blurring the lines

Fri, 23 May 2008 00:03:19 GMT

Written for the Bandom Anal Meme
Vicky-T/Brendon
NC-17

Victoria’s never been one for second guessing herself. She’s got good instincts and knows what she wants. Hesitation and second guessing are not in her nature. So when Brendon asks and she quickly responses with, “OK” he (predictably) freezes.

The look on his face is priceless but Victoria is so not in the mood to deal with this. She’s already on her hands and knees, naked, with Brendon behind her, so, what the fuck’s the hold up? She’s twisted at an awkward angle, looking over her shoulder at his huge eyes.

“Seriously? I mean, are you sure?”

Victoria thinks of the position she’s in and almost doesn’t want to dignify that with an answer. But Brendon’s hard, softly panting, and still has a pretty good grip on her hips. She unconsciously pushes back in his hands, turns away from him and as nonchalant as she can manage says, “yeah, sure, go ahead, but you know, go slow”.

Brendon exhales slowly and he loosens the grip on Victoria’s hips to slide his hands down her ass, squeezing gently. As his thumb traces the line of her crack, Victoria’s eyes slide shut in anticipation but Brendon simply keeps rubbing. Victoria’s patience is really being testing at such an inconvenient time.

“Brendon?” She says it in her most encouraging voice with only a hint of annoyance. Brendon apparently gets the memo, apologizes, and a moment later pushes a slick finger in. Vicky tenses for a second but then tells her body to relax and give into the sensation of Brendon’s finger.

He doesn’t start moving again until Vicky moans pushing back against him. He starts a slow, smooth rhythm, in and out. The slick yet rough texture of his finger makes Victoria’s back arch and her mouth drops open to pant and ask for more.

“Come on,” she tells him when he hesitates but then he pushes in a second finger. The burn and stretch is intense and Vicky doesn’t hold back her moans. They’re soft and low but Brendon appears to be getting the hang of this.

He starts moving faster and thrusting in a little harder. Vicky’s caught off balance and her elbows buckle and she pillows her head on her forearms while her moans get louder.

She knows how loud she’s gotten but Brendon’s still going and she’s still moaning. Every twist of his fingers makes her gasp and god, is she so ready.

She tells Brendon as much and thanks the gods when he doesn’t hesitate or ask if she’s sure. He pulls his fingers out slowly and lightly traces Vicky’s hole before quickly finding a condom.

While Brendon fumbles with the condom (in the most endearing, adorable way, of course) Victoria reaches between her legs lazily playing with her clit. Then Brendon’s back with a firm one-handed grip on her waist.

When she can feel the head of his dick against her hole she takes a deep breath and lets it out as Brendon slides in. The intense burn is back but she doesn’t protest or pull away. Brendon’s panting open-mouthed and loudly. He’s shifting and suddenly his voice is in Victoria’s ear and his chest pressed to her back.

“Oh my God, Vic,” he says but it barely makes it out of his throat, “I’m not gonna last long.”

Don’t expect you too, is what she’s thinking. She’s not surprised. They’d been going at for at least half an hour before and she’s already come twice. But instead she says, “It’s ok. Just move.”

And he does. And it shoots straight up her spine and she hiccups a moan. Everytime Brendon’s hips pull back she wants to go with him but then he’s back, flush against her backside. His breath is hot on her shoulders, they’re panting and quick, uh, uh, uh’s are in tandem. And never once does he stop thrusting.

Vicky can feel her orgasm building and pulls one arm up to rub at her clit but Brendon catches her, swatting her hand away. He flicks a thumb over her nipple hand traveling down to splay across her belly and then his fingers find her. She can’t help the gasp and pushes back against him.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” It comes out breathy as Brendon slides a finger into her then two and, shit, she is so done.

Without warning, Victoria comes on a soundless gasp pushing forward then back riding it out and god, is it intense. She feels herself clutch around Brendon’s dick and pulse around his fingers. He won’t last much longer and soon enough he gives two good, solid, rough thrusts coming with no more than a grunt and exhale.

The only sound Victoria can hear is her own heartbeat in her ears. As her breathing slows so does Brendon’s and he begins to pull out. Victoria let’s her legs straighten out across the bed and let’s her whole body settle, the tension in her back loosen.

When Brendon comes back from his quick trip to the bathroom, Vicky is drifting off but not quiet asleep. Brendon carefully lies down beside her, rearranging the sheets. His hand finds Vicky’s lower back and begins to rub and softly knead the muscles there. His heavy hand never leaves even when he stops massaging but Victoria’s already sound asleep.

Thu, 22 May 2008 23:59:52 GMT

Prompted by jewels667
Jon/Spencer
Museums
Ambitious Ones and Smoking Guns Tour - England - January 2006
NC-17

It’s their only day off and frankly Spencer plans on doing absolutely nothing. So when Jon suggests to the band, “Hey guys, we should do some exploring when we get to the next town.” Spencer’s answer is immediately, “How ‘bout no.”

“What about that place?” Brendon announces from his seat in front of the bus’ tinted-window.

“What place?” Jon asks coming up to lean over Brendon while looking out the window.

“There.” Brendon points his finger against the glass. “Snibstons Discovery Park. I love parks!”

Brendon is looking up at Jon with the most ridiculous smile on his face and Jon is grinning back. Spencer feels like punching someone.

Snibstons Discovery Park appears to be more than just that. It has a museum on the inside and a, well, “discovery park” outside, which Brendon makes a beeline for complete with big eyes and a long, low, “Ohhh!” Spencer is all but dragging his feet because, seriously, this is not how he wanted to spend his only day off. Jon has his camera out and ready. (“You never know what you might capture, Spencer Smith.”) Ryan looks almost bored and uninterested till he comes to a large entryway with the words The Siddons Collection: Scarf Hoarder above it.

“Hey, I’ll meet up with you guys later. I’m just gonna...” He trails off and before Spencer can beg him to ‘please, don’t leave me, I don’t wanna be here’, Jon cuts in with a hand wave and Ryan is gone.

By the time they get to the Transport gallery Spencer is going out of his mind but Jon just keeps taking pictures and reading useless facts off of plaques. (“Did you know this place used to be a colliery? Did you know you could lift a ton with just one hand?”)

Whatever. Spencer does not care.

“I gotta use the bathroom.” Spencer says leaving behind a confused Jon. He was in the middle of reading some really interesting stuff about pack-horses.

When Spencer comes out of the stall Jon is leaning against the sink, camera over his shoulder. Before he can even make it to the sink Jon is in front of him and pushing him back into the stall. He pushes the door closed and slides the flimsy lock in place without looking away from Spencer’s face.

“Jon, what the fuck?” Spencer’s not sure what else to say. The toilet stall isn’t that big and Jon’s so far in his personal space Spencer can feel every time he inhales and exhales.

“You’re not having a good time. Why not?”

“This place is boring, Jon. I really don’t want to be here.”

Spencer could have lied and said, “No, its fine.” or “Museums just aren’t my thing.” But really there’s no point in lying when you’re this close to someone else. When you can practically smell what kind of shampoo they used. Spencer makes a mental note to ask Jon what kind he uses because, wow, it smells really nice. Like mangos or something.

“Boring. What do mean boring? I’m having a great time. I mean, I’m with you so that almost guarantees I’ll have a good time.” Jon’s face is the epitome of innocence with his small smile and big brown eyes.

“What?” Spencer’s once again taken for words. He’s trying to figure out when Jon got all earnest and kinda hot. He’s feeling weird and claustrophobic and he starts to shift and fidget. Jon’s hands come out to settle on Spencer’s hips, to steady him. His fingers curve and grip slightly pulling Spencer even closer.

The remaining space between them and air in the small stall are gone. Spencer watches Jon’s eyes flick back and forth over his face, hesitate then lean forward. He stops just mere millimeters from Spencer’s lips and suddenly breathes out slowly, pushing air against Spencer. Spencer meets him the rest of the way.

The kiss starts out slow. Jon teases with the tip of tongue but leaves the decision making to Spencer. Spencer doesn’t think twice and pushes his tongue passed Jon’s lips.

He doesn’t know how long they’ve been basically making out but Spencer couldn’t really give a shit. Jon’s lips are so, so soft and his hands are rubbing up and down Spencer’s back. Spencer plays with the hair at the nape of Jon’s neck then slides one hand around and down his throat to land in the middle of Jon’s chest.

Spencer feels him shiver and presses closer. The grip on Spencer’s hips returns and their kiss is broken when he finds himself backed against the stall door. Jon moves to press open mouth kisses along Spencer’s throat. He catches his moan before it’s too loud and lets it open soft and low.

When Jon’s hands find Spencer’s belt buckle he forgets to breathe and stiffens. Jon doesn’t move just looks up at Spencer. Neither utters a word and their low panting is the only thing that can be heard other than the hum of the fluorescent lights. Spencer finally makes a decision and relaxes reaching out to stoke at Jon’s throat again.

Jon has apparently heard the silent answer and proceeds to undo Spencer’s belt, pop the button, and drag down the zipper. He’s on his knees before Spencer can blink. He totally does not whimper.

Spencer’s stomach goes concave when Jon mouths at the skin above his underwear. He lays kisses there while his fingers hook in the waistband and Spencer can feel him everywhere.

Spencer’s pants and underwear are pushed down around his thighs. Just enough to get his dick out and maybe a little more. Jon’s hands are heavy on his hips weighting him down. He’s not completely hard but he’s sure it won’t last much longer.

Spencer watches as Jon moves forward taking the first lick. His hand wraps around the base and Jon gives another lick under the head. Spencer’s head thumps back lightly against the door as Jon takes the head into his mouth. His tongue is warm and wet lapping at the slit.

Spencer rolls out a needy, “Jon” and his hand drops to the back of his skull. Not pushing, just encouraging. Jon takes him in further and then sucks. Spencer can’t hold in the groan and pushes slightly into Jon’s mouth. Jon just takes him building up a rhythm in tandem with his hand at the base of Spencer’s dick.

It’s sloppy and very wet but really, Spencer thinks, those are the best kind. Jon’s enthusiasm doesn’t hurt either. He keeps making quite obscene noises and every time he pulls off makes a popping noise. It’s all very pornographic and downright amazing.

When Jon starts sucking harder and pumping his hand faster Spencer starts moaning louder. His grip on the back of Jon’s head has gotten tighter but Jon’s head just keeps bobbing up and down. Spencer feels his orgasm slide through his stomach and build in his balls. His body keeps involuntarily stiffening and he moans louder while his grip gets even tighter in Jon’s hair.

Spencer tries to warn Jon, pushing at his shoulder but Jon will not let go of his dick. He stops sucking and concentrates on jerking him off. Spencer’s whole body feels tight but then he comes and it feels like he’s falling.

Before he can hit the ground Jon’s hand pushes to hold him up. His eyes are shut tight but when he feels Jon give one last lick at his head and pull off Spencer looks down at him. He watches as Jon turns toward the toilet, spit, and then flush. When Jon turns back he looks directly in Spencer’s eyes and asks,” Having fun yet?”

Spencer thinks of million-and-one questions he could ask but Jon’s smiling and doesn’t look regretful. Spencer smiles back.

“I am now.”

Sun, 20 Jan 2008 06:58:55 GMT

jepha/dan comment fic for sinsense
pg

They sky is grey and the sidewalks are slick. Jepha’s hands are tucked into the pockets of his coat as the cold wind pricks across his face and exposed neck. Dan is by his side watching his feet as they walk the three short blocks to the coffee shop near Jepha’s apartment.

The coffee shop is thankfully warm and much to Jepha’s delight the worn yet plush and comfy sofa in the corner is unoccupied. He gives his order to Dan and steps out of line to claim the sofa.

When Dan comes to sit down with Jepha’s hot cinnamon apple cider and his own grande mocha, Jepha is curled up on the sofa. His knees pulled to his chest with a content, warm smile on his face. Dan smiles back and sips his mocha.

They chat idly but Dan stays mostly silent nodding and humming in agreement with Jepha. When Jepha notices his reserve he tilts his head to the side and sends Dan an innocent questioning look. Dan simply shakes his head and shrugs it off.

Jepha can see the tension in Dan and worries for him. Whatever’s bothering him is obviously something he doesn’t want to share but Jepha feels the nagging need to know. To fix whatever the problem is and make it go away. It’s almost as if Dan’s not even there with him. Jepha wants Dan back from where ever he’s gone.

Jepha sets his cider aside and turns his body to face Dan. His hands are resting on his thighs when Jepha reaches out with one inked hand. Jepha skims one finger down the back of Dan’s hand then curls it around his pinky. His fingers twitch in the light grip and Dan smiles shyly turning his hand over. Jepha slowly slides and links their fingers together returning the smile from behind his knees.

Bringing their joined hands face level Jepha presses a soft lingering kiss against the back of Dan’s hand. Dan drops his head sighing and glances back up, looking around the coffee shop. There’s an old couple in the corner opposite them and a five year old trying not to stare but Dan decides he doesn’t care. He leans forward, head titled back. An invitation Jepha reads loud and clear.

The kiss is slow and soft and short along with a million other ‘S’ words Jepha would use to describe Dan’s kisses. They come apart and Jepha’s eyes are shining.

When Dan looks away from Jepha the five year old is blushing and hiding behind her mothers legs.

Mon, 26 Nov 2007 00:02:10 GMT

Forget Me Not
different_shade
300 words
Frank/Gerard
PG-13
Second place in mcr_100 Halloween challenge.

But I never intended all this madness, never...

Mon, 17 Sep 2007 00:07:30 GMT

There Were No Signs
different_shade
PG
786 words
Stay inside, drink lots of bottled water, try not to make too much physical contact, and don't keep any pets.
Beta periculosa
Written for the Apocalypse Now Challenge at mychemicaltest

For the end of times

Mon, 03 Sep 2007 22:52:26 GMT

If only for one night
258//PG
Gerard

Run Away With Me
Anytime You Want

In the back of his mind Gerard knows it won’t last. Knows it’s not forever and a day. He wishes it could be. Wants it so badly.

He’s started to over-analyze the fact that the words written on his body are not permanent and get sweated away before a show even gets to its halfway mark.

He lives in his head most of the time, so he knows how he wants it to be. He’s got every encounter and second planned out.

He has found it easy to put the words and ideas in his head on paper, in a microphone, in a book, on a canvas. He’s having trouble putting them towards another human being. Words and images he can deal with, other people can deal with, but actions are more complicated. Actions have consequences.

He’s been using his hand, neck, fingers to make a physical effort. He truly wants to run away with her (he spoke the words, asked the question), be in a place of no distractions other than her laugh and breathy sigh. Find a place where his brain might actually stop, shut down even for just a few moments.

She said anytime you want then wrote it. He could already feel the wind in his hair and the world at his back.

But it was gone fifteen minutes into the show. The only things left were smudges and a blur of black ink.

He was running away by himself and she was fading in the background.

Prompt Table

Wed, 04 Jul 2007 01:26:04 GMT

I'm starting off small and simple. I need to work on my characterizations. And who doesn't like a little fluff. :D
Each piece will be cross posted at
10_per_genre

Table 7 - Fluff (Rated G-PG13)

01. Cuddle/Snuggle	02. Simple gift	03. Touch	04. Tickle	05. Shiver
06.Sunrise/Sunset	07. Blush	08. Cold winter night	09. Playful	10. Crush

Wed, 27 Jun 2007 00:43:57 GMT

Title: Frailty
Author:different_shade
Rating: R
Pairing (if any): None
Word Count: 1,080
Summary: He’s just a corrector of wrongs. This is his responsibility.
Author's Note: Title belongs to the 2001 movie of the same name.
Warnings: Murder, violence, mention of rape, suicide, and mention of sex.
Sin: Wrath

They won’t understand; no one will understand. There’s no use in pulling that skeleton out of the closest. ‘Misunderstood’ is probably an understatement. Something along the lines of disgusted or appalled would be more accurate. They might say they love him, and will always be there no matter what, but they haven’t seen this ‘what.’

His ‘what’ is the thing nightmares are made of; no, not nightmares, night terrors. His ‘what’ is not for the faint of heart, but instead for the nonexistent of heart.

He’s been fighting for years. He’s been fighting his demons for over fifteen years. Demons that plague almost every waking moment. Demons with a purpose, a vengeance, a fucking death grip on his mind, body, and soul. He can almost see them, hear them, touch them, taste them as they invade his psyche and overwhelm his being.

The looming concrete buildings conceal him, the streetlight’s glow just missing the pitch-black alleyway. With his hands around her neck, and her arms and legs bound, she can barely put up a struggle, and finally takes her last breath.

The purple marks he’s created are shockingly beautiful to him (and his demons) against her pale skin. As her mouth hangs open slightly and her doe eyes seem to bulge even more, he places a sickly-sweet kiss upon the now-cooling skin of her cheek. What’s even sicker is the whispered ‘sorry’ he leaves behind, as if it somehow makes it okay; that somehow that ‘sorry’ redeems him. If he says it enough times to these faceless women, then maybe one day he’ll actually believe that he’s sorry; but he’s not.

It’s not him he thinks should be sorry; it’s them. These faceless women deserve what he gives them. They deserve to be kidnapped, beaten, tied up, strangled, and on rare but well deserved occasions, raped. The things they have done are wrong, and he’s here to stop them from ever doing them again. These careless, faceless women will never hurt anyone again.

But tonight’s different. The hushed sorry is actually sincere, but not to the lifeless form before him. The woman is not one of the faceless. Her face is the only one he’s ever truly known.

In the morning he’ll get a phone call asking if he knows where she is. He’ll simply answer ‘no’ because really, he wouldn’t know where she would be. He’ll pretend to care that she’s missing, all the while knowing that alley cats and mice will be picking at her decaying filthy fucking flesh before some innocent passerby discovers her mangled body among the trash. The trash she deserves to be buried under.

Someone will be pacing, another staring blankly, while someone else will have a phone glued to their ear, and lastly, someone will be crying in the corner. He’ll sit patiently, observing, patting people on the back, consoling and giving support.

‘She’ll show up. I’m sure she’s fine,’ he’ll say, giving a smile most would think was forced under waning hope, but his smile is of complete and utter satisfaction and happiness. He knows she’s not okay, and that she won’t be returning. He made it his responsibility years ago.

When he was twelve, he walked in on his mother with another man, not his father, in their bedroom. Four months later, his parents were divorced, and three weeks later, his father put a 12-gauge shotgun in his mouth and left.

At fifteen, his best friend’s girlfriend gave the captain of the soccer team a blowjob at homecoming in the boys’ bathroom. Two days after finding out, his best friend was sent to juvenile detention for assault with a death weapon, with intent to kill.

He’s done this a million times; six, actually, to be exact. Three prostitutes, two college classmates, and a drunken fan in Albuquerque, NM.

And she’s number seven. Lucky number seven.

After almost three years of holding out, restraining himself, and battling his demons, here he is again. Hunched over, breathing heavily, and smiling.

Three years ago, he wanted something bigger, something that would make an impact. Not just another girl whose face would be seen on the local news channel for a week, and then be forgotten. He wanted something to last. If not their lives, then the fact that they were gone, he hoped, would stick with someone.

He didn’t know when he met her that she’d be the one. The big catch.

He didn’t know that when she wooed his brother that she’d be the one.

Then she did what he’d been waiting for someone like her to do. She did what made his demons spark back to life.

He could smell it on her, her betrayal. He smelled it on all of them. The disgusting smell of a cheating whore. Cheap cologne, sex, sweat, and putrid lies. He swallowed the rising bile.

With a simple touch of his hand, he can see them. Burning off the imprinted swirls of his fingertips. He can see what they had done, see the people they were hurting. See that it was his responsibility.

He couldn’t let them go home and crawl into a bed of lies and taint the trust they were given but had not earned.

They needed to pay for what they had done. She needed to pay for what she had done.

He was doing this out of love, in the name of justice. He never saw himself as a vigilante but merely a corrector of wrongs. It was never a selfish act. He did it for others, so that these women could stop hurting the people they claimed to love.

He’s fulfilled his duty.

Even though his brother will cry and shake when they find her body, he will feel no remorse. He’s already said his sorry, and left it with her corpse. He was sorry it had to end this way; sorry that she was a slut.

He’ll hold him, console him, watch him fall, and be there to pick him up. After the depression, the suicide attempts and the brief relapse he’ll be there to pick up the pieces.

And when he’s done mourning, he’ll be thanked. And he’ll barely accept it. Not because he’s being modest or because ‘it’s just what brothers do,’ but because it’s not the right thank-you.

But he never did it to be thanked, and he never will, because it was never for selfish reasons.

He’s just a corrector of wrongs.

This is his responsibility.

Wed, 20 Jun 2007 12:12:00 GMT

Title: Accidental Babies
Author: different_shade
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Rating: R
POV: Frank-centric
Summary: He’s willing to give up everything.
Disclaimer: A lot of these words belong to Damien Rice, some are mine. I don’t own anybody and this is fiction.
Author's Note: Songfic *collective groan*, yes, I know. Accidental Babies by Damien Rice. Phrases and words in italics are all lyrics or some variation of them, except maybe two. Bring on the con-crit, please!
Beta: temblabamomo but I wouldn’t mind another.
Warnings: Love affairs, mentions of sex, brief suicidal thoughts.
Dedications: Mo for putting up with my nagging and bullshit. Adulterers for inspiring me.

In the pale glow of moonlight they held each other like lovers with happy hands laced and intertwined. Body parts were placed appropriately as their others made plans of ‘till death do you part’.

He lived for these moments. To see the delicate look upon his face was why he kept coming back, kept knocking on hotel doors at 3 in the morning, kept telling him self that this was not wrong.

Their bodies moved and hardened, gasping and moaning into flushed lips. Hands trailed over shoulders, backs, thighs, and sex. Kisses were placed on smooth, damp skin leaving no room for a pardon.

It was places like this hotel room were they could act on what they felt. A place where they were truly alone, where no one knew what they had done.

He thought it only happened in cheesy romance novels and bad, cliché fan fictions but when it happened with them it was like the universe aligned itself. He asked him later if he came together ever with her. She was beautiful and funny and talented and by god she was perfect for him. Her large baby-doll eyes glistened, and her lush lips pouted to his. They were drawn together from the moment they meet.

He never got an answer.

Later when things got complicated, he asked if she even knew the real him. Was she dark enough to see his light? They had been through hard times together and he was positive no amount of ‘love’ from her would equal the things they had witnessed. She would never understand the things that made him…him. The things that scared him. No, not the needles or the failure, but the abandonment and threat of not knowing yourself. The things that made him happy. No, not the art or music, but the computer games and Jersey.

He had so many questions. Some he never asked like ‘does she kiss you in the morning before you brush your teeth’. Some he wasn’t afraid to ask like ‘do you ever miss me’, which got the reply, ‘I miss your smell’.

They carried on behind closed doors as if nothing would change once they stepped outside them. They fought, argued, and disagreed just as much as they kissed, cuddled, joked around, and made love. At times it was hard for him and those were the times he stood strong beside him and wondered if she was bold enough to take him on.

Their time apart was always like a necessary evil. To keep what they had they had to carry on as if they had nothing at all. She would take him away to places he was sure he didn’t fit in. Her friends made him wonder if he felt like he belonged. The way he knew he belonged with him. In his arms.

Being apart also meant the slight pangs of jealousy. Jealous of what she would do to him and if it was better than what he did. Jealousy always brought on more questions.

“How does she make you feel?”

“What do you mean?”

He didn’t answer him just kissed him. He wanted to know if she drove him wild or just mildly free. Did the lustful look in his eye ever fall upon her? Did she make him writhe, pant, beg, moan, scream? If she did, then what about him? Was it different or the same?

They weren’t strangers to getting into compromising positions and letting their lust get the best of them. There were multiple times were the jingle of keys caused rushed sweaty hands to buckle belts and turnover cushions to hide what happy glands had done. And afterwards there was only mild disgrace as they smiled and pretended nothing had ever happened.

In private they tried to never let things invade, so they keep their minds guarded from outside thoughts when they pressed their foreheads together. Slick flesh helped disregard those thoughts with a lack of space not for the light-hearted. And in that space they created a rhythm, a boom that beat to their own drum.

The first time he cried he knew it was because of him. He knew that what he had said, what he had done was his fault.

“Sometimes I just wanna die.”

“Hey, look at me. Don’t say that. We’ve been through too much. I love you.”

Love. Love is what had made it complicated. There was no doubt they loved he each other as much as they loved the other three but…more? Both knew that this feeling was bigger than them, bigger than the band, bigger than the music. But Frank couldn’t help think, was it bigger than the risks?

He never wanted him to feel that old pull of helplessness. He couldn’t help think if she helped him not feel that way. Did she make him feel alive? Did he feel alive without him? If so then he could leave, he could be free.

“I want to be with you.”

“You are with me.”

“No. Not like this.”

“Frank.”

“Leave her…”

“Frank…”

“For me.”

“What about…”

“I’ve told you before, just say when.”

He couldn’t go on like this much longer. Coming together in the night and in silence. He wanted to face the light before something in the dark reached out and held them in a locked position, separated. Afraid of an accident there was no getting out of because neither had the heart to leave if such an accident was born.

Because they were lovers and they held each other and right now everything was in the appropriate place.

Like a tidal wave, a fucking tsunami, the realization of what would happen once morning came choked him and pulled him under. Come morning they would pull apart. Their others would stop their happy plans. Hearts would be broken and parts of gardens would be bruised.

But they would escape the life sentence.

Leave before the accidental babies.

drabble One

Sun, 17 Jun 2007 09:26:06 GMT

The words stung the air before they could even reach the ears. Oxygen was burnt and molecules shifted to make room for the insult. As if the space around his lips knew that only hatred would come of this moment, it was filled with the anticipation of a broken heart. A heart that kept no shelter, only that of the creature crafting the phase that could cripple even the strongest of men. A heart that gave up a secure place behind a strong bloody sternum to be given to a man it believed would be its safest haven. A man it believed was more protective than layers of skin, muscle, and bones. A man who was sending that heart’s death sentence through once crisp but now stale burnt air to fragile ears.