at the grinning quarterback. Not replying to the grinning quarterback’s comment in response to the hissing pissy fit of a question.

Slam. Turn. Walk.

"Hey, hey, chill, just messin' with ya."

A Southern lilt to husky words so different from his own sharp, slightly accented and text-book perfect English, always with a hint of that haughty condescension.

"Yeah, yeah, funny, funny. My ribs are cracking with the urge to burst into fits of hysterical giggles."

Dry, predictable, highly sarcastic. He could come up with better, of course he could. But he had a feeling it would be wasted on such a Neanderthal. Sarcasm was the lowest form of wit, directed to the lowest form of human being.

Well muscled ass.

Snap decisions and first impressions. Uruha didn't know the man beside him, but he didn't need to. He knew his sort. Knew his type. More brawn than brains and more violence than intelligence. The sort who thought Vladimir Nabokov was a Russian hockey star. (Note to those that are stupid - he's not.)

Pad pad pad pad. Pad pad pad pad. Steps falling into and mirroring steps. The lazy slaps of Converse to the rubber thumps of Adio trainers.

Urgh. Gross. He wasn't even a skater. Wannabe poser as well as jock? Ew. Ew. Ew! He was not worthy to walk beside Uruha. And Uruha didn't even think a lot of himself! Anyone was above this burly beast. Anyone. Not pretentious... no, not at all...

"Oh totally. I can see it in your eyes. Just behind the venomous loathing."

Oh he dares to reply? But not only that, but reply with big, long words? Huff.

Pad pad pad freeze. Stop. Silence. Aside from the bustling cat calls and high pitched giggles that had grown so familiar they were moot. The legendary sports star and general prat had stopped at the same time. Uruha had almost expected him to carry on striding, oblivious, unable to process such complex information while moving. But alas, he was merely a sheep, stopping when the higher being stopped.

Turn. Glower. Jaw set, eyes stony, lips thin with restrained words. "What do you want?" he questioned, tone bland, stare blank, unreadable.

The man, however, was unphased, a smirk tugging slyly at the corners of his lips, a twinkle in the flecks of gold within his gaze. "I need a tutor."

Oh yeah, kaboom, tether is dragged right to the end. He had it up to his pretty little eyeballs and the red was rising through his face like a cartoon thermometer. Both brows were arched, thin lips falling into a full pout of obnoxious incredulousness. "Is it because I'm Asian?"

Confusion met his words. "Uhm, huh?"

Regular genius on his hands right here. "Is it because I'm Asian? You look at me, see the Oriental-ness, think, woah-oh, nerd, smart, easy target, good tutor?"

After all this the butch bastard actually had the audacity to snort.

"Urgh, you Americans and your stereotypes!"

Silence this time as he near screamed in frustration, stomping his foot childishly, glare increasing. And oh, if looks could kill... "Actually..."

This better be damn good.

"...I ask you because Mr. Talbot said you were good at maths," the sportsman explained calmly, seemingly cautious, respectful of the ticking bomb in front of him, though the expression suggested anything but.

Uruha's face fell in mild surprise. Oh. Research had been done. That busted his angry little bubble. See, Uruha was angry... most of the time. He simply only let it show when he had fair reason.

And now he didn't.

So it was screwed up, stuffed deep inside, bottled up and boiling within, just waiting for its next unfortunate vent as he wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Oh. Uhm. Yeah."

Secret Stories

2006-12-02T11:39:30Z

Welcome to x_zeitgeist, the art journal of lovelickhump (me). Here lays all her (my)fanfiction, stories, icons, graphics, and other such drivvle of a suitably mediocre nature. Look below for updates and features, and visit her (my)personal journal for more info *cheesygrin*

Disclaimer: Wanna know the truth of it, huh? Wanna know the nitty gritty chunks of disgusting? I'm a liar, through and through, from my heads to my toes, from my ears to the tip of my wriggly pink tongue. I tell lies about beautiful people and pass them off as stories. I make you believe, scare you, shock you, make you hard or make you wet and then I giggle and take it away. You know why? Wanna know the ins and outs? The backwards and forwards? Because I like it. It'll be never be mine, though. No matter how much I let lashes hit cheeks, head hit pillow, fingers hit keys. They're all lies. But they're the best. You'll ever see from me, at least.

December 03, 2006: Archive complete :O

December 02, 2006: Secret stories are a special sort of story... a story so warped... so frightening... so damn right cracked up that it must be locked away forever. The only way you can see such disgustingness is by friending this journal, so get your ass into gear! By being a friend of x_zeitgeist you get access to a variety of secret goodies, such as my own personal music collection =D

December 01, 2006: New layout, dangit!

Drabble Request

2006-12-01T18:51:17Z

Do you want me to write a drabble for you? Or even a fully-fledged one-shot? Well, depending on the magical inspiration of magicness I recieve from your keywords, I'll do what I can... which aint much O.O Just reply to this with the below infoooo.

Fandoms I can do:
TV - Doctor Who, Torchwood, Friends, Will & Grace, Viva La Bam, Jackass, Wildboyz, Homewrecker, Made.
Films - James Bond (Daniel Craig version), The Breakfast Club, Haggard, X Men, Dirty Dancing, Dodgeball.
Books - Pendragon, Eragon, Harry Potter, Boy Meets Boy, Noughts and Crosses.
Music - Avenged Sevenfold, P!ATD, My Chemical Romance, The Used, Taking Back Sunday, Uruha, Mana, Lostprophets...

Hey, just check out the interests on x_palimpsest damnit!

Your name:
Desired pairing:
Colour:
Scent:
Genre:
Verb:

Note: I will write het and mxm, femmeslash is beyond my powers.

Presumption Reaps Rewards

2006-11-09T23:53:15Z

Title: Presumption Reaps Rewards.
Pairing: Matt/Brian feat. Zacky.
Rating: R.
Summary: Brian's sick and Zacky helps.
Genre: Deceitful?
Disclaimer: Not in possession of hat. Or fic.
Author's note: This was written so... so quickly. On a whim. I had so many plot bunnies and this one just danced naked in front of me.

Brian looked sick.

Flesh was drained of the usual tanned tint, leaving him pasty, though a dark flush lingered across the sharp juts of cheekbones. Dark lashes brushed to the splotchy cheeks, eyes heavy, closed, as the softest little whimpers left drawn lips.

And Matt could only watch.

A strong hand held a strong hand, long and indescribably talented fingers laced as he watched his friend with growing concern. Zacky could see it in the lines of his face, in the dark brows pulled tight together, the creases of his forehead, the way his plush lower lip was drawn between white teeth.

But at least he looked healthy.

The stranger could only hover, cell in one hand and car keys in the other, held loosely in front of him as he watched with an edge of worry slowly drowned out by a soft urge to do something.

The especially muscular one -- for they were both big guys, though one had a few pounds on the other -- had denied any need for an ambulance as people rushed over. The smaller -- Zacky thought his name was Bri? Brian? Judging by what the big guy (Matt?) had been murmuring to him -- had 'passed out', because he was too masculine to claim he had fainted, of course. But his state wasn't becoming any better. He had whacked his head pretty impressively on the way down, and the worried onlooker could have sworn he saw blood trickling down his neck.

"Babe, it's gonna be alright.. babe.. babe, look at me.."

If it wasn't for the quiet urgency in Matt's voice Zacky would've raised a brow at the endearment. Though by now, with kisses to a damp forehead and unnaturally fair cheeks, their companionship was rather obvious.

In other words - they were blatantly screwing.

But rather than playing the haughty straight guy, Zacky found something quite adorable about the whole display. He had been standing around for a good five minutes, staying while the rest of the crowd had faded, gnawing at his pierced lip as he simply watched, shifting his weight from time to time.

In fact, he was so busy wondering why the hell he was still standing here, sure it couldn't possibly be that the two cuddly men were phenomenally fucking sexy, that he almost didn't catch that hazel gaze lifting to his green and the slightly louder words carrying the same sort of fear directed to his ears.

"We need to get him to a hospital."

A nod. "I'll call an am-"

Though he was cut off with a shake of a head. "No time. He's out. Do you have a car?"

Of course, that was a stupid question considering the keys with the Mercedes tag in his hand, but Zacky didn't dwell on it too deeply as he watched, with vague awe, as Matt lifted Brian from the floor with an ease that showed practice.

Kinky.

Words weren't exactly needed as he lead the way to his vehicle. It wasn't far as he had been returning from the bank when the guy had fallen with a rather nasty crack that reverberated over the soft sound of the single iPod bud in his ear.
A press of a button and a sharp beep and a door was opened, the bulky and rather unconscious male laid across the back seat as he started to stir.

Not for the first time during the whole situation, Zacky felt vaguely uncomfortable as he watched the soft exchange of words that lead to the obviously concussed man being sat up in his seat, slumping, Matt having to pull the belt across his broad chest and buckle it for him as he knelt. Though despite the awkwardness, the pride still lingered.

He liked this sense of purpose.

He liked helping out.

And that warped little part of him that read too much erotica thought that maybe he would be rewarded for his chivalrous behaviour.

So perhaps it was his libido rather than his sense of what was right and good that lead him to sliding into the driver's seat to start up the ignition with a frankly beautiful purr. He was just chucking his wallet into the dip in the centre console when Matt opened the passenger door, sliding in next to him.

"He's fading in and out of consciousness, we really need to get him to a hospital," were the softly spoken words as Zacky looked up in slight surprise. He had assumed the tone was something reserved especially for the ill boyfriend, but apparently the husky words seemed the norm for the hulk of a man radiating delicious warmth beside him.

Maybe it was that heat tickling his insides that had him refusing to question the seating arrangements as he pulled the slick vehicle out from the sidewalk, heading in the direction of the closest hospital. It was only four or five blocks away, but they hardly made it before a shaky voice was heard from the back.

"I need a fuckin' door opened..."

It was the first time Zacky had heard Brian speak, and he was rather pleasantly surprised by the low Californian drawl. Sadly, it didn't last too long as realisation finally struck at Matt's words.

"If you value your upholstery I'd do what he says..."

Oh. Now... that struck hard. Pulling over sharply, he glanced over his shoulder, and as expected, the man didn't look too sharp.

"Shit."

Without a second thought his door was opened, jumping from the vehicle to open the back door.

But...

Shit.

It was away from him before he could reach it, leaving him groping at the air where his door handle should be, stumbling for a moment as he stared wide eyed at the retreating car.

His retreating car.

And fuck, he could've sworn he heard laughter.

The presumptuous got the best rewards...

---

It was surprising, really, how well two big guys could move. But they did, as Matt proved by his slick slip to the driver's seat, and now Brian testified to as he climbed into the passenger, rubbing at the back of his head.

"Next time you take the fall, bitch," he mumbled, dragging a hand through the pale make-up across his face with a wrinkled nose and a look of severe distaste.

Matt just looked at him, flashing him a thoroughly victorious grin as he chucked the retrieved wallet into his boyfriend's lap, careful to touch his thigh in the process, sure to earn a delighted shiver in response.

"But baby," he cooed, only mildly sarcastic as he sat his gaze back on the road, "you've always had a pretty thick skull."

He only just managed to duck the blow aimed at his head, attempting a speedy recovery in the wake of laughter.

"Operative word 'pretty'?"

x_zeitgeist @ 2006-11-06T16:35:00

2006-11-06T16:35:41Z

Title: Death Is In Love With Us (4/4)
Pairing: Matt/Everyone (A7X)
Rating: NC-17.
Summary: Four stories of Death for the 31st.
Genre: AU. Deadly.
Dedications: Absolutely everyone who has read and commented. You've got me through this, and this is the first chaptered thing I have ever completed. It's for you guys.
Disclaimer: I don't even own the damn title OR lyrics. Death Is In Love With Us by HIM and Comfortably Numb by Pink Floyd.
Author's note: This... is the end. And it makes me rather sad. I've enjoyed this. I adore it. And to think, it was just a random little idea that was going to be a single piece! Hah. I wouldn't have finished it if that was the case. But I'm considering doing a Christmas special with Davey Havok and Brandon Schipetti... Thoughts? xD

Prologue.
Part One.
Part Two.
Part Three.

There is no pain, you are receding.
A distant ships smoke on the horizon.
You are only coming through in waves.
Your lips move but I cant hear what you're sayin'.
When I was a child I caught a fleeting glimpse,
Out of the corner of my eye.
I turned to look but it was gone.
I cannot put my finger on it now.
The child is grown, the dream is gone.
I have become comfortably numb.

Act IV.

Death can be brutal...

Zacky Baker hated a lot of things. And not just a petty little dislike. It was a true abhorrence that scarred at his flesh and boiled at his guts, stretching and tugging at his very spine until the last, healing threads of his sanity snapped and vengeance was all he could want.

Revenge. It was the only way to stop the itching, to stop the niggling. To hurt someone as much as they had hurt himself.

But that was juvenile, that was pathetic. He grew on to bigger and better things.

To hurt anyone for anything. And that‘s just an example.

It was still a form of vengeance, he thought. Making others pay for whatever might have been pissing him the fuck off at that moment in time. Because why should he hurt, why should he cry when someone was toddling along happily with their life? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t justice.

Which was why he didn't care as he stood, in yet another alley, back to the mouth as he stared at the ground, the entire surface coated with a fine sheet of water due to faulty drainage system from the cheap little town, each drop forming ripples that circled out, each one somehow making its way to the toes of his worn trainers before spreading and breaking. Dying.

Blood coated his thighs. He could feel it. Stark scarlet to the deathly pale flesh of his thighs, clotting, thickening, cooling, staining the tight material of paint splattered jeans. Blue splatter. The colour of the room he had painted that day at work.

But that was all insignificant. That was another world, another facet, another life. It was something ugly in its simplicity, horrendous and agonising in its sheer mediocrity. Zacky didn't want to think about it. He was too bust focusing on the water trickling down his neck, flattening tiny hairs that should have been prickling at the sensation coiling so tightly within.

It smothered his satiated bliss. Drowned out his smug victory. Numbed the power-rush. He hated it, that feeling of simply waiting. Itching impatience and expectation running riot within his form, making him want to rip off his skin with his own bitten, dirty nails.

That feeling made him so small. It shrunk him down into a pathetic little ball, just standing, frozen and staring at the floor as calloused fingers twitched over the bulge to the side of his belt. He didn't like feeling so small, so insignificant. Especially now, in his time, in his night, being what he was for once... and it was being ruined by the seemingly slow-motion rush at his senses.

Someone was behind him, he knew that much. And they weren't even hiding. He could see the dark stretch of shadow across the floor from a form standing in the flood of light from the flickering street lamp. Strange, really, that when he had hidden in this labyrinth of an undergrowth he had chosen the one nook with light. Maybe some higher being was dabbling around in this matter.

He really should have cared more than he did. Someone was behind. Silent, standing, staring... for he could feel electrifying eyes burning twin holes right through his sodden shirt to the fleshy back below.

But it was one of those moments where he was just focusing, just calming down his haggard breaths as he clung to the ripped and torn fragments of his control.

Zacky liked losing control. It was the one thing he loved, the one thing he enjoyed. The majority of his time was spent being plain, boring, normal. Just a scene kid withering in the crowd. Then, as soon as the lights went out, as soon as the knife was in his palm and a soul was chosen, he was more than that. He was different.

In this life we take nothing but memories and leave nothing but footprints.

But some footprints are bigger than others.

Well Zacky wanted to leave some Doc Martin style footprints. He wanted to leave his mark on this pathetic excuse for a planet, to forcefully cut and scar his image into the hearts of the unwilling.

They would always remember him.

He knew that so well.

But now, he needed control. Now he needed to stop his hand leaping for the concealed weapon, to stop him turning and firing at nothing.

Nothing.

Because that shadow was gone.

He hadn't even noticed. Strange, that. The shift of movement hadn't even registered to his softly ticking mind. He was too intent on the itching. Willing it away. Because he didn't want to wait. Zacky Baker didn't wait.

Sharply, he turned on his heel, glaring into nothingness, seeing exactly what he knew he would see -- nothing. Just a tall, spindly source of light illuminating some more big fat blobs of nothing.

His lungs tried to gather their breaths, regain their precious rhythm. In and out, in and out, deeper and deeper, precious oxygen seeping, calming, leaking. And he sighed. Because it was okay. His mind was gathered and he simply smiled, a turn up of plush, pierced lips. Zacky knew what he had been, knew what he was, knew what he wanted to be. And really, wasn't that all a soul ever needed, no matter how sociopathic?

Gathered. Very gathered and composed, but still not quite registering everything going on around him. A trigger in his brain had been switched, that waiting feeling smothering his poor senses, so much so that he didn't even notice the warm hands to his hips, and when he did, he didn't even start.

No fear, no surprise. Just a pleasant sort of warmth tracing the flesh of his sides. It might not have even been hands, for all he knew, and maybe that was the logic keeping him from spinning in mad examination. Just a gentle heat smoothing over the shirt clinging to his body, touches that he was unfamiliar with. Soft and gentle, welcome rather than violating.

Because believe it or not, rape was always a one-sided affection, and he missed being touched in such a way. Even though it was foolish. He couldn't miss something he had never had.

The maniac adrenaline rush that had energised him through his glorious attack was fading, leaving his lids heavy, each lash made of lead and weighing the shadowed flesh down as a sort of content overwhelmed him. Though it still didn't quite make its way passed the waiting. It just dulled at it. As though whatever he was waiting for was coming closer and closer and closer…

By now, long fingers were walking up his chest, simply curious, exploring, mapping out his form, touching the parts the exhilaration of his attacks couldn't quite reach. Palms seemed to pull down his defences as they slid aimlessly over him, filling his hollow form with a heat that muffled his awareness further, leaving him dazed, barely conscious.

Though thoroughly aroused.

The disembodied hands seemed to take advantage of this silent lull, turning the frozen body, and suddenly, oh so suddenly, jade snapping open with an amusing speed, it wasn't just hands, and it wasn't just gentility.

It was muscle and flesh and thighs and chest and neck and lips and eyes...

Those eyes betrayed the soft nature of longed for touches. Hazel fire burnt with a venom that would have had a weaker man's stomach churning. And please, don't get me wrong, Zacky was as weak as they come. Only right now, so fortunately, he was closed off from this new world of anger.

Of vengeance.

The things that grew with time and evolution, life and love, the very components that made him human -- or near as -- were gone, leaving only animalistic instinct, primeval desire.

Eat. Sleep. Hunt. Fuck.

Something in that fire exhilarated the animal with in. It had the beast raging and clawing, desperate for the dominance that emanated in bitter waves from the hulk of a male with his hands still slowly tracing the lines of skin and tattoos.

The animal won out - and why wouldn't it? The human was long gone, mostly of Zacky's own selfish doing. There wasn't much to break down. In victory hands curled in the collar of a soaked t-shirt, and he was backing himself against the wall, tugging this stranger with him, submitting to the power, the control, the dominance that he had so craved. That this man reeked of. That he wanted more of.

So close, lips crashing, bruising, crushing. He kissed his stranger as he kissed his victims; all force and heat and the slight tingle of teeth catching tender flesh, the tug and clash of metal to metal as short fingers entwined their selves into short, damp hair.

The anger that had been so precisely concealed burst force through that kiss. Demanding, presumptuous, pierced lips prised apart by the skill of a slick tongue, leaving a burning, chemical heat as he was ravished from the inside out. Gone was the big man with the knife, replaced with a wanton little whore, small, soft frame melting into the hard bulk of body pressed to his so perfectly.

Knees buckling, shaking, weak, form cold and shivering yet so impossibly hot as he was kissed to within an inch of his life, eyes clenched shut as he so desperately clung, the indescribable force of soft lips preventing any breaths from being taken.

That mouth was away, but it was too late. He was won. Completely and utterly, possessed by the man watching him with something bordering disgust, his own eyes wide, jaw slack in something resembling shock. Blood trickled down his chin, and suddenly he was choking in great, needy breaths, green never leaving the violence bubbling so deeply, etched in every feature of the larger man's face.

Zacky was hypnotised. He didn't know what he had been, what he was, what he was going to be. He was just here. Just now. Just floating so beautifully as he stared, mesmerised from his warped head to his lost soul to the fragments of his black and withered heart. A shell, so empty, so robotic, mindlessly obeying as eye contact was kept.

Words ruffled hotly passed his ear, crisp and low, almost inaudible. He could have sworn he had made it up if his head was currently capable of doing such things. But it wasn't, and he was simply staring straight ahead through the falling rain as the command whispered and tickled, nothing but a crisp leaf on an Autumn breeze fluttering against the functioning sections of his motor-functions like a lover's sweet nothings.

Something was in his hand now, he knew that much. Heavy and metallic, weighing down the limp limb. But strong fingers were closing his hand around it, a finger against something quite loose, and he would have frowned at the curiosity of it all if he didn't have a job to do.

Because those soft words were echoing, a husky demand, and once he obeyed he could pay more attention to everything else. But now all his world consisted of was the whispers and the fury of that piercing gaze.

He didn't want to disobey that gaze.

Cool barrel to his temple.

A silencer smothering a skull rattling click.

Brains splattered against a wall.

Stark pink and red to black and grey.

And the gaze softened. The world was in its natural state. Calmness fell over the statuesque form almost audibly, black melting away, the haze of anger vanishing as he stared down almost fondly at the lifeless body and empty skull, now crumpled and bleeding to the floor.

Sweeping out of the alley way, as serene and tranquil as always, a smile lingering across lips that still held the essence of a dead man.

I know it and I feel it,
Just as well as you do, Honey,
It's not our fault if death's in love with us,
It's not our fault if the reaper holds our hearts.

Epilogue.

Death is endless...

He shouldn't have lost his temper like that.

It was unnecessary.

But it had happened.

And nothing could stop that.

He knew that better than anyone.

The wisps of life followed him, misty and foggy, barely there, simply floating as he lead them.

One more stop and then back home.

Maybe two if he got pissed enough again.

The rage was still there, of course.

Floating gently beneath the beautiful surface.

It always would.

The wrath of God...

No.

More than that.

Because God couldn't compare.

Two opposite sides of a broad and ugly spectrum.

All a God could bring is life. All he could ever do was give and give like the walkover he was, constantly renewing, constantly providing. This false idea of buying love.

Whereas he...

He would take. And he would keep taking, keep ripping, keep tearing away with the face of an angel until there was no more to remove and he would turn on himself.

That was true love.

True love hurt.

True love ended a good thing. Took away the pain. Took away the misery.

And Death can love with a passion unequaled.

Until it all ends.

x_zeitgeist @ 2006-11-05T18:33:00

2006-11-05T18:33:30Z

Stylised fan art?

Icons.

2006-11-05T11:52:35Z

[x] 33 A7X icons.
[x] 6 Axl Rose icons.
[x] Please credit x_zeitgeist @ livejournal. Not necessary, but pleasant.
[x] Comments would be delicious, but again, not necessary.
[x] Friend this journal if you like =)
[x] Have I used a picture of yours in an icon? Tell me and I'll remove or credit. Whatever you wish.

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Created with angelamaria's Icon Table Generator @ Bauble

x_zeitgeist @ 2006-11-03T12:38:00

2006-11-03T12:38:42Z

Title: Death Is In Love With Us (3/4)
Pairing: Matt/Everyone.
Rating: NC-17.
Summary: Four stories of Death for the 31st.
Genre: AU. Deadly.
Dedications: xmegalomaniac for being absolutely freaking kickass and being my Matt/Brian inspiration. talia_mole for being my gigglesnort buddy. xxlock_n_loadxx for leaving me the best comments ever. megalolz for being so awesome and having the best icons. Plus wasted_faith for making my entire year. Everyone who comments for making my ego explode, and everyone who offered help for my lil query.
Disclaimer: I don't even own the damn title OR lyrics. Death Is In Love With Us by HIM and I'm A Fake by The Used.

Author's note: This one was... a hard one to write. Painful. It's much longer than the rest, much more detailed. I've never written Johnny before in my life, and I've roleplayed all the others, so this was a tricky bitch. Don't hate me for it, and don't read if you're sensitive to matters regarding rape. Thank you.

Prologue.
Part One.
Part Two.

Small, simple, safe price,
Rise the wake and carry me with all of my regrets,
This is not a small cut that scabs, and dries, and flakes, and heals,
And I am not afraid to die,
I'm not afraid to bleed, and fuck, and fight.
I want the pain of payment,
What's left, but a section of pigmy size cuts,
Much like a slew of a thousand unwanted fucks,
Would you be my little cut?
Would you be my thousand fucks?
And make mark leaving space for the guilt to be liquid,
To fill, and spill over, and under my thoughts,
My sad, sorry, selfish cry out to the cutter,
I'm cutting trying to picture your black broken heart,
Love is not like anything,
Especially a fucking knife.

Act III.

Death can play a small part...

It was a biting sort of cold. Knives slicing through flesh, despite the layers of clothing. Not that it was much to get passed. Jeans, a t-shirt, and a worn jacket hugged tightly around the small, shivering frame. He wasn't sure if he was trembling due to the cold, or the prickling sensation striking the hairs at the nape of his neck to brisk attention. It was nothing, most likely. Johnny's fears were always irrational. He detested being out at this time of night, when the streets were baron with the exception of the drunk, tottering few, night seeping, thick and black through his skin, through his heart, through his hope.

A natural born worrier was Johnny, anxiety fuelled by an over-active imagination. In daylight he was fine, dark corners illuminated, every horrendous object in plain sight. But once the sun had set he was on his own, mind filling in the blanks of shadows, conjuring images, an alias for that flicker, an owner of those sounds...

Those sounds. They stole his shuddering breaths, pouring from his lips in a cloud of white that disapperated before he could crash through. Particles clinging to the cold only to fade before his eyes, becoming more jerky and strained as the cogs of his brain ticked over.

The foul stench wasn't helping. Pungent, repulsive, lingering. He felt like it was attacking him, puncturing his organs, invading his head, watering his eyes. Alcohol and vomit and piss. The sort of scent that came hand in hand with the area. His area.

It wasn't the best place for a panicker to live. Every screech of alarms had him wondering, every scream created horrific visuals, blood and gore materializing within him. And when he would tell, he would receive only tuts and shakes of heads. His mother blamed his entertainment choices. Palahniuk, Herbert and King. Slayer, Maiden and Metallica. Miller, Campbell and Alvarado.

He refused to believe this despite seeing the logic. The horror kept him sane, kept him away from the mediocrity that tainted life. The world was grey and his books, music and films coloured it all in stunning scarlets. The impossibility of it all was his comfort, the land void of realism his sanctuary.

It was this world that brought him true fear. Because in this world it wasn't a blonde bimbo fleeing in a bikini. It was real people, with real lives. It was guns instead of fangs. It was drive-bys and knifings. Murder and rape. Fraud and theft. And it could happen to anyone.

Johnny was living in constant fear that it could happen to him.

A sheltered child, really. Pushing twenty and a mommy's boy, living at home, doing his chores before being tucked up beneath Spiderman sheets. His chores. His chores his chores... his errands.

Like this one. A plastic carrier bag hung from one hand, its handle cutting through the tender flesh of his palm, leaving strong lines to faint as he lugged his purchases back to the apartment he shared with his precious parent. He wasn't sure why she needed milk and nine at night, but he wasn't one to question his mother's intentions. She hadn't been right lately... her requests were advancing into madness, her tantrums increasing in their regularity. He was worried about her.

Which was why he was here, rubber soles of Converse slapping to the grimy sidewalk, slipping ever so slightly over the slick of liquids and pastes he wanted no knowledge of. The dark and cold and fear penetrating as his mind attempted and failed to drown out the sounds.

Footsteps. Soft footsteps following his own, but the time was off, just slightly out of time, allowing him to hear the light-footed thumps. Each clap turned his stomach, tightening his muscles, forcing bile up to his throat. It was irrational... other people were walking about... anyone could have been at the shop, returning the same way.

That was why those sounds had been following him for the last fifteen minutes.

That was why it was so persistent, so insistent.

That was why they were getting closer.

Johnny could feel it now. The sound developing into something more, into a presence as he sensed something behind him. Just that unexplainable, subconscious thing, the knowledge of another human being stalking your tracks.

He tried to speed up, he honestly did. He didn't want to be noticed. He didn't want to offend anyone supposedly innocent by scarpering, but every instinct was telling him to drop the goods and run. He was about to. His fist was loosening, mind losing all track of logic and coherent thought as it over-whelmed him, but it was too late, oh too late...

The person over-took him.

And walked passed, not even glancing over her shoulder.

Her?

Simply a girl, a tiny one at that, blonde hair pulled into a pony-tail, hand on her bump.

He had the crap scared out of him by a pregnant teen.

Just.. just great.

This would be the stereotypical point where he breathed a sigh of relief, but he couldn't. He was too angry at himself. Too angry at his life, at his fears, at his loves and his hates. He had no life. And it would be so, so easy to blame his mother, but he couldn't. He just couldn't. Because all she did was love him and care for him... maybe a bit too much, but care all the same, and he couldn't hold that against h --

A drop.

A thump.

A flood of white leaking across the sidewalk of black as the bottle punctured, scarred and torn, merging to form his grey little word.

The handle had broken, flimsy plastic stretched to the limit before giving way and letting his load crash to the floor mid cascade of angry thoughts. He had hardly noticed.

A haughty huff of breath before he turned, bending down to grab the carton. He could carry it on its own, a bag wasn't exactly necessary. He could get another in the morning, his mother wouldn't mind. She was most likely asleep. Besides, he couldn't just leave the litter there like that.

A hand reached out for the leaking container and closed on thin air. He blinked. How miraculous. But he wasn't near the spillage anymore. He was being tugged back, small form dragged with such ridiculous ease as arms closed around his waist so tightly the breath was squeezed out of him, the bile returning in a fit of fear as realisation finally sunk through the awed surprise.

He was being dragged into the alleyway, and this time he had a feeling it wasn't a pregnant woman.

The darkness intensified, crowding in on every side, bleeding, thick and black against his skin, staining his clothes, and God... God... someone was behind him, moving in front of him, and the terror clenched his lungs and caught his breath as he was eye to eye with his captor.

Green eyes, ridiculously bright, so light with something so dark lingering behind them. There was a madness there, an insanity that had his blood boiling, and he couldn't find the strength to be ashamed of the whimper that left his slightly parted lips.

The proximity was deadly, the breath against his mouth more foul than the grotesque air around them. It entered his lungs and burnt at delicate tissue, and he struggled to keep himself from gagging, eyes wide as he simply stared. He knew he should have fought, squirmed, kicked, punched, bitten... anything.

But at the sensation of cool metal to his temple he couldn't do any of that. Brown widened impossibly, and it would have been almost comical, really, the way this mouth dropped open, if it wasn't for the fact he had a knife against his head.

"Do what I say and no one gets hurt," that awful breath growled, and he simply whimpered once again. He couldn't reply, or agree... but he couldn't struggle either.

Pain was aching through his body, that terrible cramping that had him wanting to cry and lose bladder control and punch something suitably solid all at once. This wasn't meant to happen. Not to him. It wasn't real. It was black and white and grey, not this blinding red flickering across his gaze in brutal flashes.

"Pl-please.. I don't have much. My wallet's.. wallet's in my pocket. At the back. Please..."

He was begging, pleading for his life, and shame was nonexistent, muffled by the most animalistic, primeval emotion he had every experienced, could have ever imagined. But at least his stutter was minimal. It brought the tiniest flash of confidence. If his voice could sound steadier than he felt maybe he would be okay.

Only that face was close, so, so close... and he could feel the smirk rather than see it, the cool steel almost caressing as that body pressed closer, soft and hard at the same time. "I don't want your money."

It was like a firework factory exploded within his brain, sending thoughts and images and visuals sparking through him. He was going to die. Oh God.. OhGodohGodohGod... What did he want? His life? His cell? His splattered milk carton?

"I don't have anything else..." was his choked, whispered reply, words just managing to struggle passed the teary lump forming low in his throat. Why was he still talking? He never spoke to people at the best of times, so why was he talking to this man who had him backed against an alley wall, shoulders cold to damp and mossy brick, body trembling ever so slightly, knees just waiting to buckle.

This time it took a while for that low gravel of a voice to respond. He was seemingly too busy allowing his dangerous gaze to rake Johnny head to toe.

He never thought a look could be so violating.

So painful.

"You have more than you think, sweetheart..."

Sweetheart. Sweetheart. A term of endearment. Though there's was nothing sweet and nothing from the heart about that tiny term. He winced as though it were the worst expletive, but it was nothing compared to the shock at the hardness against his thigh.

"No..." he whispered, tears welling up, threatening to spill violently as his knees gave way completely, and he was kept up by that awful body, sandwiched between it and the wall. But it was too late. Too late. No point in arguing.

His pants were yanked down by the time he started crying.

His thigh lifted by the time he had started wailing.

A hand over his mouth, blocking out the scream of searing agony, forcing the sound to reverberate through his body along with the pain.

There was nothing like that. Nothing. He had seen videos, of course... seen magazines... and it was always pleasure on the faces of men.

But this was nowhere near. This carried as much likeness to blissful sex as a potato. This was being used. This was being nothing more than a fist, a toy. This was his very humanity ripped away as blood dripped to the floor, melding with the gradual pour of rain.

It started in tiny trickles, growing to fat drops that stuck the black lengths of his companion's hair to his face, sliding obscenely over his bulging, sweaty body.

Yes, this was being used.

His pain was immense as he brought the other pleasure. The agony through his lower body nothing compared to his head, to his heart. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He wasn't meant to lose it like this. This was a world away from the loving caresses he had dreamt of, the raging passion that had been the stuff of teenage fantasies. This was messy and dirty and agonising and humiliating. Oh Lord.. what would he mother say? He'd stumble through the door without the requested milk, coated in his own clotting blood, soaking wet, a mess with a limp. And he'd have to tell her.

He would have to tell his mother he was raped in an alleyway.

Hot tears fell to the covering hand, hardly noticed with the sulphuric rain flowing down his face in thick rivers, clinging like the blood to pale flesh.

And then his fleshy gag was removed, and he knew he could scream and shout for help.

But he didn't.

Was there any point? With a blade to his thigh as sharp warning, with the streets silent and empty, only the deafening thud of his heart and the sickly, jerky breaths of the man inside of him.

So his lips fell slack, head resting against the wall, scalp grazing and scraping with the rocking movements as even the tears stopped.

His vision was blurry but it didn't need to be clear, for he wasn't exactly focusing. Just staring. At the spot over the groaning beast's shoulder as he felt muscles spasm against his.

No point.

None whatsoever.

So he was silent.

Even his thoughts stopped.

He had read about rape. Heard stories about it. It was always in the local news, especially in this area.

He heard about the victim's reports, how at the time it all seemed so clear. So blindingly clear. Deeper than reality. And it never left their minds.

But he was just here. His body, at least, and the pain in his lower half became so great that it seemed to fade completely. Cold becoming too hot and hot becoming too cold, both burning equally. Something must have clicked in his brain, something beautiful that just had him vacantly staring into hazel eyes.

It wasn't a realisation. It was just a natural reality. He didn't think 'oh, there's a man standing over there,' because it just was. He was just there, just watching the destruction of innocence, of life. It was just something in the world that happened.

Johnny couldn't find it in his head to be surprised, confused, angry. He assumed that he should have been quite mad to have a huge, burly man who could have clearly ripped his rapist to shreds with a little finger just watching.

But he couldn't be angry. Because of that expression. That sadness. It seemed to be a misery deeper than even his own. A serene aura of calm grief. It floated through the air, tainted the black light a soft blue, it was so thick it was almost audible, visible, tangible. It seeped through his heart and instilled such a sympathy that he wanted to cry again, but not for himself. For this dark stranger that was so silently heartbroken.

That hazel was locked on his own, water falling into his eyes, and he concentrated on it. Because however subconsciously he knew it would save him. In the flickers and shards of green and gold and brown was his sanctuary, and he curled up there and waited.

His wait wasn't long.

Johnny knew it was going to happen, a split second of mental warning before his insides were coated and he couldn't help but grimace. Semen and blood mixed within his body and flooded his fresh, gaping cuts. And he knew that if he didn't die of the shame or the blood loss it would be the disease being pumped into him as the animal within bit at the piercings of his lip.

And he couldn't bring himself to care. Shaking, his feet were dropped back to the floor as his punishment was so harshly removed, and he almost wished it hadn't as the pain sparked, gloriously white deep within, spider webbing through every inch of his crumpling form before he was on the ground, unnoticed sobs vibrating through his throat as dirt clung to his palms.

He could sense the irritation of his attacker by the hasty pull of clothing, by the yank of a fly and the spit of saliva landing dangerously close to his head. By the venomous command to 'shut the fuck up!' and the nudge of toes to his ribs. By the blade in his thigh, gorging a deep slit.

The shock prevented Johnny from noticing the wound. The pain was too great to increase any further, the burning of his lungs and the pounding of his heart too intense to deepen. But it didn't matter.

None of it mattered.

With an almost frightened glance around from feline eyes the pounding of running steps slapped through the rain soaked concrete, movements only followed by hazel eyes. A head was tilted, water cascading down his form, unnoticed, unacknowledged, a tranquil stone statue watching the speedy retreat. A tattooed arm was raised, long fingers clicked, a soft snap loud as the thump of shoes faded. A simple mark. A reminder. A glow following a blood stained body as a Post-It for the vampiric man stood beside the furiously shaking wreck of a being.

Johnny was gasping for struggled breaths by now, despite not needing them. His heart rate was slowing but his lungs didn't seem to notice, drawing in ragged chokes of oxygen. Eyes snapped open wide as the memory of his voyeur flicked into existence, and he watched, amazed by the calm radiating from the placid being. His dark angel.

A white handkerchief was a strange contrast to the consistent black as the man pulled it from his pocket, the folded square immediately soaked by the downpour, but he seemed quite pleased with this little happening as he sunk to his knees. Johnny, through his stinging tears, received his first good look of the saviour. Even in his state he could tell that he was beautiful. Even through the rain and salt water and pain and angst he could see the beauty of concerned lips and a drawn brow.

The movement was enough to knock him from his awe. It was worse than everything else. Worse than the act itself, worse than the withdraw, worse then the fall and the cut. It tore and opened and hurt so bad... so bad he was sobbing all over again as his back was pulled against a solid chest. He could feel the cut of muscles through three layers of soaked clothes, feel the indescribable warmth as his chilled body stole at it greedily.

For a moment he assumed the cloth was for his thigh, which was currently surrounding them with a crimson pool. His theory was smashed as with a start, soothing cool found the red of rips between his legs. It stung sharp needles and he tried to squirm away, but the arms were too strong, the press too firm, and he simply slumped. He had been dominated already tonight, he could submit once again.

After what he had been through there should have been fear. But only safety lingered as his eyes fluttered closed, only warmth as everything else melted away, leaving him content, the tears disappearing, his sobs stilling and his breathing become more shallow until it faded out.

He knew he was dying, but he didn't particularly mind.

His mum would have to get the milk tomorrow, no big deal.

Everything would be alright.

He was cuddled against a stranger in a dark alley with his pants around his ankles and his body bleeding and bruised as the Heaven's roared.

But those arms were so strong, and that gaze so burningly intense, and those lips so soft as they met his sweaty forehead...

And suddenly none of it mattered. Not at all.

With the tender anguish of a bereaved lover the smiling body was laid to the stained ground. The wisdom and warmth of clear eyes drowned in the flood, hazel melting to black, hands coated in scarlet as all compassion slipped away with the last, soft breath on the billowing wind.

Let the hunt begin.

x_zeitgeist @ 2006-11-01T14:43:00

2006-11-01T14:43:33Z

Title: Death Is In Love With Us (2/4)
Pairing: Matt/Everyone.
Rating: NC-17.
Summary: Four stories of Death for the 31st.
Genre: AU. Deadly.
Dedication: xmegalomaniac for being absolutely freaking kickass and being my Matt/Brian inspiration. talia_mole for being my gigglesnort buddy. xxlock_n_loadxx for leaving me the best comment ever. Everyone who comments for making my ego explode.
Disclaimer: I don't even own the damn title OR lyrics. Death Is In Love With Us by HIM and We Are All On Drugs by Weezer.

Prologue.

Part One.

'Cause there's no one you can trust,
When you're on drugs,
And the best of your days,
Will all vanish in the haze.

Act II.

Death can play a large part...

The room was misted. The faint humidity of scented smoke clung to whatever came into its flowing path. Curtains and carpets and sofas and walls were laced with the medicinal properties of the roll-ups being lazily lit.

A hazy sort of smile crept across the plump of full lips as Brian reclined on his parent's sofa, kicking off his shoes and pushing off his socks as he leant back with a relaxed sigh.

The essence of the burnt plant floated through his system, numbing, sliding through his lungs and through his veins, hitching a ride on his blood vessels, exiting through his nose in a smooth plume of grey.

People were slumped out around him, lining white powder on the polished surface of an expensive coffee table, shooting up across Laura Ashley armchairs. And Brian delighted in it. Adored the demolishing of the family living room he had grown to detest. Slowly slowly the sickening middle-class nicety of it all was drenched out by his drugged-up acquaintances. They weren't even that. Simply people that supplied him. And boy, was he grateful...

But he wasn't interested in the stupidity of his current company. He was more intrigued by the dark shadow in the corner.

Now, he wasn't sure if it was just a shadow... or something else. You never could be quite sure with the shit polluting his body. But it was a very interesting shadow all the same. Every now and then it shifted, and he could have sworn he saw a face. A very attractive face, in fact. He wasn't surprised, really. These people around him invited whoever they wanted to these little meetings, and Brian's attitude was always the more the merrier.

Especially when they were this fucking hot.

Because oh yes, this shadow creature stepped out of his corner, and the thoroughly high teen could only smirk. He was right. Very intentionally, he allowed his chocolate gaze to travel from the slicked back hair, passed the mirrored shades and pierced lip, languorously over the muscled body, right to the toes of black boots.

Rawr.

From the way this Shadow was staring at him, the feelings were obviously quite mutual. And why wouldn't they be? Brian was a hot piece of ass and absolutely knew it.

So when he was offered a syringe full of liquid goodness, he took it without hesitation, pushing himself into a sitting position as he held the device between his fingers, thumb to the plunger. With the most minimal amount of energy he was on his feet, the flash of a meaningful look towards his unidentified guest before he swaggered out of the room without a word, feeling that gaze burn through him. Feeling the footsteps tracing his own.

Once again, he was right. He always was.

His bedroom door was pushed open, left open, as he walked to his bed, slowing his strides as he crawled on to his mattress, careful to keep the needle up and away from his body as he shifted onto his back luxuriously.

Neither of he men acknowledged the mess littering the room. It was simply the abode of a typical eighteen year old, clothes clinging to every surface, beer cans hiding inconspicuously behind strangely pristine textbooks. In fact, the only thing remotely cared for was the guitar in the corner. Black lacquer shone with the orange light piercing through the slit of navy curtains, the instrument faintly incandescent with the glow of the outside street lamp permeating the evening dark.

But Brian didn't particularly care about such trivialities as a smirk crept over his lips once again, thighs parted like the wanton little whore he was, head cocked in an inviting manner as his lower lip was caught between his teeth.

He rejoiced within as the other crawled across the bed, noticing something distinctly predatory, something distinctly fucking sexy about the action before the stranger was holding himself over Brian's smaller frame.

The teen had never exactly been the 'smaller' one in an encounter, perfectly equipped with his own bulk of lithe muscle, but this guy was huge. His head swum, and he had a feeling it wasn't just the drugs as his gaze swept over the strong body so close to his own.

"What's your name?" he asked, voice husky from the inhaled substance, though clearly the other wasn't to reply. An eerie silence floated between them, only punctuated by Brian's soft breaths. He didn't seem to notice that the chest above him wasn't moving, that nothing was passing those full lips. And he didn't particularly care as the warmth of a hand slid down his chest, oh so slowly, so soft he almost didn't notice it. It was a butterfly touch that had his skin tingling hotly beneath the tight material of his white tee. He had never been touched quite like that. It peeled the breath from his lungs.

He could see his own reflection in his anonymous companion's shades, raising his unoccupied hand to remove the accessory. Perhaps he was a little surprised that he wasn't stopped, that his movements weren't halted. The automatic assumption was that the strong, silent type didn't appreciate the tiny display of control. But no complaint was made, and Brian watched with a certain curiosity as those eyes were revealed.

Those eyes.

The budding guitarist wasn't quite sure he could breathe as brown met hazel. The serene intensity pierced through his whole form, shocking him, freezing him into utter submission. The high from the burning gaze was beyond anything a chemical could provide as he was left trembling. Left wanting. Desperately.

Lips hovered against lips, hardly touching, just feeling, wallowing in the electric tingle of not-quite-there sensation. Over-powering hands and lips ghosted across excited flesh, the thrill immeasurable, eyes locked even as he was so exhilaratingly dominated. A tie pulled tight around his bicep, a little prick followed by a not-so-little prick as a fly was unzipped.

His hands were free only to grip at the sheets of his bed, knuckles white as bone, a thumb to a plunger and a hand in his boxers as the breathiest sound left him. It was never a sound he would usually make. Either silent or manly with deep groans and moans, this beast had brought him to his lowest point to enable the furious high currently flushing his cheeks a faint pink.

Over-stimulated, over-sensitive, drugs pumped directly into his blood stream as he was worked into oblivion, Brian was near tears with the insanity of the rush. Hips bucking, eyes glittering, body writhing, he had never whimpered so much in his life.

He wouldn't ever again.

He knew that.

He was right.

He always was.

Too much, all too much, too much... Liquid annihilation, the force of a mind-numbing release, his heart pounding before taking the most dramatic decline. Muscle spasms brought on by the multiple attack to his nerves, heroin and ecstasy, two strong hands bringing the most delightful end as his breathing became the hardest thing in the world. Mouth dry, the momentary blood rush seemed to stall.

His shadowed stranger simply sighed, the first sound he had uttered, an impressive feat considering the lack of breath. Head tilted, his hands were removed, eyes locked even as the pupils across from his became mere pinpoints, previously ruby lips taking a dramatic change to blue. Sticky white was licked from his hand, the action almost absent, serene as he frowned. Completely patient, he remained kneeling, limbs either side of slim hips as he waited.

Then, at last, a final brush of cold lips to cold lips and he stood, seemingly satisfied as he walked away.

Doors were carefully closed, a jacket picked up, the pad of footsteps and the brisk brush of a stoic form from the room unnoticed to the oblivious friends in the dead man's house.

x_zeitgeist @ 2006-10-31T15:40:00

2006-10-31T15:43:21Z

Title: Death Is In Love With Us (1/4)
Pairing: Matt/Everyone.
Rating: NC-17.
Summary: Four stories of Death for the 31st.
Genre: AU. Deadly.
Dedication: xmegalomaniac for being absolutely freaking kickass and being my Matt/Brian inspiration. talia_mole for being my gigglesnort buddy. Everyone who comments for making my ego explode.
Disclaimer: I don't even own the damn title OR lyrics. Death Is In Love With Us by HIM and Disenchanted by MCR.

I know it hurts too much,
I know that you're scared,
I know you're running out of trust,
Wishing you were dead.

Prologue.

Death. Throughout life and history it is considered a negative. The end. Ripping a soul from a lively form and damning this thing known as life. Associated with evil, black, dark, misery, sadness, grief.

Pain. Illness.

These are all things wrongly associated with death.

Death is release and relief. It is the thing that ends the pain and the misery. It is the ultimate force, the most noble of ancient rights.

Everyone dies. Whether rich or poor, brave or cowardly, evil or innocent. In the end it is the thing than links us all and makes us human.

It is the thing which makes us live this life to the full. If we had no knowledge of the end would we have the ability to live the way we do? To attempt to do all we do?

In a world of such knowledge and technology it is our only great mystery. When thought of deeper it is the strangest thing. An instant end. The destruction of cells and the sudden ending of every organ that has been working continually for months to years. It is the darkest journey, for no one has lived to tell the tale.

People don't react well to what they don't know. They fear it. Which is why we so irrationally fear the end of this Hell.

The Krishna monks believe Earth is our prison for sins we have committed and that death is our relief.

The Latter-Day Saints believe this is merely a trial where we are pained and tested to the tether of our strengths, and that death is our reward.

Death is our only constant. Our only positive. Bringing life is all well and good, but life can only bring pain, and death can bare the cure.

For those it leaves behind it hurts. For those it takes with it, it blesses.

I hate the ending myself,
But it started with an alright scene.

Act One.

Death can be gentle…...

The sun is out, and Jimmy smiles. The glow reflects from everything, the glass panes of shop windows and the small, metallic tables lining the sidewalk. It didn't burn his flesh and soak his shirt as it should. It warmed him from the inside out, causing the shades of steely blue and grey throughout his gaze to sparkle. That beautiful autumn light that glowed like a summer day but held all the warm comfort of a winter before a fire.

The street was pristine, a sweeper brushing leaves to the side, the crisp sound of bristles to tarmac dragging dried and burnished plantation into a pile to be disposed of.

Everything was coloured a soft grey, an off-white as he walked. The road was busy and noisy, but that didn't distract from the bustle of people shopping and eating.

This whole side of the road was packed with tiny coffee shops, bistros and cafes, delis and fast-food joints. Tiny little Italian restaurants settled alongside French cappuccino houses. The scent of fresh coffee and hot pastries flooded his senses in the best possible way, tingling at his nose and making his mouth water. But he didn't have long to wait. A small brown paper bag was held in one hand, the top folded down, containing the most exquisite delicacy to have touched human lips.

Twinkies.

Jimmy near drooled at the mere thought of tucking into his sweet treat. Icing and sponge and cream sticking to his lips, flooding his mouth...

And then he thought of something else flooding his mouth.

Because God.

He froze in his steps for the briefest moment, one leg in front of the other as his gaze fell to the solitary male. Unlike the rest of the buildings, the one up ahead only had one soul sitting out front, staring pensively at the coffee before him.

Jimmy could only catch his side profile from the way his head was bowed, but that was quite enough to figure out that the creature was gorgeous. Beyond that. Astronomically more than gorgeous.

Strong brow, strong nose, strong jaw contrasting with the boyish cuteness of a dimpled chin and pink lips. And that was just from this distance. The only thing tearing him from his position rooted firmly to the spot was his desire to get closer, to see more of the hunk of a man stirring his beverage with a languid sensuality.

Sensual. That was the right word. Sexuality flowed from his every pore, intoxicating the food-scented air with a heady gentility.

How unfortuitous was it that at this exact moment Jimmy's legs forgot how to move. The whole process of placing one limb in front of the other became an alien act that he had no knowledge of whatsoever. Why the fuck did walking have to be so damn complicated? Didn't the inventor know that certain people couldn't figure the dynamics of the whole dastardly ordeal?

Slightly shakily, he managed to lift his foot from the pavement, and voila, something in his head clicked into place and movement once again became a possibility. Wobbly, stiff, and feeling far too much like a blushing teen for a twenty-four year old man, Jimmy walked closer to the beast that had so easily caught his attention.

His large form was clad entirely in black, and Jimmy thought it suited him. Dark hair slicked back, flesh only slightly tanned, and he could have sworn he saw a trace of ink peeking out from the cuff of his shirt.

The nervous man's stomach fluttered uncontrollably as butterflies began some form of complex gymnastics. His mouth dry, his eyes unblinking as he analysed the male. There was something about him... something aside from the beauty that was so obvious. Something in the very air around him, in the way he sat alone, gaze never moving from his drink. There was a.. sadness. Regret? Jimmy wanted to know why so desperately, but by the time flecks of courage began to form he was at the road he had to cross.

The zebra crossing was directly across from the object of his affections, and Jimmy cursed every God and beast he could think of. But, of course, cross he did, hating having to turn his back on the Adonis.

He could hardly bare it. His mouth was watering for something different, his skin tingling, and he couldn't help but crane his neck and look over his shoulder.

And fuck. Fuckity fuck McFuckton... He was looking back. Smiling. Dimples framing those curved lips.

Smash.

Metal thumped into muscle and bone, nasty cracks ringing out, a slump and a flood of scarlet as the sack of flesh hit the floor.

His penultimate thought was that his Twinkies were crushed.

His very last were that his love's eyes were hazel.

And as screams rung out and shoes slapped to flooring in a rush to get to him, the vehicle that had brought his inevitable end screeched to a halt, a door opened, a man near falling out, brow already laced with sweat as his hands shook.

But none of the gathering crowd felt for that man. That man whose life had come to an end in a very different way to the bleeding shell sprawled awkwardly on the stained road.

The perfection of the day was tarnished. A chill replacing the warmth. Steel blue paling, glassy and fixed on the now clouded sky.

Panic ensued, women screamed and dragged their children away as gasps floated on the faint breeze carrying last breaths. Shoppers were trembling, all except for one. A coffee was discarded, left to cool, payment placed on the table without a word as with perfect grace the man stood. Slowly, in no hurry, as though he had all the time this world had to offer, the black jacket resting neatly over the back of his chair was plucked off and slipped on to his body.

Cutting easily through the shocked crowd with long, strong strides of long, strong legs, he zipped the black leather garment as he came to a halt at the spread feed of the horizontal male.

Jimmy was still breathing. He could feel it. See the jerky, wheezing rise and fall. No one noticed as the last thing the bleeding man saw knelt down beside him, one knee raised and the other to the road, blood creeping to the knee of his jeans. Maybe they were too shocked, maybe they just failed to see.

A frown tugged at his lips, brow furrowed, that bright smile he had so briefly flashed now long gone in the sadness that flooded him from his head to his toes. That intense gaze that had once been devoted to his coffee now had its full attention on the broken form to his side. All he could do was reach out, a strong hand surprisingly gentle as serene fingers traveled down a grazed cheek.

The rise-fall pattern stopped.

The blood turned cold.

And Death stood and moved away as the blare and flash of an ambulance crawled through the startled crowd, knowing it was too late, and simply hanging his head.

A Train

2006-10-30T19:23:16Z

Title: A Train.
Pairing: Brian Haner Jr. feat. Matt Sanders.
Rating: PG-13 for language.
Summary: A perfect display of monosyllablism. Inspired by a scene in Kevin Brooke's The Road of the Dead.
Genre: Nothingness.
Dedications: Kevin for being a live changing author.

The floor starts to move beneath my feet as soon as the doors slide shut behind me with that low, familiar hiss of hydraulics. It's a smooth movement followed by a sharp jerk that has my hand grabbing for one of the vertical bars as the need to keep balanced becomes apparent.

With an absent glance to my right I watch the grey world slide passed in a haze of dreary misery. It's such a cliché, really, but it fits. England. Not the brightest place.

I guess that can't really be said, or thought... Some of it was beautiful, judging by the pictures I had seen. The shows of glossy over-dramatics on television. Sprawling fields, the legendary moors, bright beaches conjuring images of ice creams and striped deck chairs. Only this was London, and London was a world away from such delightful visuals.

Grey. Concrete. Rain. Wind. Cosmopolitan and multi-cultural it definitely was, but the exotic faces all carried that same look. That dead look. The look that mechanical monotony inevitably brought.

But I'm not here for pondering the depression of this tiny little isle. I'm here to ponder the depression of the man I had to start hunting for.

The train was long -- I hadn't been able to see either end of it from my spot on the platform -- so making my way from the centre to one end took a while, with hands jammed in my pockets, shrugging deeper into the black warmth of my jacket. But he wasn't there. Because this couldn't be easy, could it? No. I have to work my way up the other end, shuffling sideways through aisles, apologising half-heartedly under my breath as I crash into the dwindling few.

Passengers were hastily stuffing their over-sized luggage into over-head compartments. It wasn't busy, ergo it wasn't crowded, but it was tricky to find two seats in a row. Tricky to find a face in the midst.

Except his face I knew I could spot. I had watched it evolve, watched it leave teenage awkwardness, morph into the handsome male plastered across the walls of fans across the world. I had analysed strong features in their sleeping state, mirrored smirks from across a stage. So the only thing keeping me from finding my friend was the sheer length of the transportation.

And despite my intimate knowledge, if it wasn't for that damn hat he always insisted on wearing I probably wouldn't have noticed him. In the corner, head bowed, gaze so darkly fixed on the plastic table stretched between the seats. Synyster fuckin' Gates didn't sit like that, arms folded, chin tucked, attempting to hide from the bustling world. But Brian Haner Junior did... maybe that was what knocked me. Maybe.

The only thing that drew my attention to the frowning male was that the seats around him were empty despite people searching for a spot to park their smart behinds. Maybe they could sense what I could sense. Black suffocating the grey already surrounding, melting away at the generic world with something worse, something fiercely sad. So I was the only one to stop, watching him as a smile twitched at my lips. "Anyone sitting here?"

Brian just looked up.
He caught my gaze.
He didn't reply.

I take that as a no, of course, perfectly aware that his gaze was following me as I sat in the seat across from him, the only sound being the slight ruffling and rubbing of my clothes. His eyes were burning through me incredulously, and I knew what he felt. I generally wasn't good with the whole empathy thing, but with Brian it was simple. I read him like a book. It wasn't exactly empathy, though. I just knew him. Better than most, less than others. But it was enough.

I know he felt that frustration from when we were younger. When he was in a mood and everyone would avoid him like the plague, except me. I'd grin and stride after him, chiding him, coaxing out some sort of reaction just to stop the fucker brooding. He knew it was for his own good, but it didn't mean he had to like it.

He didn't like it now.

So I just flash him a grin. That trademark grin. All twinkling hazel and dimples before I look away, staring out of the window and wallowing in his silence, soaking up the black he was emitting.

"Shit," he said.

I couldn't help but snort, turning my head to simply look at him. He had unfolded, ever so slightly, but he was still guarded. So for the time being I broke the lock of eyes and busied myself with the broad buildings rolling by, towering above the people crawling, miniscule, below. This was what I hated about these trains. They always managed to be high up. Not that I had an exact fear of heights... it just irritated me. I wanted to see close up. I wanted to speed passed, watching others while they can't get the merest glimpse of me, aside from a frantically blurred blob of pink and black, perhaps. But my annoyance dies out when it all levels out, spilling brown into grey, people already folding their papers and pushing their selves to their feet as we reached the next stop, the train hissing to a shuddering halt.

"You can get off here."

It wasn't a question, not even a suggestion. He ordered me, and I had to smirk. He had said two things since I had been on this beast; a cuss and an order. Turns out the whole event hadn't changed him too much after all. Being so used to this behaviour prevented me from being offended, and absolutely stalled me from doing as he said.

I never obeyed him.

He never learnt.

The doors opened, people flooded on and out, a mass of dull shades. It started raining as soon as the train started moving again. Little flecks that transformed into sheets of steel causing the ground to reflect the meek light.

He liked to talk about the rain. I remember that much.

“It’s not God crying because of something bad we’ve done, Shads. It’s Him pissing on us because we’re all bastards.”

I remained exactly where I was, stubbornly seated, smiling at that little anecdote as I felt him sigh. Turning to him, I threw him a smile, knowing just how much it would annoy him. It had the intended effect, pierced nose wrinkling in distaste as he pulled his cigarettes from his pocket.

An incline of my head towards the black and white sign was all it took to have him glaring at me. "Can't do that. No smoking."

Avoiding my eyes, I watched him with vague amusement as the box of Marlboros were stuffed back into his pants, a lift of his hips in assistance before he slumped down once again, brow drawn. Brian shook his head before looking out of the window, soaked people merging into soaked homes.

"Shit," he said.

A Psychological Analysis

2006-10-28T16:28:54Z

Title: A Psychological Analysis.
Pairing: M Shadows/Davey Havok.
Rating: NC-17.
Summary: Mauve, lavender, abuse. A strange little clinical take on a cliche, gooey-eyes-across-a-table situation.
Genre: Uhm.
Dedications: Beff, who requested such a thing, and always makes me smile.

It is believed in psychological circles that word association is the key to a person's subconscious. The hidden mind that only reared its ugly little head in the most animalistic, primeval thoughts and actions of a human form.

So it wasn't exactly a childish game played at dinner parties with bottles of wine and too many peanuts. Well, it was.. but its meaning was deeper. Somehow.

Take, for example, the word 'abuse'. To many different souls it conjures many different images. To some it is an innocent kink, to others it can mean the end of a life. It displays a lot about the character, the psyche of a person... whether paranoia or perversion.

As Davey Havok sat at the circular table at the VMAs after show party, he thought the burly man across from him was abusing his alcohol. Taking deep, hearty gulps of the fizzing beer that made his Adam's apple bob in the most delicious manner, the devouring of the liquid almost animalistic.

Whereas the mildly inebriated vocalist thought that the feminine male glancing at him every so often with a perfectly shaped brow quirked had majorly abused the mauve shadow swept across his eyelids.

It was a typical case. Macho, alpha-male ignorance faced with the more modern breed of oestrogen infused testosterone. A perfect study of college level, perhaps.

The noise was riotous, thumps of RnB beats followed with tunes the particular table found more familiar. Matt even thought he heard a few blasts of Velvet Revolver, but perhaps that was wishful thinking. That wasn't the sort of stuff they played here.

Despite his victory, he felt phenomenally out of place. While his band mates jeered and drunk with various bimbos they had scraped from the very bottom of the barrel, he was left brooding, knocking back everything from Budweiser to Guinness as he wondered who his girlfriend could be screwing.

Of course, she was the perfectly matrimonious sort, but he was a possessive fellow who often fell into an angry form of paranoia. A paranoia that seemed to melt away with each mouthful of alcohol and each flutter of false lashes from across the table.

Davey felt equally out of place. But then again, this was nothing new. Caught somewhere between enigma and obvious pride for whatever he was, he had always dithered on the faded lines. Always gone for the little challenges in life rather than dwelling on the available luxuries. So as he casually brushed away swooning fans with practiced ease, his gaze seemed to follow the most unattainable beast in the room.

Another textbook incident. Explained in Layman’s terms as 'wanting what you can't have'. Only, the smaller male was rather adamant on getting whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it. So with flashes of lashes and pouts of pierced lips, he internally rejoiced as the looks were slowly but surely returned as the body-builder became drunker and drunker with each passing minute.

Shadows handled his alcohol well, thankfully. He wasn't the sort to stumble or slur. His mind was numbed rather than his motor-functions, but perhaps that was all the more dangerous. So what if he returned the sultry glances? So what if the man across from him was, despite the liberally applied lilac, completely, utterly male? He really didn't care.

Hell, if his band could get Best New Artist after seven years, he could smirk at whoever he wanted!

So not a second thought to the various forms of abuse taking place was given as he stood under the pretences of going to the bathroom. Not even a third passed as he made sure Davey's gaze was on him as he strode out of the room.

Another form of psychology was in play here - complete disabandonment. Common in alcohol cases, especially with two people of such stereotypical nature.

Clothes to sticky flesh, muscled backs to chilled tile, first touches and greetings were made as zippers were tugged. Such similarities always linger despite differences; muscle to muscle, pierced lips to pierced lips, each eager, each fighting for some sort of dominance while the larger ultimately prevailed.

Cubicle doors were clumsily shut as soft sounds rang through the silence along with the metallic clink of belts to floors. Shirts were dropped as inked bodies melded, a thigh to a hip, a light push and Davey was braced between a hard wall and a harder body, lusty breaths and gazes locked as they had been all evening, lips licked as manicured nails scraped tanned skin.

Suction. Wet. Digits lowered, the merest slick of hasty preparation for a vicious, needy entrance. Blood trickled down chins in an attempt to hide a cry coerced by more than generous proportions, just to get off, just to sober up as manly cologne clashed with the faint scent of lavender, orange mingling with beer as tongues tangled to muffle low sounds.

Skin damp and prickling as hands wandered and pumped greedily in time with hips, body heat shared to levels of combustion as pain turned to pleasure turned to pure, blinding ecstasy. Tingles and shivers and bowed forms, building bliss, steadily coiling behind tight stomachs as muscles twitched. Panting for breath as hearts strained to flood the forms with enough blood, enough oxygen to pull them through the perfect exertion. Before it was over, a high cry contrasting with a low growl before clothes were returned to satiated bodies, steps ringing out as they entered the room side by side with knowing smirks.

Abuse. It isn't always violent and brutal. It is simply use. Careless want followed by the inevitable discard.

But sometimes, abuse is fucking fun.

A Love Affair With Healthy Eating

2006-10-22T14:59:21Z

Title: A Love Affair With Healthy Eating
Pairing: Brendon/Parsnip.
Rating: NC-17.
Summary: Pink, rose, bonking... A request. Jon and Ryan have wonderful ideas when they're smashed and faced with a sleeping and rather randy teen.
Genre: Idiotic humour/smut.
Dedications: Sam. This is all for you, bebe!

Drunk teenagers were a funny little thing. Their minds didn't quite work like normal minds. Ryan wasn't sure if it was something to do with chemical reactions or simple genius, and right now, with about half a bottle of vodka in his young and innocent system, he didn't really care.

In fact, the only thing he cared about was a giggling Jon by his side, the parsnip in his hand, and a sleeping, rather naked, Brendon Urie moaning and writhing about.

Brendon's dreams were notorious. Infamous, even. As soon as they got on tour it would begin. The bunk would creak as his body moved, and as curiosity got the better of them his fellow band mates would blink and laugh at their horny vocalist. Bless 'im.

It wasn't the action itself they found so amusing. It was the various names he would call out.

Mostly involving vegetables.

Code, perhaps? Maybe nicknames? Code, was more likely. Brendon was perfectly aware of his little dreams. The snickering in the mornings was all he needed to alert him of it. So he, being the intelligent teen he was, saved Ryan the blushes and reprogrammed his mind.

So now, with a particularly graphic dream about dear Parsnip, the sheets sticking to his wanton, sweating body, his guitarist and his bassist hovered over him with dorky, inhebriated grins.

"RyRo! We can'ts do it without.. like.. sticky stuff," Jon managed to slur, the thought suddenly coming to him as he braced his weight against the top bunk, still swaying ever so slightly.

The smaller male blinked, reaching up to scratch his head. "Sticky stuff?" he asked. And yes, indeed, so many S's were a bad idea with so much alcohol in one's system.

"Like, to help it, yanno, in."

Oh, the dastardly drunken minds had such warped little plans.. Who knew where such images popped up from? Who particularly wanted to know?

"Oh!" Ryan exclaimed softly, big eyes blinking widely as realisation slowly sunk in like a hand through peanut butter. "..oh.."

The vegetable was dropped with a gentle thump to the carpetted floor as he crawled over, hands and knees, to the draw by his bunk. Pulling it open jerkily with a slight struggle, he rifled through the contents before weilding a bottle with a victorious 'aha!'.

Being the feminine lil wannabe model he was, Ryan knew the key to good skin care. No way was he going to be a wrinkly old fool any time soon with his magical regime. Every night, right before bed - if he was sober enough to remember - he would moistourise. Lightly scented, of course.

Crawling back to his now whimpering friend, he usncrewed the plastic lid, the essence of rose immediately hitting his nostrils. With a dopey little grin he inhaled deeply, the floral scent flooding his lungs as he squirted some of the faintly pink gunk into his palm.

"Right, ums.. where is it?"

"Where's what?" Jon blinked stupidly, glazed expression indicating that he had been rather rudely knocked from space.

"The pointy thing!"

"..pointy thing?"

"Veggie. Eat it. Num nums. Shaped like a warped dick!"

"..oh! .. oh." Jon blinked, Ryan watching with a confused expression as he reached into the bunk, gently prying the vegetable from the sleeping Brendon's hands. He seemed to have taken to sucking it rather lewdly..

"Ew.. saliva.." He chucked the vegetable at Ryan, the boy only barely dodging it - if getting hit in the forehead instead of the eye could be considered dodging it - before picking it up with a high pitched and rather hysterical giggle.

Consequences were non-existant right now, the only thought in his mind being coating the pointy end of the pale vegetable with the cool cream. Of course Panic! At The Disco had a ready supply of parsnips on their tour bus. How dare you question such a thing.

What with Spencer on a wild health kick, vegetables were falling out of every fucking cupboard in existance.

It was highly amusing, maybe slightly irritating, but on this horny little evening, proved particularly useful.

"Uhm.. right.." Ryan blinked, cocking his head at the slick plant. It became quite obvious that their plan perhaps had a few floors.

Like, how the fuck were they gonna do this?

"What I say.." Jon said, stumbling slightly, waving his finger about in an imitation of wisdom. "Is.. I hold the muzzah fucksa down... and yous put it in 'im!"

"Won't that hurt?" he asked, a brief moment of concerned clarity as the stared at the rather sizeable phallic.

Jon just stared at the now panting vocalist. "From the stuff I've found under his bed, he's had bigger in him," he sighed, as if recalling a moment of deep mental scarring.

Bad times. Bad, bad, informative times..

But then, just like that, the half-unconscious and gleeful drunk was back and crawling onto the bunk, only hitting his head half a dozen times, pinning Brendon's squirming hips down gently.

It wasn't morally wrong. Not really. Especially after the things put in Ryan's sleeping mouth... or Jon's sandwiches...

Latex did not go down easily, let me tell you that.

So it was with easy joy that Ryan wriggled across, positioning the vegetable -- or, thinking about it, was it a fruit? -- and cooing sweet words at his besotted friend.

"Ungh.. urgh.. Parsnip.. so tight.. want you.. there..."

Snickering and giggling rung out, before one, two, three... with one easy slide of his wrist he pushed the object passed the tight ring of muscle, biting his lip at the welcoming tug drawing it in, at the breathy little moan from full lips..

Ryan panicked for a moment as those long lashes fluttered, his hand trembling slightly at the thick base of the parsnip, his own eyes wide, before thank fucking God, the male settled back to sleep with a low purr, thighs parting instinctively.

"Yes.."

Despite Ryan's wide eyed, rabbit-in-headlights expression, Jon looked even more shocked. Swallowing thickly, he seemed to sober up in moments, scrambling from the bed awkwardly. "I.. .. I need to go to the bathroom," he squeaked, running off, leaving the boy all on his lonesone with a parsnip up his best friend's ass...

... tour got far too boring. Far, far too boring.. But luckily, bonking friends with a rose scented, pink coated parsnip solved it all.

Road Rage

2006-10-22T13:07:51Z

Title: Road Rage.
Pairing: Matt/Brian.
Rating: R.
Summary: Road rage effects the best of us...
Genre: Humour.
Dedications: My girls.

"Fuck it. FUCK IT, FUCK IT, FUCK IT."

Road rage. It damaged the very best of people. The kindest, sweetest souls could see red when jammed between so many honking, steaming vehicles.

So imagine what happened when an asshole got in a jam.

So imagine what would happen if a whole car full of assholes got stuck, engine running, though going absolutely no-where.

This is where we find five souls. Swearing like the best of them, beating fists to black plastic dashboards, scowls set over lipsticked lips.

Make-up was melting from faces in the suffocating heat. You know that sort of heat. In a closed top auto, just entering LA in the middle of summer. You could see the steam rising off the sticky, smelly forms. Urgh.

The whole situation reminded her of a farm as she watched her friends. Four other girls throwing complete utter tantrums - mostly at her. How dare they demand she put the roof back! Yeah, it was a convertible. But this was LA. The land of smog and pollution and did they really want that crap flooding their lungs? Well she didn't want it in hers.

"We either die from suffocation right now or pollution in ten years time," Rae commented with the usual wisdom, flicking Kay over the head with a rolled up magazine.

"NO," she yelled in return, near head-butting the wheel in frustration. In fact, she did. Ah. Now she was pissed with a bruised forehead... "Just think of all that sticky, black crap coating the lining of your youthful lungs!"

Zoe narrowed her eyes. "Kay.. .. you smoke."

"That's besides the point!" she shrieked at her friend. She probably would have stomped her foot if the accelerator wasn't directly beneath it.

They were all hot, oxygen deprived, mildly dehydrated, and dying for a fag. Add to that the general excitement/hysteria of the concert they were being so cruelly kept from, and it wasn't a very pretty mix.

"Avenged Sevenfold.. are probably playing right now.." Cath said wistfully, staring out of the window. "On stage.. all.. sweaty and screaming.."

The group of girls sighed as one. An airy sort of fangirl sigh. It would have been quite pretty and angels-in-Grease-esque if it wasn't for the general state of them.

Indeed, they probably were. Impossibly late, jetlagged, and confused as fuck by this magical contraption that had everything backwards -- dumbass American cars -- they had missed the first half of the 15 hour extravaganza they had flown across the world for.

So many metal bands, so little time.. autograph books were packed along with more digital cameras than you could shake a stick at, but alas.. they were missing the band they had mainly travelled for.

"Why the fuck are they moving faster than us?" Sam demanded, lips set in a firm pout as she glared out at the lane beside them. It was moving at a snail's pace, and Kay had to crane her neck from her position at the far side. Unfortunately, this moment of distraction was all Zoe needed to lean over and push the button, the roof rolling up with a steady little hum and a rush of hot air.

They all took a long, deep breath before spluttering profusely. Hahaha.. in their face..

As everyone was busy cursing and wafting at their faces, Cath was the only one looking to the new vehicle that had just pulled up. Lipstick red, glimmering hazily in the violently beating sun, a solitary man sat in the driver's seat. All ripped muscle and slicked back hair and...

"OH EM GEE."

The group of girls blinked at the choked little yell, turning as one to see Cath, only to slowly, ever so slowly follow her gaze...

"Uh, ladies.. don't think we're missing Avenged Sevenfold..."

Ahh, Rae was the only one currently able to speak, the others simply staring, gob-smacked, at a very pissed off M Shadows.

They couldn't say a word. I mean, what could they say? This wasn't the exact social situation one prepared for. Unless you were Kay, who imagined such things while 'doing psychics homework'. But then again, she was just too pussy to speak.

Plus, he was looking rather terrifying at this glorious moment in time... Hands gripped the leathered steering wheel so tightly that broad knuckles were stained white. A tendon in his temple visibly pulsed, the vein in his neck that popped out while he sung now throbbing angrily. Eep.

6'2", 230 pounds of solid, sexy muscle.. and five tiny British girls. No.. no, silence was definitely better.

So they did what any bored group of stunned fangirls would do. They stared. And much to either their dismay or delight he didn't much seem to notice.

Hazel gaze was dark, fixed straight ahead, sweat prickling across his forehead, grey wife-beater sticking to his body. Biceps flexed, shoulders rolled. They were all familiar actions.

After all, road rage affected the best of them.

He was shifting in his seat slightly, tipping his head to the side, and God, the girls were near panting.

At the heat, of course...

Cath was about to make a comment -- a delicious observation that this sight could be translated differently, especially with the aid of their warped little minds -- when Matt threw his head back with a low, guttural growl, silencing her. Uh-oh. Was he going to explode? Jump out of the car and start flinging vehicles out of the way, shrieking 'you won't like me when I'm angry?' It was a high possibility with the way his lower body seemed to move forward in his seat, shoulders blades pressing ever harder to the slick leather, hard enough for them to hear the creak.

In fact, at this little display, a weary Zoe was about to ask if he was okay, when another idol came into view.

An idol wiping his mouth and sitting up straight in his seat, grabbing his trilby from the back with a twist of his torso, pinching the dips and placing it back on his head to cover newly shortened locks.

The girls just blinked.

Brian just grinned.

Matt just panted.

"What? He can't be stressed before a show. Damages his voice," he commented casually with a shrug, seemingly the only one in the car to notice the gawping females.

Safe to say...

... they didn't feel quite so angry anymore.

Except for Sam. Who didn't actually like Avenged Sevenfold in the slightest and had only come to America for the Hershey Bars. And alas, her Hershey Bars had melted, and she just watched Brian do bad things to his vocalist... such a bad day. Add on to that the fact Kay had sat on the Peeps in her excitement, and she might as well hide in a box.

Testosterone - (1/2)

2006-10-16T14:51:13Z

Title: Testosterone (1/2)
Pairing: Matt/Brian.
Rating: NC-17.
Summary: Matt hates his job in a gym. At least the parts of it his seen.
Genre: AU PWP.

These people reminded Matthew of a nasty rash behind the balls.

Red, irritating, and rather idiotic to squeeze into tight clothing.

Layers of flab squeezed together in fluorescent spandex, the stretch material pulled to its max, pale flesh visible through the tiny holes of fabric if you looked close enough. And Lord, he didn’t want to look close enough. And Lord, he had to look close enough.

Great deals of blubber restricted from jiggling about in its natural jelly-like way due to the impossibly tight clothing, already in maxi sizes, leaving bulges where bulges should never be.

They reminded him of jelly babies. You know those little sweets? Covered in a powdery substance that they tried to pass off as sugar. Smooth and jewel-like on the outside, yet bite in and get to the soft and slightly solidified gel. They bulged in all the wrong places. The designer couldn’t give them proper bulges, yet he could give them navels.

Some people really had their priorities fucked up.

But those jelly-baby people weren’t the only kind. Those people whose tightly encased flab bounced as they stomped all over the thousand dollar equipment, squeezed their selves into weight machines, rubbed their cellulite infested skin against the wipe-clean faux-leather and gleaming, polished steel, sweat leaving dark patches against eye-melting fuchsia and electric blue and fire orange and violent violet.

There were the other people. The ones who came every day. All pert buttocks and carved calves. Their clothes short and tight and painted onto their muscular frames in mute shades. The light bounced off each curved pectoral, leaving shadows against deltoids and around the biceps. The patches of dark in the harsh white glare of ceiling lights which never flickered and seemingly never went out were strange. The shadows formed by overly defined abs and biceps and shadows were unnatural, inhuman. Steroid induced.

He hated these people. From their bulges and obviously sock-induced packages and padding-added breasts to the pimples that peppered their impossibly lean backs.

Their perfect hair and their perfect smiles. Blonde locks and pearly whites threatening to blind. Skin tanned by the Californian sun stretched to breaking point over drugged up muscles. Their smiles as fake as their nails and break just as easily.

Really, with his intense dislike of the hundreds of people who swarmed into this building every week - addicts searching for their rush; losers looking for an easy grope; pervs looking for a scantily clad sight; new housewives desperately trying to get their figure back on the slowest pace of the treadmill in all their track-suit bottomed, baby-puke-stained t-shirted glory - working here would not be the wisest of decisions.

Yet here he was, a hulk in the centre of the long, narrow room, wives with too much time on their hands and a butt big enough to match their bank balance peddling away furiously on bikes and pumping their either chubby or anorexic thighs on treadmills. The beautiful people his toned and well defined ass.

They were either side of him, and any other male probably would have felt surrounded at so much oestrogen sweating around him, lipstick somehow managing to glue itself to pursed lips, heavy bosom bounding away gleefully. But he didn’t. He saw nothing but fat that needed to be whipped, cut and shaped into something even half decent.

Barking orders for increased speed, yelling of sloppy movements, jerky movements, slow movements and fast movements, he based down the navy carpeted aisle in the most regal of fashions. Nose turned up, chin held high, lips set in a permanent scowl when they weren’t parted with an order and a growl. He held his hands folded behind his back, posture perfect, shoulders carrying a flush line to his heels.

He was the sort who yawned as needles were embedded in his flesh, injecting ink beneath the smooth skin in creation of the tattoos that heavily ordained his body. Arms and chest coloured with images of darkness that hardly seemed right within the white walls covered in mirrors and tacky glossy posters featuring various eighties bimbos with too much hair and not enough waist to look even mildly normal.

Matt peered over the shoulder of a woman panting particularly hard, raising an eyebrow at the electronic dial on the control panel of the tread mill. He could almost see her fat-clogged heart pounding in her over-inflated chest.

So he reached over and turned it up a few levels.

His gag reflex kicked in as one of those heaving balloons brushed along his hand, the shining pink body suit almost catching on the metal clasp of his shockingly expensive watch. Then he really would have been screwed.

With a turn of his lips and a wrinkle of his nose he was away again, rubbing his wrist to the silken material of his long black boxing shorts. White muscle vest pulled taught over the barrel chest, short black hair slicked back, glossy with gel, he looked every bit the gym instructor as he paced once again, forwards and backwards, eyes of a deep hazel burning through the beings slogging their guts out before him.

At the end of the line, he came to a woman, face-to-air with her, her minuscule height forcing him to look down quite a way. Not that it was a problem - he tended to look down on people quite often, in more ways than one.

Masses of thick blonde hair was pulled with difficulty into a slick ponytail, the scarlet band matching her blood red leotard. The tightness of the tug drew her creamy skin backwards into an overly made-up mask, the gleam to her complexion making her look like the plastic posters tacked up around him. Her breasts were nearly up to her pointed, elfin chin, her blue eyes wide and childish as she near bounced on the balls of her pristine trainer encased feet.

She was like a spring. Wound up so tightly with energy she was always bounding about. At first he thought she was on drugs, then he realised it was worse. She was simply one of those vile, hyper people who did absolutely everything way too fast. And from gross experience, he knew that meant everything.

“Matthew!” she gushed as he begrudgingly stopped before the tiny female. Her voice was nearly as high as her tits. Matt’s lips remained drawn in a scowl, the only acknowledgement of her greeting a raised brow and an impatient ‘yes’?

Usually, he would have ignored such an annoying little creature completely. But she was the daughter of the owner of the gym, and he had to keep her sweet. And if that meant banging her once to get into her good books, so be it.

He shouldn’t have been so fussed over the job. He didn’t even apply for the damn thing. His arrival was near four months ago, moving straight into a grubby little flat with too many grubby little insects. He got a shoddy job at a hardware store, but was spending the money he should have been using to rent somewhere half decent on extortionate gym fees. Only a mere week after he started training at the glittering centre, it was evident that he was the main attraction.

Women moved faster to get to the machines either side of him than they did on the bloody things. The sales of water-proof make-up went up and the latex got a few sizes tighter. Those men serious about the activity - or, at least, balding men with beer guts - asked for his advice. A few folks even asked him to train them. Though ‘train me’ to one person was ‘throw me over a table and jam it in me, big boy’ to another. Though, politely, he refused. Personal trainer was code for hooker in Cali. He was so torn with the attention. So he turned to lapping it up in a begrudging manner.

So when a vacancy opened up in the training centre, the head office was flooded with recommendations by horny, wrinkled, lonely wives.

Usually, he wouldn’t have accepted it. This place was hell to him. He loved training yet hated the sort of people it attracted - though that may be mildly obvious by now. Yet his cash was disappearing quickly. Selling nails was all well and good but it didn’t cover the cost of the gym, booze and new guitar, considering his now long-gone ex-bitch threw it down the stairs when she left.

God, she always knew how to hit a guy where it hurt the most.

And while drowning his sorrows in beer, weights and chords seemed awfully attractive, singing drunkenly while thrashing at the acoustic wasn’t paying the rent.

Yet if he agreed to sell his soul and work for the shit hole, he would get free use of the equipment after hours, and a much higher salary. He was in demand, after all - a fact he allowed to thoroughly implant itself in his already over-inflated head. So he accepted. With The Imp.

A sweet look fell across her sweet features, making him want to retch from the saccharine nature of it all. With glittering, pleading eyes and pouty, glossed lips that you would slide off if you tried for a kiss, she looked up at him with a hint of adoration. Though, of course, it was all part of the manipulation. “Would you work over-time tonight? Jenny has to catch the red-eye for a wedding.”

“No,” he replied sharply, not even pretending to think about his answer before turning and skulking off, eyes fiercely scanning the customers as the perspired.

She followed him like an obedient if highly irritating puppy, her heavy English accent sharp through his brain. They were meant to be one of the most attractive of accents. Though even in moaning out his name that one fucking sucked. She grated on him, sending the fine, dark hairs along the back of his neck pricking up. She gave him goosebumps. Like nails on a blackboard.

“Please… we’ll up your pay.”

Stupid. Fucking. Women. How did they always know what to say and what to do to turn his head? He was just about ready to give up with the whole skanky race as soon as that piercing English shriek tottered through his mind.

He paused, freezing in his tracks, allowing her to stop in front of him rather than taking the trouble to actually move. And of course, obligingly, she bounded in front of him, near colliding with his chest as her energy levels ran amok.

There was a Les Paul he had a craving for, and this could definitely assist him with his wish.

With a bright smile, all teeth, she placed a hand to his arm as he placed his hands to his hips. An eyebrow was raised. He hated it when people touched him when they spoke. The intimacy was so unnecessary, it was such an invasion of space… He gruffly but gently shook her off, perfectly aware of his own strength after that incident with the guy, the spilt beer and a pool cue…

“I’ll see you around tonight, Matthew,” she giggled, throwing him a long-lashed wink before turning and flouncing off, his eyes on her swaying ponytail rather than the obviously intentional swing of her hips as she sauntered away.

Maybe he could tie her hair to the back of a chair… That wouldn’t be too mean, would it?

Uttering a low growl, he stormed off along the line, upping the tempo of every machine with a quick, glancing flick before flinging open the door to the cupboard housing the sound system and turning from classical to classic rock. The sweating women looked surprised, though his expression stayed the same, the vein in his temple pulsing dangerously, his jaw clenched to the point of possible snapping.

He was rather peeved.

And they seemed to sense it. For the simpering stopped as well as the pacing, and he sat in the chair facing the broad doors to the exercise room - the fifth along the hall - with his arms crossed and that expression of utter disdain never leaving him. Matt realised he could probably be quite terrifying. When he was in a mood the people around him were wise to stay well away. Especially since he had the tendency to remain calm and quiet, only to reap his revenge at a much later date, in a much more secluded area, with a lot more weapons…

Hazel eyes were fixed on the clock above the blue enamel doors, and he didn’t say a word as the shifts changed and the women came and went. A few glanced at him, but he didn’t meet their gaze. His silence was all they needed to know a hug and a peck on the cheek weren’t on the agenda today for their usual, though unreciprocated goodbyes.

The hall was soon empty, the blaring tunes of Whitesnake and Van Halen replaced by some traffic report declaring a route was blocked somewhere he didn’t care about.

He shouldn’t have been throwing a sulking fit the way he was. It wasn’t like he had anywhere to be. But he hated it here, hated the whole atmosphere. It was so clean, so fake, so.. Dated. It was almost distressing. No, it was distressing. He couldn’t cope with it all. It made his stomach squirm and his head ache. This wasn’t his world.

Matt couldn’t help but allow his mind to wander to where he could be right now if he didn’t have this stupid fucking shift. A great night of alone time with a some sordid TV channel and a bottle of vodka called. Maybe some screaming from his neighbours as he knocked his guitar from the wall only to discover it was still plugged in to his thoroughly switched on amp.

Oh, happy days.

Yes, he hated his life right now. Hated this rut. But there was no escape. He would have to change himself, and he wasn’t quite willing for that. In this town of plastic people he didn’t fit in. Even though he was handsome, tanned, muscled… he was also pierced, tattooed and angry. Brutally truthful, he had to admit to himself that fuck, the life he had wasn’t going to accept him.

This is why he didn’t like being alone and inactive. The thoughts were agonising. Though most of the time he was silent, at least he could concentrate on the task at hand. But no. Now he was just sitting, staring at that ticking hand, and pondering on his own shitty excuse for an existence.

But ah well. That was it. He couldn’t change it.

On that.. uhm.. ‘optimistic’ little note, he pushed himself up, resigned to doing whatever he could to take his mind off of the situation. Even if that meant working. Looking around the empty gymnasium, he frowned and made his way out of the doors. The blast of the combined extra air conditioning and happy-clappy-sappy pop music filtering through the outside speakers was enough to send his back up. But once again, he gritted his teeth, willing away his frustration and marching up to the top-floor reception desk.

The centre was divided over three levels; ground floor bronze, first floor silver, second floor gold. He was one of the ridiculously over-paid Gold trainers who had to put up with the lawyers’s wives, while tonight, it seemed, he had to cope with the tubby, balding car salesmen on Bronze.

He gawped at the receptionist - well, as close as he would ever get to gawping. His scowl was momentarily lost with a look of dismayed surprise, and he soon raised a brow at her. “What?” he demanded, expecting the lanky, bespectacled women to come up with another, more satisfactory reply.

But instead the bitch persisted. “You’re working the evening Bronze shift, Mr. Sanders,” she responded in that thick drawl of a New York accent. God, why didn’t anyone have normal accents in this place… He had to deal with Preppy McBrit and now he was face-to-face with this part-Italian mongrel.

“You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me..” he muttered under his breath, mostly to himself, raising a hand to rub at his brow before dropping it to the surface of the reception desk. Sighing deeply, he nodded, throwing her a glower and a highly sarcastic ‘thanks’, before pushing himself away and walking to the elevator.

This was probably his favourite place. It brought him much ironic amusement. People travelling in a lift to the gym rather than taking the stairs gave him more glee that it should have.

As the doors slid shut and he went down, he imagined the walls being licked by crimson flames. The metal box was heating up to an unbearable temperature, the cheesy eighties music tinkling away replaced by the screams of sinners, the tortured cries of the evil as he descended into hell.

The doors slid open, and his active imagination was no longer necessary. The heat was ridiculous - air conditioning didn’t seem to be a priority down here. The sights laid out before him were nothing less than monstrous. And yet… it was different.

People were laughing. They were ugly and fat - but they were laughing. Jostling each other, snorting and making jokes, throwing glares at the passing bints, sneaking over to turn up the volume as a half-decent song came over the crackly radio.

It was comfortable. People smiled at him as he passed, but not an ‘I want you’ smile, more a ‘welcome’ smile. They were giving him a chance. Yes, they hated the idiotic blondes that slinked by, but that was because they knew them. They knew what they were like.

Fuck, so many different people. So many people. There were more than this floor than on the other two combined. And much less equipment. But as one person pushed weights, three sat by and spoke to them, encouraged them. Applause broke out regularly, cat calls were heard for elephant women. Confidence was being built more than muscle. Inhibitions were being lost more than fat.

The walls were coloured a dull sort of beige, and the room stunk of sweat and cigarettes, that musky, manly sort of tone. There were far more men here, and it was shockingly refreshing to be in the company of so much testosterone.

But it was all so.. lax. It was lazy. People were here more to socialise and laugh and have a good time rather than to exercise, and it definitely showed. It was like stepping into an entirely new world.

He lost an ounce of self-consciousness. The scowl was gone, and he was just walking, looking around in stunned awe. These people were supposed to respect him - he was the leader, the only one by the looks of it - and yet he had so much admiration for this attitude. Maybe it was just surprise. Maybe it was just nice to have something new. But despite everything, he liked it. He preferred it.

Movement caught his attention, strange really, considering the whole area was jostling and bustling for room in the tiny space. It wasn’t split into separate rooms, rather just one open-plan area. The doors to the entrance hall at one end, the elevator at the other. No reception, no frills, just a room full of music, equipment and people.

But over here, there were more. A small crowd had gathered. These men were bigger than the rest - they were more built up. Understandable, really, considering they were by the stack of dumbbells. His gaze followed the slick lines of rippling muscle, and he had to smirk as he spotted the various lines of inked designs.

He marched over, regaining his severe sense of almost narcissistic authority, chin held high, though his expression showed curiosity rather than arrogance. “…twenty three, twenty four, twenty five!” they cried, grinning broadly and laughing at a low comment.

The instructor had to lower his gaze as he realised what they were watching - nothing more than a kid doing press-ups. One armed press-ups, admittedly. He bit at his lip ring, the metal making a dull sort of sound, and he raised a brow. An age was impossible to estimate, considering he was looking to just his back, but he was young rather than old, and just as inked and muscled as the rest of them. Despite the test, he had a hat on, a dark plum trilby perched over lengths of dark hair.

Cute.

Icons, Friends Only Banners and Desktops

2006-10-05T17:27:45Z

[x] 001 - 011: Zacky Vengeance.
[x] 012 - 024: Matt Shadows.
[x] 025 - 030: Matt Shadows / Synyster Gates.
[x] 031 - 047: Synyster Gates.
[x] 048 - 058: Misc. challenge icons.
[x] 059 - 073: Bam Margera / Jackass The Movie.
[x] 4 Avenged Sevenfold Friends Only Banners.
[x] 2 Avenged Sevenfold desktops. (Syn Gates & Syn/Zacky)
[x] Please credit x_zeitgeist @ livejournal.com
[x] Comments would be delicious
[x] Friend this journal if you like =)
[x] Photo used in icon 007 taken by the wonderful zachbaker

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Created with angelamaria's Icon Table Generator @ Bauble

Friends Only Banners.

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Affiliate?

2006-09-15T14:17:48Z

If you wish to affiliate, please comment here.

x_zeitgeist @ 2006-09-11T14:38:00

2006-09-11T13:43:05Z

A simple set of desktop backgrounds.

Avenged Sevenfold - M Shadows.

Guns n Roses.

My Chemical Romance - Oldschool.

Avenged Sevenfold - Synyster Gates.

Friends Only Banners - Batch 1, Head Banners - Batch 1

2006-09-06T12:44:31Z

[x] 6 Ville Valo Friends Only Banners
[x] 1 Jyrki 69 Friends Only Banner
[x] 3 Avenged Sevenfold Header Banners
[x] 1 Jyrki 69 Header Banner
[x] 1 Sir Christus (Negative) Header Banner
[x] 1 Bam Margera Header Banner
[x] 13 In total
[x] Please credit x_zeitgeist @ livejournal.com
[x] Comments would be delicious
[x] Friend this journal if you like =)

Friends Only Banners.

Ville Valo.

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Jyrki 69.

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Avenged Sevenfold.

1: Seize The Day

2: Synyster - Green

3: Syn and Matt

Finlandia.

4: Jyrki 69 in Pink

5: Sir Christus in Lilac

Other.

6: Bam Margera - Blow

Icon Batch 1

2006-09-06T12:26:57Z

[x] 10 Vam
[x] 5 Ville Valo
[x] 28 Avenged Sevenfold
[x] 14 Jyrki 69
[x] 57 In Total
[x] Please credit x_zeitgeist @ livejournal.com
[x] Comments would be delicious
[x] Friend this journal if you like =)

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Good, Dirty Fun - (1/2)

2006-09-05T18:04:43Z

Title: Good, Dirty Fun (1/2)
Pairing: Greard/Frank, Bert/Quinn.
Rating: R.
Summary: Bert takes Gerard and Frankie to a University party with a twist.
Genre: Humour/fluff.

“I’m boooored,” he whinged, banging his head against Gerard’s shoulder.

The taller man just slid a finger to his lips, ushering for Frank to be quiet as he continued the move the coal pencil lightly across the thick paper of his sketchbook. Frank watched in fascination as the image of the tree before them was slowly but surely transferred to the sheets of parchment-like material.

He loved how Gerard could do this; how he seemed to filter the very object he was drawing through his fingers, capturing it with every tiny detail in swift strokes.

But right now he was bored.

“Gerard, I’m bored,” he repeated, his tones slightly firm this time. He squirmed the pencil from Gerard’s grip, closing the thick and well-used sketchbook and placing it on the ground beside him, resting the pencil on top. He then crawled onto Gerard’s now empty lap, wrapping his hands around his neck and pressing close until they were nose to nose.

“What are you doing?” his friend asked, a twitch of amusement showing across his lips.

“I’m getting your attention,” he replied, giving him an Eskimo kiss. “Now, I’m bored. Do something about it.”

Gerard just smiled softly. Other men would most likely find it kinda disturbing having your best friend crawl on your lap, press himself close, before demanding attention. Luckily Gerard was used to this, and pretty much enjoyed it.

“Fags…” came a laughing voice from the space beside them where Frank had previously sat.

“You can talk,” Gerard replied, a smirk on his lips and his eyebrows raised as Frankie shifted slightly, allowing him to see a grinning Bert.

“Moi? Never! I’m insulted by your accusation,” he cried dramatically, placing a hand to his forehead and slumping back against the tree they were sitting beneath.

“Tell Quinn’s aching ass that..” Frank snickered, flicking his hair forward to cover his eyes.

“You know, if I were listening I’d be disgusted…” Gerard nodded wisely, leaning to the side and flicking through his book absently.

“Oooh...look, you offended Gerard!” Frank mocked, rolling his eyes.

Bert just pouted, “Fuck him.”

“Done it already...” he quipped, fingering the coal pencil seductively.

Gerard had the good grace to blush slightly at this, only making Bert laugh harder. “Anyway, darlings, I’m sorry for interrupting your little…liaison, but I’ve got a party we must all go to, otherwise I’ll kick your skinny little hineys.”

“Sounds like fun,” Gerard grinned, snatching his pencil back as Frank began to suck it suggestively, wiping the guitarist’s drool on Bert’s shirt, receiving a smack in response.

“What the party or the hiney kicking?” Frank questioned, chewing on a stray blade of grass.

“Both,” Gerard winked in return, turning to face Bert. “So, when is it?”

The bedraggled looking man looked to his watch, “Try…now,” he giggled.

“Ok, better get going,” Frank smiled, climbing off his friend’s lap and giving him a hand up.

“Uhm, wait, are those old clothes?” Bert asked apprehensively, allowing his hair to fall forward and cover his face as he stood.

They both looked down, Frank hugging his tee-shirt protectively, Gerard just blinking. “No,” they both said, looking slightly disturbed.

“Good!” Bert chirped, a broad grin falling over his lips as he hopped off towards his college dorm.

Frank and Gerard just looked at each other, slightly worried at whatever scheme Bert had in mind – normally when this happened, they ended up getting covered in some sort of sticky substance.

Gerard began chewing on his lip nervously as Bert led them off campus and down the back road leading to most of the bars the New Jersey University students went to every weekend. It seemed this weekend was no different, the entire place thronging with people, stinking of smoke, alcohol – and, rather disturbingly for a Saturday afternoon – vomit.

The elder Way usually didn’t spend too much time here, preferring the swanky bars on campus – they were more expensive, but much better company. As in they could form coherent sentences.

Bert led them through the sticky crowd, getting the pair slammed against the rough walls more than once. It occurred to Frank that the whole road seemed to have been turned into a party in itself, drunken jocks cheering and yelling as someone started up a sound system, blaring some beat through the already vibrating area.

It hurt Frank’s ears – not merely because of the volume, but because he hated this music. He scowled as some loud-mouthed rapper blared shit about living ‘in-da-hood’ to a chorus of girls moaning his name.

He sighed with relief, loosening his almost painful grip on Gerard’s arm as Bert threw open a rusting metal door of an old warehouse, ushering them inside and closing the door again. A different music flooded through the aging rafters, a sound that reminded him of summers with his friends at home, heavy drum beat accompanied by screeching guitars – it made him happy yet home-sick at the same time.

Gerard greeted the feel of cool air against his skin, hating the compressed nature of outside. He felt comfortable in the company of these people – he found he knew most of them, even if just by sight, and the ones he didn’t know Bert was quick to introduce him to.

The warehouse was larger than the outside betrayed, different areas hidden by more rusty doors and shutters, each filled by some ridiculous activity.

Trust university students to come up with indoor skiing and –

“Bert, where are you taking us?” Frank asked with some irritation, the smaller man leading them through to the back of the building, the track blaring from the speakers changing to some new song, though it was almost drowned out by the cheers of the next space they entered.

There were more people here than everywhere else – most likely because this was the largest area they’d seen yet. Everyone was set in a circle, almost everyone absolutely smashed and yelling out the names of other’s as they –

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Gerard cried in a laughing Bert’s ear as he spied what his supposed friend had dragged them into.

“Why? It’s kinda hot don’t you think?” Bert replied, laughing harder at the absolutely shocked look on Frank’s face.

They were standing to the side of some sort of ring, the inside filled with a dark brown mud and too many than were healthy fucking wrestling with each other inside of it.

Frank just gawped as the barely clothed men slid over each other, closer to making out than fighting, the few women in the ring almost ripping each other’s hair out. But he wasn’t interested in that, no, what interested him was the idea that he may get to play with the nice topless boys.

“Put your tongue back in your mouth, Iero. And for God’s sake calm down!” Bert grinned, nudging the boy’s crotch with the back of his hand.

“And how is you touching me up gonna make me calm down?” he hissed in return, his eyes never leaving the match going on just feet away.

Bert just giggled in that disgustingly cute way, “So you’re both gonna give it a go then?” he asked, looking from a way too aroused Frank to a slightly disturbed Gerard.

“Yep, and so’s he,” Frank replied for the both of them, nodding his head enthusiastically. His friend simply opened his mouth in protest, before obviously deciding better against it. Just his luck that he was with two people you could never argue with.

Frank however noticed this, standing on tiptoes and pressing his mouth to his friend’s ear. “Come on, Gee, it’ll be fun!” he smiled, grabbing the front of his shirt lightly.

“For you maybe…” he sulked, looking at Frank through his hair pathetically.

“I’ll make it fun for you,” he said with a soft smile before hopping away, ducking inside the ring as the bell rung.

Happy Birthday, Frankie

2006-09-05T18:02:59Z

Title: Happy Birthday, Frankie.
Pairing: Gerard/Frank.
Rating: NC-17.
Summary: Gerard forgets to get Frank a birthday present, having to make-do with what he's already got.
Genre: Smut.

The room was shrouded in dark, occasional flickers of light penetrating the heavy black, the screen infusing it with a navy blue. The sound had been clicked down to low, haunting music played out as a scantily clad blonde tiptoed through some abandoned warehouse.

Ray let out an evil cackle, spilling popcorn everywhere as a cloak-wearing psycho gutted her, the high-pitched sounds of his laughter and her screams vibrating through the air.

Mikey yelped, sitting bolt upright, his glasses askew on his face after being jolted back into the world of the living. “Fucking…ass…” he muttered, kicking Ray in the back before letting out a jaw-busting yawn.

The guitarist however was ignoring him, much more interested in another blonde who was beckoning him outside, dark glasses concealing his eyes. Ray just nodded, scrambling to his feet and shoving the bowl of popcorn in Gerard’s lap.

“We’re gonna go play trick or treat!” he grinned as he followed Bob out of the door.

Gerard just rolled his eyes, resting his head on Frank’s thigh sleepily from his position on the floor. “They make me hate Halloween.”

“What? But… Halloween rocks!” he replied, lifting his head from the cushion behind him.

“Name me one good thing about Halloween…” Gerard challenged, picking at the popcorn absently.

“Well, for one tiny little reason, it’s the frickin’ anniversary of the birth of the greatest guy in the world,” he grinned.

Gerard squeezed his eyes closed, mentally kicking himself. “Oh shit.”

“Forget again, Gee?” Mikey teased, snatching the popcorn bowl from his brother’s lap.

“Fuck off, four eyes.”

Frankie just chuckled, ruffling Gerard’s hair. “Don’t worry, I’m not missing anything, you’ve never gotten me a present. Why miss something I’ve never had?” he said childishly, lower lip trembling pathetically as he let out a loud series of fake sobs.

Gerard just shook his head, continuing to watch the film.

The credits rolled along to the same eerie music, the images of the blood splattered screen still well and truly imprinted on Frank’s mind. Awesome.

He remembered when he was a kid, and he and his Mom used to sit up until the early hours of the morning watching the horror movie marathons on some cable channel every year for his birthday. It was something he had kept up even when he left home - it was fun after all.

He opened his eyes, not even realising he’d closed them as he felt something brush along his leg. After the film he had just seen, this was not a good thing, the sensation almost making him squeal and curl up in a ball on the sofa.

But he didn’t – luckily – and instead ignored it, keeping his eyes fixed on the screen, reaching up and rubbing the back of his neck.

He jumped, the touch again slipping across his calf beneath the fabric of his jeans.

It was warm, gentle, almost a caress, but firm. It sent chills through his body.

He blinked, furrowing his brow for a moment. Normally he would’ve done something, reached down, checked, but he didn’t. He didn’t know why, but he just didn’t move. Mainly because he had Gerard sitting –

Oh. But.

It couldn’t be Gerard touching his leg could it? Maybe it was accidental, a slip as he moved for more popcorn. But there it was again, fingers trailing up, before he slipped his palm downwards.

Frank looked at his friend instinctively. He couldn’t quite see where his hands were from his angle, but he could see that his eyes were still fixed on the screen, a smirk on his lips.

He leant back, relaxing slightly, though his stomach was still tense, tilting his head to the side. He couldn’t explain it, what he was feeling inside of his chest. He didn’t know whether it was lack of sleep or a microwave popcorn high, all he knew was that the sensation was comforting, but the idea that it was Gerard excited him until he was on the edge of his nerves.

He reached down, running his fingers through the other’s hair absently, noticing that Gerard still had his head against his thigh.

Mikey stirred slightly beside him, yawning loudly. “Dammit… fuck this, I’m going to bed, sorry guys..” he muttered, dragging himself towards the bedroom. “’Night..”

“Sweet dreams, Mikes,” Gerard muttered, eyes still fixed on the television set.

Frank jumped, though not because of the film. He jumped as he felt Gerard’s hand slip from his calf and down to rest on the outside of his jeans, just below the inside of his knee.

He chewed on the inside of his mouth unconsciously, eyes fixed on the other’s hand, shivering as the touch lingered up towards his thigh.

Gerard turned to face him, a wicked grin across his lips, features highlighted hauntingly by the strange lighting. He shifted slightly, placing himself between Frank’s knees, hands splayed on his legs.

The smaller man hid a gasp as he began to trail his hands up his thighs. Gerard grabbed his belt loops, pulling him slightly so he slid down the sofa, before settling himself between his thighs.

He reached forward, cupping Frank’s chin gently. “If you don’t want this, tell me,” he whispered, his voice softly washing over him, finally reaching his stunned brain. He stayed silent pointedly, watching his friend’s eyes.

Gerard’s hands slid up his torso, the touch firmer than before, sending violent electric shivers right through Frank’s body. His hands came to rest on his shoulders before sliding down his arms, trailing down to lace their fingers.

Their hands remained linked as Gerard leant forward, placing a soft kiss to the corner – not quite daring – of his mouth. Frank allowed his eyes to close, leaning back as sweet kisses followed his jaw line to the soft skin of his neck.

He gulped as Gerard’s tongue danced down his throat, the wet heat of his mouth followed by the cool of his skin in its wake almost sending him crazy.

Frank tilted his head back further, providing more access as his former friend kissed the hollow of his throat, nipping lightly at his collarbone. He felt himself twitch, not quite able to cope fully with the sensations running through his body, his control slowly waning at the thought that Gerard was causing him to feel like this, to shiver, to harden.

Gerard leant further forward, burying his face in the crook of his neck, pressing himself between the other’s thighs, moving against his crotch and causing a whimper to escape Frank’s throat.

He just smiled at the sound, blushing coyly before shifting yet again, placing his hands on Frank’s shoulders and pulling himself up to straddle his lap, placing a knee either side of his hips on the sofa.

Frank couldn’t quite explain the need bubbling up from his very core as Gerard kissed down his temple, licking at the awfully sensitive spot below his ear. Except now every part of his body was blisteringly sensitive. His skin vibrating beneath his clothes, the room suddenly way too hot and his jeans too rough against his groin as Gerard ground into his lap.

“Oh…fuck…” he managed to gasp, tilting his head back involuntarily. His torturer took this opportunity to press a kiss to the underside of his jaw, hands again wandering over his hips, pressing beneath his shirt.

He groaned, longing for the feel of skin against skin, arching his back as Gerard’s hand ran over his chest, biting his lip so hard hew drew blood as he tugged his nipple lightly. He lifted his arms, allowing Gerard to pull his tee-shirt over his head, taking control for the briefest of moments as he cupped the other’s chin, pulling him forward, kissing his mouth softly.

He could taste his own blood as the older man returned the kiss. It was soft, gentle and firm, much like Gerard’s touch. He felt himself drowning in the wet heat of his mouth, sliding his hand round to rest on the nape of his neck, pulling him yet closer.

It was so damn chaste considering his was half naked, yet made his blood boil and his body hurt. He poured everything he had into that kiss. It was too far on for words, far too far on, so he told Gerard everything he needed to through that single kiss.

They pulled away, both panting and struggling for breath. The vocalist placed his hands on his chest, pushing him gently to lay across the couch, still straddling him as he leant down, bringing their lips back together as he ran his hands down to his stomach, resting against the waist band of his jeans.

Frank moaned softly into his mouth, tangling one hand in Gerard’s hair and trailing the other down, unbuttoning his shirt, slowly revealing creamy pale skin over lean torso. He couldn’t help but smile as Gerard purred slightly against him, pushing his shirt over his shoulders.

They both shifted slightly, Frank blushing as Gerard lay between his thighs, feeling a reassuring hardness against his own, gasping slightly at the contact.

The older Way continued to run kisses down his chest, Frank sliding his hands over his back, his skin soft and warm beneath his fingers. They stayed like this for a while, just tasting and kissing and touching each other, the room becoming unbearably hot for both of them.

Gerard pressed his forehead against the other’s, sweat glistening over their bodies, both shaking violently. He never thought he could be like this with someone for an hour and still have his jeans on.

Frank slid his hands downwards, unbuttoning and sliding down the zipper on Gerard’s pants as he brushed his lips softly over his temple, earning a groan from the other.

After both of their jeans were dropped over the side of the sofa with the rest of their clothes, Gerard holding himself up over Frank on shaky arms, brushing his sticky hair from his eyes as they just watched each other, breathing harsh in their throats.

Frank whimpered at the sensation of skin on skin, wrapping his arms around the other’s neck, tugging him down, their sweat slicked chests sliding against each other, placing his mouth to Gerard’s neck, sucking and biting softly, leaving his mark in the soft flesh.

He pulled away, his heart leaping at the look in the older man’s eyes. Need and want jumbled together, mixed with something else he couldn’t decipher. His body screamed for more, for Gerard to touch him, fill him, make him moan.

He wanted to cry out his name.

As if Gerard could read his thoughts, his hands slid down, pushing at the waistband of his boxers, tugging them slowly down over his hips. Frank’s lips parted, a whimper escaping his throat as both of their underwear was discarded, feeling Gerard’s breathy moan against his cheek as their erections were pressed together. Frank raised his knees slightly in silent pleading, their lips crashing in another fiery kiss, parting his lips and allowing Gerard’s tongue to push into his mouth, tasting every crevice, running softly against his own.

They pulled away, the taste of each still fresh on their lips, and Frank spoke the first words they had shared since this first began.

“I need you inside of me, Gee.”

His voice was soft and low, a mere whisper against the other’s lips as he ran his fingers up the nape of his neck and through his hair.

“I need to be inside of you.”

They moved slightly to make their next actions easier, Gerard’s hands steadying his hips as he pressed against his entrance, kissing him softly in an attempt to distract him. Frank squeezed his eyes shut, his breathing heavy, moaning low in his throat at the sensation of being filled so slowly, his heart leaping somewhere in his neck.

Gerard kept one hand on Frank’s hip, the other trailing up his side and over his shoulder to tangle in his hair, pressing his forehead against his as he struggled for breath, the heat surrounding him almost making him come.

They rocked softly against each other, their movements becoming more desperate and needy with every moan and string of cusses, sweat soaked bodies sliding against each other as the windows steamed up and groans of each other’s names filled the air.

Frank panted, fisting a handful of the cushion beside him. Gerard was inside him. Oh fuck.

The heat was almost tangible as they both shook, electric shivers running through their bodies, Gerard’s hand sliding down to fist Frank’s cock, pumping him in time with his thrusts, pressing his mouth to the other’s, kissing him with a passion as their muscles tensed and their bodies spasmed, Gerard coming hard into Frank just as Frank came heavily over his hand.

They lay there in each other’s arms for a few moments, still shaking from the aftershocks, covered in each other’s sweat and come. Gerard was the first to move, leaning up, sliding out of him and kissing him softly, sensually.

“Happy birthday, Frankie.”

Frank just smiled, nuzzling his cheek, “You have twenty-three birthdays to make up for.”
Gerard grinned mischievously, nipping his lip, “I think I could get to like Halloween…”

I'm Telling!

2006-09-05T18:00:56Z

Title: I'm Telling!
Pairing: Gerard/Frank.
Rating: R.
Summary: After a rather.. interesting magazine interview, Mikey reaps his revenge, causing Gerard to do the same, and making a big evil circle of evil.
Genre: Humour.

“Would you?”

“Yeah, I’d go out with Gerard.”

“Would you really?” the vocalist smiled, grinning slightly, “Aw dude…” he said, brushing his lips against the other’s briefly before pulling away and resting his head on his shoulder.

“Would you go out with Frank?” the pretty blonde reporter asked, tilting her notebook in her lap.

“I’d do more than just go out with him,” he winked.

“How far would you with me, Gee?” he giggled, craning his neck to the side to look at him.

“All the way, baby!”

“Is that an offer?”

“If you want it to be…”

“Gerard! FRANK!” Ray yelled as Mikey yanked the magazine from his hands, eyes wide behind his glasses.

Gerard stepped out of the small kitchen area, box of animal crackers in hand, looking at the two curiously.

Frank appeared a moment later after a loud thump – they assumed this was his falling out of bed, wandering from the bedroom, hair sticking out scruffily in every direction, clad only in his boxers as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Damn morning people..” he muttered, straddling the bench and turning to face them.

Everyone knew when not to leave Ray waiting too long.

The be-afroed man spoke, eyes narrowed, “What’s th –“

“Are you fucking my brother?” Mikey interrupted, glaring at Frankie.

The guitarist looked round at Gerard. “That’d be pretty difficult considering he’s fully clothed and eating – Oh! Animal crackers!” he squealed, grabbing the box off of a laughing Gerard.

“He’s got a point..”

“Gee, answer me!”

“Is Frankie fucking me?” He looked over his shoulder, “Currently, no…”

“Shame, that,” Frank grinned through a mouthful of elephants.

“Would you guys stop joking around?” Ray said sternly, making them all jump. They’d partly forgotten he was there. “This article is saying you’re basically a happily married couple, and considering most of our tickets and records are bought by kids lusting after either you or Frank, we’re fucked!”

“Well it’s good we’re not a couple then isn’t it?” Gerard replied, arching a perfect eyebrow, staring at Ray blankly, his expression unimpressed.

Ray shook his head, “You can’t deny there’s something going on between you two.”

“Funny that, ‘cause I kinda am.”

Mikey, sensing the argument that was about to explode from the pair’s rather fiery tempers, spoke up. “Dude, ignore the magazine, we’ll put out a statement saying they tried to kill each other or some shit, what really matters is, are you two doing each other?” he snapped, irritation etched in his every feature. Ok, maybe not dampening the argument too well.

“Mikey, we all share a room, and you’re in the bunk below me, I think you’d know if we were,” Frank reasoned, swallowing an obscene amount of crackers.

“You know what I mean, Iero! Are you more than –“

He was cut off as Frankie started coughing violently, bent over the tabletop, hand clutched to his throat. He yelped loudly as Gerard clapped him hard on the back, causing him to hit his head. “Shit, Gee!”

“You ok?” the taller man asked, concern in his voice.

“Well my I’ve got my spine lodged in my ribcage and a table shaped dent in my forehead, otherwise just spiffy… At least there’s no parrot down my throat anymore, thanks…” he drawled, hand pressed to the developing bruise, other hand still rubbing his throat gingerly.

“Bet that’s not all you’ve had down your throat, bizznatch,” Mikey hissed, hands on his hips.

“Oh no you din’t!” Frankie grinned, sticking out his tongue.

“Aw look, he’s come over all gangsta…” Gerard giggled, ruffling his hair and sitting on the table behind Frank, placing a foot either side of him on the bench, Frank resting his head on his thigh.

“For people who aren’t shagging you’re awfully cosy…” Mikey sniped, crossing his arms over his skinny chest.

Gerard quirked an eyebrow, “We’re best friends, Michael,” he said, sticking his tongue out.

“Oh… Mikey look…” Frank giggled, placing his hand on Gerard’s knee and moving it slowly up his thigh, “Ooooh...Look how close my hand is to his -”

“OK! SHUT UP!” Mikey yelped, covering his eyes with his hands.

The two boys almost fell over laughing, causing Ray to growl low in his throat - bad ‘Fro-a-saurus – and fling himself on the floor next to a silent Bob to watch Spongebob Squarepants reruns.

“Mikey! Come on!” Frankie said after he caught his breath, sounding mildly exasperated. “The interview was a joke, just a joke. Mister Manager said we had to do it ‘cause we have a huge gay following. Hot. So yeah, we gave them what they wanted. They see us getting jiggy on stage and expect the same in person. Chill!”

Mikey just narrowed his eyes to slits behind his glasses, “And the photos?”

At least they had the grace to blush at this.

“Did they include the nude shots?”

“WHAT?” Mikey cried, eyes becoming wide at his brother’s words. “There…you..? Oh Gawwwdd…” he whimpered, sliding into a chair. “I thought the cover was bad enough… I can’t believe you fucking tongued each other for the fucking camera!” he muttered, feeling utterly helpless.

“They said they wouldn’t publish that one...” Gerard muttered under his breath, grabbing the magazine from the bench.

“We did it just for fun...” Frank nodded, his expression straight, enjoying the whole fiasco way too much.

“What did you do in the nude shots?” Mikey demanded, glaring at Frank, not quite developing the strength to look at his shamed brother.

“Well there was the bed, the bath, the veranda, the rug…” Frankie replied, counting on his fingers, “…and the beach. The sand got in some damn awkward places though,” he finished matter-of-factly.

Mikey just gawped as Gerard flipped through the magazine. “Wow... we look hot!” he smiled, tilting the magazine to the side.

The younger Way brother stood, hand covering his eyes, “Wait until I tell Mom…”

“WHAT?!” Gerard cried, looking up and dropping the magazine into Frank’s lap, panic in his eyes. “But…but.. Mikes! Come on! You can’t do this!” he pouted, scrambling off of the table.

Mikey pointed at him, “HA! Too late, I shall shame you to the entire family!” he giggled, running off behind the sofa, hopping over the coffee table and reaching for the phone, squealing as Gerard was hot on his heels.

Ray grinned, enjoying this form of punishment, tugging Gerard away as he attempted to gut his brother.

Mikey dialled the number, a smug look across his face before he pressed the receiver to his mouth, “Hi, Mom! It’s Michael.” He flinched visibly as he said his Christian name, laughing as a struggling Gerard was pinned to the ground by a plaintive looking Bob, Ray nursing a cut lip.

Frank just glared at him, running his finger across his neck in threat.

“…Mom…yeah.. I know it’s been a long time, I’m sorry, but…but….Mom, Gerard-did-gay-porn-with-Frankie-and-got-it-published!” he said in a whiny rush, sulking slightly.

Gerard threw his head back against the floor, closing his eyes and groaning. “You have to sleep, Michael Way…” he hissed as Frank helped to tug him up.

“Nuh-uh I don’t, I’ll just drink a shit load of coffee,” he replied in a whisper, holding the phone away from his ear as his Mother screamed hysterically down the line. “I think she wants to talk to you,” he smirked.

Gerard took the phone gingerly, a pained look on his face, Frank just standing in front of him, hugging himself as he bit on his lower lip, wincing as he heard his friend’s Mother curse him to hell. “Uh... I’m sorry?” he shrugged, looking awkward.

“Yeah, Mom, I’ll talk to you later, bye!” Gerard yelled over the fountain of noise and threats, pressing the phone off. His eyes narrowed as he stared at a hysterical Mikey, advancing on him slowly, Frank nearly chewing off his own hands.

“Uhm… Don’t kill me?” Mikey squeaked, throwing Gerard his best innocent look.

“I won’t, but I’ll get you… I shall shame you once again,” he said menacingly, a wicked grin on his lips.

“There’s nothing you can do to shame me after seeing the contents of that magazine,” Mikey sulked, solemnly admitting to himself that the chances of his ever deleting the images from his brain were minute.

Bastards.

“Really?” Gerard grinned, hooking his thumb in the belt loop of Frank’s jeans. “Well, if you say so, no harm in trying… see you at the show tonight, sweet brother of mine..”

Ray glared at Mikey as the pair walked off. “You stupid, stupid, boy…”
*~*~*~*

Gerard turned to face Mikey as the last bars of the song drowned out, an evil grin on his lips as he winked at him before turning back to face the audience, his arm bumping against Frankie’s as he did though.

They had been sharing a mic most of the night – partly to piss off the rest of the band, partly to give Gerard easy ass-groping/neck-sucking access.

He slid the mic from the stand, winding the cord around his wrist before beginning to pace the edge of the stage, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes that made Ray want to slam his head against a brick wall. They were all fucked when Gerard was in a mood like this.

For Frank this was often literal.

“How’d you like that, Chicago?” he purred into the microphone, still pacing back and forth. The crowd gave an appreciative bellow, making him smile.

“Good! ‘Cause our next song’s even better, you know why? ‘Cause it’s about sex… and sex is a good thing.”

He turned back to Frankie, burying his face into the crook of his neck before speaking again.

“So I have to ask, Chicago… do you want to fuck me?” he yelled, moving away from Frankie to the opposite end of the stage. “Do you want to fuck me in my bed, between my sheets?”

The crowd screamed, the entire crowd, including a disturbing amount of males.

That’s not good… Mikey thought, biting his lip. Gerard was so hot now that he was ready for the taking of both genders? Ew.

Gerard waited for the ear drum bashing screaming to stop, moving back to Frank’s side.

“I’m sorry, Chicago, but you’re a little too late, I’m already fucking my guitarist,” he said with an apologetic nod.

Mikey gave an indignant yelp, thanking all things Holy that he didn’t have a microphone.

Ray just stared, running his hands over his face. Another hotel room was gonna get smashed tonight.

The crowd screamed louder, some boos and hisses were heard, though not many, as Gerard leaned in, kissing the smaller guy hard, pressing his tongue into his mouth.

Mikey moved, grabbing Ray’s mic, not caring anymore about image or reputation, his brother had just smashed that already. “Gerard Arthur Way, I’m telling on you!”

Gee?

2006-09-05T17:59:34Z

Title: Gee?
Pairing: Gerard/Frank.
Rating: R.
Summary: Frank can't sleep until he asks Gerard a question, but Gerard gives him something other than an answer.
Genre: Dirt.

He lay in silence, though through his brain ran a jumbled stream of thoughts, deafening him and making his brain ache, though the aching in his pounding head was nothing compared to the agony running through his body.

Longing thumps through his veins and makes his muscles scream out for the touch of the man just feet away from him. He needed it more than he thought he could need anything.

It was worth more than oxygen and food and water - just skin on skin was all he needed to survive.

Right now he was slowly dying.

He hadn't slept since they'd arrived in this noisy, bustling city, and into the grand hotel. Gerard and Frank were sharing for the first time since Mikey insisted on rooming with Ray for some reason. If he thought being groped on stage was painful, it was nothing to laying in a room with a sleeping, defenceless, semi-naked Gerard Way.

"Gee?" he whispered, voice groggy from extreme lack of sleep, facing the pasty and unattractive wall, counting the air bubbles and brush streaks.

"Hmmm?" was his grumbled reply. He was awake. Oh.

"What would you do if I said I wanted to have sex with you right now?" he says, sighing slightly, not knowing why he was saying this, head so stuffed up with thoughts about the older man that he didn't quite know what he was doing.

"I'd climb into your bed and strip you…"

"Oh."

"Then run my tongue over every inch of your skin…"

"Would you now?"

"Then I'd kiss you until we were both so hot that we couldn't even breathe…"

"Really?"

"Then I'd press my naked body to yours and touch you until you scream my name…"

"Interesting.."

"Then.." his voice changed, going from sensual to rough in moments, "I'd fuck you through the mattress and right through the floor below…"

All he could do was gulp, rolling to his side to look at the vocalist, squinting through the night, the pale moonlight from the window behind them flitting over his skin, making it glow a ghostly pale.
He looked peaceful, just on the boundaries of sleep, eyes closed and hands tucked under his pillow, sheet pulled up to his waist, baring his chest.

"Night, Frank.." he muttered, the words sliding from his lips.

"G'night, Gerard…" he replied, biting on his lower lip.

Minutes that felt like hours slid their way slowly past, bringing with them the ringing of Gerard's words in his ears.

"Gee?" he whispers into the almost buzzing night air.

"Hmmm?"

"Is that what they call a mind fuck?"

"Pretty much.." he yawned before falling into the gloved clutches of sleep.

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