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.
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.
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.
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 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.
"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.
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.