Read A Book, You Illiterate Sonovabitch
Jan. 16th, 2005 10:23 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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rareslashHardcore band slash. Hardcore being the genre of music. Only one other person I know writes it. So. Here goes. Other fic is archived over @ ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mich_blendet.
Title: And He Wept Bitterly
Rating: R
Fandom: [Crossover] UnderOATH / Eighteen Visions
Pairing: Spencer (UnderOATH) / James (18Visions)
Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own.
[what my enemies whisper and mutter against me] [lamentations 3:62]
You aren’t sure. That’s what it is, isn’t it? Uncertainty. He’s listening to another’s exploits, but his eyes are focused on you. Eyes that make you blush, eyes that immediately cause you to look down. They would laugh and ridicule you –- unnerved by the gaze of a boy. A child. His amusement for the most infantile of jokes is nothing but a deterrent. His gaze remains fixated.
“What?”
You ask, voice echoing something beyond irritated. He smiles a toothy grin, the canary struggling within the confines of his mouth. He shrugs, and pretends to be perplexed. You run your finger around the rim of your glass. When you bring it to your lips, you see a small, distorted ring of condensation on the table. He’s still smiling when you look back up.
[a perverse generation, children who are unfaithful] [deuteronomy 32:20]
The girl tasted of cigarettes. It was yellow, like the stains on the pillow and the blisters on the bed sheets. She was okay, you decide. Laying there as she performed didn’t require as much energy as doing the fucking yourself. As she rode you, she told you her name.
“Sunny. With a ‘y’. My mom had me in the middle of the summer and it was a hundred-fucking-degrees.”
You said it was a nice name. She brought your hands to her breasts and you kept them there. Her clavicle jutted out against her sallow skin and her nipples were dark brown. Your hands moved in awkward circles, unsure of what to do. She moaned as she quickened her pace. Hands got tired and went back to clutch the comforter.
“I—I’m coming.”
She got up. Her hands finished you and she wiped the sticky residue on the bed sheets. They weren’t dirty enough. She went to the bathroom and you tried to memorize the tacky beige pattern on the walls.
Sunny left hours ago and you still haven’t gotten up. Your thighs are stuck together, mouth dry. Lying in your filth. You want to take a shower. Instead you turn over, mattress squeaking, and fall asleep.
You wake up the next morning with the sun in your eyes.
[guilty of bloodshed] [deuteronomy 19:10]
There’s a small recess backstage. No larger than an oversized closet, and you fumble for the light switch. Instead of a light switch, your hands run across a rogue nail bent upwards. You swear.
Warm liquid runs down your palm, and you can almost see the red in the thick darkness. The bass pounds above you, the dull roar complemented by the rhythmic throbbing of your right hand. Footsteps approach and you inquire.
“Who is it?”
“James.”
“Can you find the switch? I--I cut my hand.”
He sidles next to you. You can feel the heat emanating from his body. You push yourself farther against the wall. He’s too close.
“Can you please find the switch?”
“Give me your hand.”
He leaves no room for argument. You reach out your right hand. You feel the blood creating tiny tributaries and deltas down your arms, the blood dripping. Find the switch. Turn on the damn lights. You can't see anything in the dark. He can't do anything in the dark. Except encroach.
His fingers run across your moist palm, trying to find the origin of the cut. He whistles under his breath, his way of measuring the severity of the wound. He drops your hands for a moment and proceeds to take off his shirt. In the dark, he gropes for your hand again. He wraps the sweat-stained shirt around your palm. You wonder how sanitary this is.
"Your shirt."
"I've got plenty."
He comes even closer to you, his breath against your neck. What are you doing, you ask. You can feel the flutter of his eyelashes, and you start you bring up your hands to push him back. But in one swift movement, the room is flooded in by low-powered yellow light. As your eyes adjust, he turns to leave.
"It was behind you."
[you will not fall into temptation] [matthew 26:41] "I'm."
He bites his lip.
"I'm sorry. It was uncalled for."
Your fingers curl into fists.
[insects that swarm are unclean to you] [deuteronomy 14:19]
Pull open the door, and you're greeted by an unidentified stench. Eyes move underneath your hangers, and you see the shirt. Patterned with discolorations and droppings. You wedge it out with your foot and see that they yellow and maroon brown is complemented by the empty shells of pupae.
You bring the shirt to your face, the husks falling. Your nose brushes against one of buttons, iridescent white. The pastel rainbow. The thread holding the button to the shirt has come loose, and it hangs lightly when you turn the shirt upside down. The shirt crumples back onto the floor. You kick it back into the dark corner of the closet.
[the body is weak] [matthew 26:41]
His tongue circles your navel, hands entangled in his hair. His fingers are in your mouth, faintly caustic. His hands are rough, a layman's hands. His lips move from your navel to your prominent hipbones. He grazes his teeth over them, biting the flesh in between. Your eyelids flutter.
You were supposed to withstand this.
His fingers leave your mouth, trailing your saliva down your chest to the fastenings of your jeans. He undoes them deftly. Practiced. A practiced layman. You ignore the inconsistency and gasp as he places his lips around you. Painted nails claw against flushed skin, and he leaves white lines that fade instantly.
"Fu--fuck."
It is your only utterance, an imprecation. Fitting, it seems. He spits onto the head, transparent beads balancing themselves on the dark hairs underneath your stomach. He blows lightly, the hot air makes you restless. He knows your mechanisms, and he is ready when you are. Your come is swallowed. He kisses up your thighs, your chest, and your now marked neck. His fully clothed body rests on top of yours, the material of his pants against your legs. Brings his lips to yours, acknowledgment pending.
You tell him you have to go.
[you will disown me] [matthew 26:75]
"Please let go of me."
You whisper, fingers shaking in his tight grip. He is relentless.
You think of her, her pretty lips against yours after she had silently worded 'yes' after your proposal. The sparkling ring had taken months to find. Everything was either too big or too small. You knew she didn't care. Perhaps you were just stalling. I love you, she had said. I love you, I love you, I love you, she had said over and over again. Tasted tears when she kissed you. She loved you.
"W--what are you doing to me?"
You don't answer him. You can't answer him. Please let go, please let me go home, you scream in your head. You can't explain yourself. He lets go of your wrists, veins dilate and throb. He begins to cry, amongst slow shudders and chafing against skin.
Watch his wretched form, irretrievable from its current state.
And you wish he hadn't sought forgiveness.
+++
Title: Love Your Flashy Ways
Fandom: Throwdown/Eighteen Visions (sorta)
Rating: PG-13 [Humour]
Pairing: Biggie/James; hopeful Biggie/James/Dave
Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own.
Summary: I couldn't get this plot bunny out of my head. It had to be written. It's silly.
Dave usually liked his friends. Now was not one of those times.
“Beeegie!”
“Yes, Jamesy?”
“If I could rewrite the alphabet, I would put you between f and ck.”
Children. Everyone else laughs maniacally. Dave stares out the window and wishes his headphones weren’t somewhere under Dom’s ass. Get your ass off my CD player, Dom, Dave had said. Dom said to kiss his ass. Dave offered to kick his ass. Dom threatened to place Dave’s CD player down his pants. Dave ceased.
Dave usually didn’t lose arguments to microscopic Oriental bass players either.
“Nick, love, was your father a baker?”
“No, James. Why?”
“Then where’d you get those hot buns from?”
Cue ass-slapping and general mayhem.
“Will you cocksuckers shut the fuck up before I shove my foot up both your fairy asses?”
Keith smirks knowingly.
“Dave Peters is a repressed man.”
“Oh, oh. That’s right. Look who’s talking. At least I don’t have wet dreams of Eminem and dye my hair blonde in a pathetic attempt to pick up chicks, you fagtastical homo.”
Mick glances over, doubled over from laughing. James reaches over and tries to accost Dave’s crotch, claiming that yes, ‘gay is the way’. Dave slaps James’s hand. Dave also succeeds in slapping his own crotch, causing him much grief. Dave once again becomes theass butt of the joke.
“Fuck. Yo—you stay away from my balls, man. I will kick your ass.”
Dave is angry. Dave likes to think that this anger is due to the fact that he has a headache and needs to pee like a racehorse. Dave doesn’t like to think his anger is due to the fact that he hasn’t been laid in weeks and that he is frustrated by the overwhelming amounts of sexual tension in the testosterone filled van.
“Ken. Just. Put. On. The. Radio. PLEASE.”
Dave usually didn’t regret his decisions. Now was not one of those times.
UH UHH C’MON
“Fuck, man! THIS IS MY SONG.”
“Ken. Turn off the radio. Please turn off the radio.”
Ken turns up the volume. Dave makes a mental note to kick Ken’s ass.
Biggie takes off his shirt. Dave pretends not to notice. Biggie starts to break out in rap freestyle.
Hah, sicka than your average Poppa
Twist cabbage off instinct niggas don't think shit stink
Pink gators, my Detroit players
Timbs for my hooligans in Brooklyn
James chimes in: “Yeah, Biggie. You’re my poppa!”
Dave wonders if the lack of male guidance during the James’s adolescence influenced his gayosity. Dave believes it is affirmative.
The entire van is now clapping along to the busting of Biggie's rhymes. Dave forgets why these people are his friends.
"Dead right, if they head right, Biggie there Air Nike--"
James and Biggie are making googly eyes at each other. James attempts the Harlem Shake. James is a sad white boy.
Girls walk to us
Wanna do us
Screw us
Who us?
Dave laughs inwardly at the irony of the lyrics. Girls. Psht. Dave becomes painfully aware of his lack of contact with the X chromosome in like, forever.
"Close like Starsky and Hutch, stick the clutch, dare I squeeze three at your cherry M-3--"
Dave deduces that Starsky is gay. Dave also deduces that Hutch is gay. Dave, sequentially, deduces that Starsky and Hutch are gay with each other. Dave chooses to ignore James's leg over Biggie's.
And the chorus.
James S. Hart breaks out in falsetto.
Biggie, Biggie, Biggie, can't you see
Sometimes your words just hypnotize me
And I just love your flashy ways
Guess that's why they broke, and you're so paid
Dave sees that James is in Biggie's lap. He is also grinding their respective crotches together. Biggie looks happy. Real happy.
Motherfuckers, Dave thinks.
Dave thinks that this looks a lot like a lap dance. Dave's long dormant libido confirms, that yes, this is very much a lap dance.
Dave thinks that they're just attention whores. They're really not looking lustfully into each other's eyes, and Biggie's hands are so not on James's ass. Nope. The heat. Y'know. Mirages and shit like that.
Every cutie wit a booty bought a Coogi
Now who's the real dookie, meanin who's really the shit
Them niggaz ride dicks, Frank White push the sticks
on the Lexus, LX, four and a half
Bulletproof glass tints if I want some ass
Right. Ri-ight. Like these shitheads don't ride dicks. Sir Fag James is practically fucking himself on Biggie.
Dave swerves his head back to the window and watches the license plates go by. Kentucky. Tennessee. Louisiana. Dave's game is rudely interrupted by catcalls and whistles. Dave, against his will, is greeted by the image of two men swapping a large amount of spit. James's tongue is caressing Biggie's tonsils. Dave regrets quitting his day job.
The chorus comes around again, and Dave notices that this time James doesn't even bother singing. Not that his tongue is exactly, erm, free at the moment. Dave's eye catches the small patch of hair that leads down into Biggie's jeans. Dave reminds himself that although he has not gotten any T & A in the pastmonths weeks, he should not resort to such sinful things.
That's how most of these so-called gangsters pass
At last, a nigga rappin 'bout blunts and broads
Tits and bras, ménage-à-trois, sex in expensive cars
Dave ignores how his ears prick up at the word 'ménage-à-trois'.
"You GUYS! Get a room!"
Yells Ken, who Dave suspects to be a man lover too. These types were everywhere. Brandan could be one. Dom could be one. Keith was definitelyone. Dave inches a bit closer to the door, just in case the situation got too out of hand. Or god forbid. They came after him. Damn, Dave thinks. Being heterosexual is so taboo thesefeys, he means, days.
I can fill ya wit real millionaire shit (I can fill ya)
Yeah, Dave thinks. There's some filling going on. Dave watches as his friends dry hump through their clothes. They're both sweating and James is leaving large purple marks on Biggie's tan neck. Dave ignores how his mouth is dry. Mick whistles and giggles. Keith pokes Dave.
"Enjoying the show?"
Dave makes a mental note to kick Keith's wannabe ass.
Poppa freakin', not speakin'
Leave that ass leakin', like rapper demo
Tell them ho', take their clothes off slowly
Dave focuses on the oil stain embedded on the back of the passenger seat from yesterday, when Dom wiped his greasy fingers on it. Biggie was pissed off. Biggie went to James for comfort. It was all so obvious.
Dave looks over at the selfish bastards. They look like sex-starved teenagers.
"Uh. You guys. The song is like over."
Was over, Dave reiterates. Like, five minutes ago.
They look ashamed of themselves, red in the face. James returns to his seat, and begins to rebutton his shirt.
Dave ignores Biggie's shit-eating grin.
Dave ignores the wet stain on the front of the James's jeans.
Dave ignores the kissy noises Dom is making towards his general direction.
Dave ignores the raging hard-on underneath his shorts and makes a mental note tokiss stroke hump fuck kick Biggie's ass.
+++
Title: You Can't Catch Me
Fandom: Eighteen Visions
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Trevor/Mick
Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own.
Summary: Make sure you are acquainted with 'The Gingerbread Man' if you wish to read this. And no beastiality, I swear. Just some metaphors. Ahem.
The Pillsbury Doughboy was queer. It seemed all cute and cuddly on the outside, except it was made out of dough. And dough was in itself, a little weird. You could poke it, and the shape of your intruding finger would stay embedded into the pasty, mushy, amorphous stuff. Which was why Ken couldn't stop poking the dough with his right index finger while gazing intently at the (subliminal?) patterns he was creating.
"Stop being a douchebag and get away from my dough."
But!, Ken entreats. The dough. It moves, can't you see? It's not moving, the cook assures the bright-eyed intruder. He adjusts his apron, and starts kneading the dough. Ken props his head onto his hands, his hair in his eyes. He watches the cook knead and knead, crushing his little stick figures and the house that they lived in. What is it? Brioche, the cook answers. Brioche. It sounds French, Ken says.
"It is French, silly."
Ken wonders about the gingerbread man. The cook's eyes are like currant, and his buttons red like cherries. He smells like gingerbread too, except Ken thinks this has something to do with his perfume.
"Why did they want to eat you?"
"Eat me?"
"The old man and the old woman. Why did they want to eat you?"
"Because I'm fucking delicious, that's why."
Ken is satisfied with this answer, and also adds that the old man and woman made him. The cook giggles a little, and says something about the process being messy. The kitchen was never the same again. So. This cow wanted to eat you too.
"Yeah, and I ran away as fast as I could. Should've left sooner."
The milk, Ken adds. Yeah, the cook agrees. The milk. It went sour.
The cook divides the dough into three parts, and presses some dough into a buttered mold. He maneuvers it between his long hands, his palms working like two cogs of a well-oiled machine. And the horse? He ran fast, how come he didn't catch you?
"I was faster."
The cook remembers the sleek muscles of his thighs, mainly because it was one of the only things he did remember. Because it was all about sucking dick. Wrapping his arms around his thighs, and boy, could he sprint. A star athlete. The cook closes the oven door and starts washing the congealed mess off the egg beater.
"But someone did eat you."
"Yes."
"Who?"
"The fox."
The fox smiles with all his teeth, the cooks says. The fox smiled and promised it would take me across that river. I couldn't cross that river myself, because I am made of dough. I would crumble away in water.
"Did the fox keep his promise?"
Part of it. He helped me across that river, all the while, I was on his back. I was some sort of burden. I trusted him to keep his end of the bargain, even though he wasn't getting anything from it. I was young, you know. I still am. There isn't any free lunch.
"And?"
And what? There isn't much left. Once we had crossed the river away from all the other animals, he ate me. Threw me up in the air and caught me between his jaws.
Were you angry?
At first. But I think I kind of like being inside him.
The doorbell rings, and both of them start. Who's that?, Ken asks.
Trevor smiles (with all his teeth).
"My fox."
+++
mich_blendet.Title: And He Wept Bitterly
Rating: R
Fandom: [Crossover] UnderOATH / Eighteen Visions
Pairing: Spencer (UnderOATH) / James (18Visions)
Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own.
You aren’t sure. That’s what it is, isn’t it? Uncertainty. He’s listening to another’s exploits, but his eyes are focused on you. Eyes that make you blush, eyes that immediately cause you to look down. They would laugh and ridicule you –- unnerved by the gaze of a boy. A child. His amusement for the most infantile of jokes is nothing but a deterrent. His gaze remains fixated.
“What?”
You ask, voice echoing something beyond irritated. He smiles a toothy grin, the canary struggling within the confines of his mouth. He shrugs, and pretends to be perplexed. You run your finger around the rim of your glass. When you bring it to your lips, you see a small, distorted ring of condensation on the table. He’s still smiling when you look back up.
The girl tasted of cigarettes. It was yellow, like the stains on the pillow and the blisters on the bed sheets. She was okay, you decide. Laying there as she performed didn’t require as much energy as doing the fucking yourself. As she rode you, she told you her name.
“Sunny. With a ‘y’. My mom had me in the middle of the summer and it was a hundred-fucking-degrees.”
You said it was a nice name. She brought your hands to her breasts and you kept them there. Her clavicle jutted out against her sallow skin and her nipples were dark brown. Your hands moved in awkward circles, unsure of what to do. She moaned as she quickened her pace. Hands got tired and went back to clutch the comforter.
“I—I’m coming.”
She got up. Her hands finished you and she wiped the sticky residue on the bed sheets. They weren’t dirty enough. She went to the bathroom and you tried to memorize the tacky beige pattern on the walls.
Sunny left hours ago and you still haven’t gotten up. Your thighs are stuck together, mouth dry. Lying in your filth. You want to take a shower. Instead you turn over, mattress squeaking, and fall asleep.
You wake up the next morning with the sun in your eyes.
There’s a small recess backstage. No larger than an oversized closet, and you fumble for the light switch. Instead of a light switch, your hands run across a rogue nail bent upwards. You swear.
Warm liquid runs down your palm, and you can almost see the red in the thick darkness. The bass pounds above you, the dull roar complemented by the rhythmic throbbing of your right hand. Footsteps approach and you inquire.
“Who is it?”
“James.”
“Can you find the switch? I--I cut my hand.”
He sidles next to you. You can feel the heat emanating from his body. You push yourself farther against the wall. He’s too close.
“Can you please find the switch?”
“Give me your hand.”
He leaves no room for argument. You reach out your right hand. You feel the blood creating tiny tributaries and deltas down your arms, the blood dripping. Find the switch. Turn on the damn lights. You can't see anything in the dark. He can't do anything in the dark. Except encroach.
His fingers run across your moist palm, trying to find the origin of the cut. He whistles under his breath, his way of measuring the severity of the wound. He drops your hands for a moment and proceeds to take off his shirt. In the dark, he gropes for your hand again. He wraps the sweat-stained shirt around your palm. You wonder how sanitary this is.
"Your shirt."
"I've got plenty."
He comes even closer to you, his breath against your neck. What are you doing, you ask. You can feel the flutter of his eyelashes, and you start you bring up your hands to push him back. But in one swift movement, the room is flooded in by low-powered yellow light. As your eyes adjust, he turns to leave.
"It was behind you."
He bites his lip.
"I'm sorry. It was uncalled for."
Your fingers curl into fists.
Pull open the door, and you're greeted by an unidentified stench. Eyes move underneath your hangers, and you see the shirt. Patterned with discolorations and droppings. You wedge it out with your foot and see that they yellow and maroon brown is complemented by the empty shells of pupae.
You bring the shirt to your face, the husks falling. Your nose brushes against one of buttons, iridescent white. The pastel rainbow. The thread holding the button to the shirt has come loose, and it hangs lightly when you turn the shirt upside down. The shirt crumples back onto the floor. You kick it back into the dark corner of the closet.
His tongue circles your navel, hands entangled in his hair. His fingers are in your mouth, faintly caustic. His hands are rough, a layman's hands. His lips move from your navel to your prominent hipbones. He grazes his teeth over them, biting the flesh in between. Your eyelids flutter.
You were supposed to withstand this.
His fingers leave your mouth, trailing your saliva down your chest to the fastenings of your jeans. He undoes them deftly. Practiced. A practiced layman. You ignore the inconsistency and gasp as he places his lips around you. Painted nails claw against flushed skin, and he leaves white lines that fade instantly.
"Fu--fuck."
It is your only utterance, an imprecation. Fitting, it seems. He spits onto the head, transparent beads balancing themselves on the dark hairs underneath your stomach. He blows lightly, the hot air makes you restless. He knows your mechanisms, and he is ready when you are. Your come is swallowed. He kisses up your thighs, your chest, and your now marked neck. His fully clothed body rests on top of yours, the material of his pants against your legs. Brings his lips to yours, acknowledgment pending.
You tell him you have to go.
"Please let go of me."
You whisper, fingers shaking in his tight grip. He is relentless.
You think of her, her pretty lips against yours after she had silently worded 'yes' after your proposal. The sparkling ring had taken months to find. Everything was either too big or too small. You knew she didn't care. Perhaps you were just stalling. I love you, she had said. I love you, I love you, I love you, she had said over and over again. Tasted tears when she kissed you. She loved you.
"W--what are you doing to me?"
You don't answer him. You can't answer him. Please let go, please let me go home, you scream in your head. You can't explain yourself. He lets go of your wrists, veins dilate and throb. He begins to cry, amongst slow shudders and chafing against skin.
Watch his wretched form, irretrievable from its current state.
And you wish he hadn't sought forgiveness.
Title: Love Your Flashy Ways
Fandom: Throwdown/Eighteen Visions (sorta)
Rating: PG-13 [Humour]
Pairing: Biggie/James; hopeful Biggie/James/Dave
Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own.
Summary: I couldn't get this plot bunny out of my head. It had to be written. It's silly.
Dave usually liked his friends. Now was not one of those times.
“Beeegie!”
“Yes, Jamesy?”
“If I could rewrite the alphabet, I would put you between f and ck.”
Children. Everyone else laughs maniacally. Dave stares out the window and wishes his headphones weren’t somewhere under Dom’s ass. Get your ass off my CD player, Dom, Dave had said. Dom said to kiss his ass. Dave offered to kick his ass. Dom threatened to place Dave’s CD player down his pants. Dave ceased.
Dave usually didn’t lose arguments to microscopic Oriental bass players either.
“Nick, love, was your father a baker?”
“No, James. Why?”
“Then where’d you get those hot buns from?”
Cue ass-slapping and general mayhem.
“Will you cocksuckers shut the fuck up before I shove my foot up both your fairy asses?”
Keith smirks knowingly.
“Dave Peters is a repressed man.”
“Oh, oh. That’s right. Look who’s talking. At least I don’t have wet dreams of Eminem and dye my hair blonde in a pathetic attempt to pick up chicks, you fagtastical homo.”
Mick glances over, doubled over from laughing. James reaches over and tries to accost Dave’s crotch, claiming that yes, ‘gay is the way’. Dave slaps James’s hand. Dave also succeeds in slapping his own crotch, causing him much grief. Dave once again becomes the
“Fuck. Yo—you stay away from my balls, man. I will kick your ass.”
Dave is angry. Dave likes to think that this anger is due to the fact that he has a headache and needs to pee like a racehorse. Dave doesn’t like to think his anger is due to the fact that he hasn’t been laid in weeks and that he is frustrated by the overwhelming amounts of sexual tension in the testosterone filled van.
“Ken. Just. Put. On. The. Radio. PLEASE.”
Dave usually didn’t regret his decisions. Now was not one of those times.
“Fuck, man! THIS IS MY SONG.”
“Ken. Turn off the radio. Please turn off the radio.”
Ken turns up the volume. Dave makes a mental note to kick Ken’s ass.
Biggie takes off his shirt. Dave pretends not to notice. Biggie starts to break out in rap freestyle.
Twist cabbage off instinct niggas don't think shit stink
Pink gators, my Detroit players
Timbs for my hooligans in Brooklyn
James chimes in: “Yeah, Biggie. You’re my poppa!”
Dave wonders if the lack of male guidance during the James’s adolescence influenced his gayosity. Dave believes it is affirmative.
The entire van is now clapping along to the busting of Biggie's rhymes. Dave forgets why these people are his friends.
"Dead right, if they head right, Biggie there Air Nike--"
James and Biggie are making googly eyes at each other. James attempts the Harlem Shake. James is a sad white boy.
Wanna do us
Screw us
Who us?
Dave laughs inwardly at the irony of the lyrics. Girls. Psht. Dave becomes painfully aware of his lack of contact with the X chromosome in like, forever.
"Close like Starsky and Hutch, stick the clutch, dare I squeeze three at your cherry M-3--"
Dave deduces that Starsky is gay. Dave also deduces that Hutch is gay. Dave, sequentially, deduces that Starsky and Hutch are gay with each other. Dave chooses to ignore James's leg over Biggie's.
And the chorus.
James S. Hart breaks out in falsetto.
Sometimes your words just hypnotize me
And I just love your flashy ways
Guess that's why they broke, and you're so paid
Dave sees that James is in Biggie's lap. He is also grinding their respective crotches together. Biggie looks happy. Real happy.
Motherfuckers, Dave thinks.
Dave thinks that this looks a lot like a lap dance. Dave's long dormant libido confirms, that yes, this is very much a lap dance.
Dave thinks that they're just attention whores. They're really not looking lustfully into each other's eyes, and Biggie's hands are so not on James's ass. Nope. The heat. Y'know. Mirages and shit like that.
Now who's the real dookie, meanin who's really the shit
Them niggaz ride dicks, Frank White push the sticks
on the Lexus, LX, four and a half
Bulletproof glass tints if I want some ass
Right. Ri-ight. Like these shitheads don't ride dicks. Sir Fag James is practically fucking himself on Biggie.
Dave swerves his head back to the window and watches the license plates go by. Kentucky. Tennessee. Louisiana. Dave's game is rudely interrupted by catcalls and whistles. Dave, against his will, is greeted by the image of two men swapping a large amount of spit. James's tongue is caressing Biggie's tonsils. Dave regrets quitting his day job.
The chorus comes around again, and Dave notices that this time James doesn't even bother singing. Not that his tongue is exactly, erm, free at the moment. Dave's eye catches the small patch of hair that leads down into Biggie's jeans. Dave reminds himself that although he has not gotten any T & A in the past
At last, a nigga rappin 'bout blunts and broads
Tits and bras, ménage-à-trois, sex in expensive cars
Dave ignores how his ears prick up at the word 'ménage-à-trois'.
"You GUYS! Get a room!"
Yells Ken, who Dave suspects to be a man lover too. These types were everywhere. Brandan could be one. Dom could be one. Keith was definitelyone. Dave inches a bit closer to the door, just in case the situation got too out of hand. Or god forbid. They came after him. Damn, Dave thinks. Being heterosexual is so taboo these
Yeah, Dave thinks. There's some filling going on. Dave watches as his friends dry hump through their clothes. They're both sweating and James is leaving large purple marks on Biggie's tan neck. Dave ignores how his mouth is dry. Mick whistles and giggles. Keith pokes Dave.
"Enjoying the show?"
Dave makes a mental note to kick Keith's wannabe ass.
Leave that ass leakin', like rapper demo
Tell them ho', take their clothes off slowly
Dave focuses on the oil stain embedded on the back of the passenger seat from yesterday, when Dom wiped his greasy fingers on it. Biggie was pissed off. Biggie went to James for comfort. It was all so obvious.
Dave looks over at the selfish bastards. They look like sex-starved teenagers.
"Uh. You guys. The song is like over."
Was over, Dave reiterates. Like, five minutes ago.
They look ashamed of themselves, red in the face. James returns to his seat, and begins to rebutton his shirt.
Dave ignores Biggie's shit-eating grin.
Dave ignores the wet stain on the front of the James's jeans.
Dave ignores the kissy noises Dom is making towards his general direction.
Dave ignores the raging hard-on underneath his shorts and makes a mental note to
Title: You Can't Catch Me
Fandom: Eighteen Visions
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Trevor/Mick
Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own.
Summary: Make sure you are acquainted with 'The Gingerbread Man' if you wish to read this. And no beastiality, I swear. Just some metaphors. Ahem.
The Pillsbury Doughboy was queer. It seemed all cute and cuddly on the outside, except it was made out of dough. And dough was in itself, a little weird. You could poke it, and the shape of your intruding finger would stay embedded into the pasty, mushy, amorphous stuff. Which was why Ken couldn't stop poking the dough with his right index finger while gazing intently at the (subliminal?) patterns he was creating.
"Stop being a douchebag and get away from my dough."
But!, Ken entreats. The dough. It moves, can't you see? It's not moving, the cook assures the bright-eyed intruder. He adjusts his apron, and starts kneading the dough. Ken props his head onto his hands, his hair in his eyes. He watches the cook knead and knead, crushing his little stick figures and the house that they lived in. What is it? Brioche, the cook answers. Brioche. It sounds French, Ken says.
"It is French, silly."
Ken wonders about the gingerbread man. The cook's eyes are like currant, and his buttons red like cherries. He smells like gingerbread too, except Ken thinks this has something to do with his perfume.
"Why did they want to eat you?"
"Eat me?"
"The old man and the old woman. Why did they want to eat you?"
"Because I'm fucking delicious, that's why."
Ken is satisfied with this answer, and also adds that the old man and woman made him. The cook giggles a little, and says something about the process being messy. The kitchen was never the same again. So. This cow wanted to eat you too.
"Yeah, and I ran away as fast as I could. Should've left sooner."
The milk, Ken adds. Yeah, the cook agrees. The milk. It went sour.
The cook divides the dough into three parts, and presses some dough into a buttered mold. He maneuvers it between his long hands, his palms working like two cogs of a well-oiled machine. And the horse? He ran fast, how come he didn't catch you?
"I was faster."
The cook remembers the sleek muscles of his thighs, mainly because it was one of the only things he did remember. Because it was all about sucking dick. Wrapping his arms around his thighs, and boy, could he sprint. A star athlete. The cook closes the oven door and starts washing the congealed mess off the egg beater.
"But someone did eat you."
"Yes."
"Who?"
"The fox."
The fox smiles with all his teeth, the cooks says. The fox smiled and promised it would take me across that river. I couldn't cross that river myself, because I am made of dough. I would crumble away in water.
"Did the fox keep his promise?"
Part of it. He helped me across that river, all the while, I was on his back. I was some sort of burden. I trusted him to keep his end of the bargain, even though he wasn't getting anything from it. I was young, you know. I still am. There isn't any free lunch.
"And?"
And what? There isn't much left. Once we had crossed the river away from all the other animals, he ate me. Threw me up in the air and caught me between his jaws.
Were you angry?
At first. But I think I kind of like being inside him.
The doorbell rings, and both of them start. Who's that?, Ken asks.
Trevor smiles (with all his teeth).
"My fox."
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