it started feeling like october

movin' on

Sun, 03 May 2009 05:21:26 GMT

hey kids, i'm feelin' it's time to reinvent myself on the interwebs. so i'm movin' on to packs and i've brought my favorite fics with me. thanks, guys.

i don't expect anyone to add it but, hey. just so you know that's where any of my new fics will go. love you all and eventually i'll get into the habit of writing again.

xo

WIPs, anyone?

Tue, 17 Mar 2009 04:01:45 GMT

I'm bored. I figured I'd share some WIPs that I have. If they ever get finished.

1. Girl!Patrick/Bob
NC-17, Bob is a neat freak.
I'm not sure how much I like this so far, but I started it in a big rut so it kind of sucks. Have a snippet.
Pat had spun around on the balls of her feet, lips curled back in a sneer, to face Pete in less time than it took to blink. “What are you trying to do to me?” She growled, leaning in with her fists balled up by her chest. “What the fuck is this?”

“What the fuck is what, Pattycakes?” Pete rolled his eyes and reached out to lace his fingers around Pat’s wrists, graceful. His pointer finger and thumb made perfect cuffs around them and he pulled her arms down by her side. “What do you mean?”

“Putting me with a neat freak!” Pat narrowed her eyes accusingly. “Are you trying to tell me something or teach me a lesson?”

“What the hell? No! What are you even going on about?!”

“He’s a clean freak!” Pat growled through her snarled lips, throwing her hands up and clenching her fists. “If you’re trying to make a joke, ha ha, it isn’t fucking funny. Don’t do this to me. You saw how he looked at me when I didn’t take my shoes off. I don’t even wash my dishes when I’m done with them! He’s going to murder me in my sleep!” Pat said in a rush before she sucked in a deep breath and tucked her hands in against her chest. “Fuck this, man.”

“P, come on. Are you serious?” Pete sighed heavily and shook his head. “Dude, Pat. Why does everything have to be a plot against you?”

Pat rolled her eyes and tucked her fists under her armpits, cocked a hip out.

“Seriously. Bob’s a good dude. No one is trying to teach you a lesson; you just need a place to stay for recording. It’s going to be like, super quick. When we’re done you’re not going to want to leave, promise.” Pete reached out to put his arm around Pat’s back, rubbing a palm along her side.

2. Girl!Patrick/Girl!Pete
Probably PG
Just a cute little drabble.
I don't have much so far.
Pete sighed softly and rolled onto her stomach, cupping her own chin in her hands. Crisp blades of grass scratched into her elbows, along the strip of skin around her hips where her shirt rode up against the ground. The sun was high in the sky, the air around them smelling like heat and sweat, salt and citrus. Chicago, for as far north it was, got balls hot in the summer.
3. Bob/Patrick
Probably R
Just a little bit of canon from when Patrick and Bob lived together briefly. 'Things you don't know about Bob Bryar'.
I have quite a bit of this but it's choppy.
One thing about Bob Bryar that a lot of people didn’t know was that he was one huge marshmallow. Perhaps even an entire jar of marshmallow fluff. A lot of people thought he was some no nonsense hardass or bastard or something; which was understandable. Bob had that angry face and all. But there were a handful of people that knew him as exactly what he was – a total softie. Not even the big teddy bear that Frank described him as, either. Robert Bryar was a fleece blanket.

Patrick had been afraid of Bob at first. They were going to room together, after all. Patrick was a total slob, too. He was fine living with Pete or Joe or Andy because they were his best friends and they all knew he was a total scalawag. It wasn’t like he lay around for days in his own filth, though – he showered. Patrick just maybe didn’t take the time to clean his hair out of the sinks or wash the splatters of toothpaste off of the mirror. And sweepers; fuck sweepers! Patrick was usually too buried in vocal work or remixes to be bothered with dusting, anyway. Patrick had heard all of the stories about him and he had seen him around on tours and Warped was always a bad time to talk to anyone and the times Patrick had actually caught a few free moments to talk with any member of the band they were all too pooped from playing. Patrick had a right to be afraid. He was soft and small and he bruised easily.

4. Bob/Patrick
R+
More canon about how Bob and Patrick lived together, how they ~got into a relationship. Kind of.
Here you go.

Bob had roomed with Patrick once before. He was a kid, full of energy and bright smiles with that head of is-that-red hair like Bob had in the winter. Patrick had rigged up some sort of super dork paradise island around the television they shared; he had a separate suitcase full of old Nintendo games and a game system, there was a Sega with Sonic The Hedgehog and an Atari and Bob had called him a nerd when Patrick took about an hour to set each of the systems up in a perfect sort of sync without any of the cords tangling or twisting. Bob had been impressed, though. And maybe a little bit excited because, shit, Atari!

Bob plopped down on the couch with his practice pad in his lap, tapping out a few beats along to the bleeps of Super Mario Brothers while Patrick sat cross-legged in front of the television; Bob briefly wished he’d turn around in the static glow and groan out ‘they’re baaaack’. Patrick was stomping evil mushrooms down like it was his job, he was pretty much kicking ass, taking names, and getting pretty princess Peach to fall for him. Bob sat back with a little smirk. Maybe rooming with an uber nerd wasn’t so bad after all.

5. Frank/Gerard
R
Was supposed to be my mcr halloween fic buuuuut didn't happen.
This is all I have.

Gerard found him sprawled face down in the center of the street. His body had obscured the solid yellow lines from half a mile away. At first he thought that someone had hit a deer and left it to die on the yellow stripes. However as he drove closer his headlights ate the shadows and he was pressing a lead foot onto his brakes to skid to a stop.

His jeans were torn – bloody at the knees which had been torn out. His shoes were gone completely; the bottoms of his socks had ashy footprints smeared into them. His t-shirt was ripped into tiny little fragments and the skin that was exposed was mottled with wounds and scars, some of the chipping highway pressed in to the deepest and grizzliest. His face was pressed into the sharp bend of his elbow and the black tuft of his hair was gleaming with grease or dirt or blood.

“Shit!” Gerard jumped from his car, radio twanging Morrissey where the door hung open. “Kid, are you okay?” He bounced back on his heels, balancing beside the body with his hands out and fingers splayed like wings just inches above the torn material of his shirt.

Don’t move the body. It pounded through his head like a fist, tore at his brains and ears like glass shards. He’d watched it in movies, heard it on the television and read it in books. Don’t move the body.

They didn’t move Henry Letham in the end; they gripped his hands and allowed him to die on the bridge with his burning car and his dead girlfriend and his dead parents. Lila Culpepper said she’d marry him when he deluded that she was Athena. It was all okay as long as you didn’t move the body.

Gerard was not capable of watching someone die. He could watch a murder filtered through a screen or projected from a high balcony but he knew for a fact that he never wanted to come face to face with the man named Death.

“Fuck!” His scream was desperate, screeching and unheard by the rest of humanity. “Come on, man. Wake up.” He clenched his fists and shook them as if it might help.

There was movement, his back rising and falling with a steady breath. The kid pulled his knees towards his chest and a small whine of protest came through.

Fuck it. Gerard couldn’t just let the kid lay in the middle of the street in the high light of the moon. There were woods all around them, animals, crazy people. He was just a kid. He was frail, he was wounded and he wouldn’t last the night. And just for the record Gerard was not excited about the prospect of sitting on a highway in the middle of the night.

“Alright, I’m gonna lift you, ‘kay?” The tip of Gerard’s tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth as he wedged his arms under the shoulders and knees of the body on the asphalt. “I’m gonna lift right now and if it hurts you just tell me. I’m gonna take you into my car and it’s gonna be okay.” He strained his back, lifted with his knees and stood with the kid.

6. Frank/Gerard
R+
Another take on my mcr halloween fic that never happened. A breakout of Ebola.
Here you go.

Gerard drives the entire way to Frank’s apartment in Jersey from New York without a stop. He can’t tell if the feeling slowly creeping into his tense shoulders and neck is dread or if it was only caused by the uncomfortable way he’d been hunched over the steering wheel while driving.

He shouldn’t be anxious. They’ve know each other for the larger chunk of their lives so what was the big deal with going to visit an old friend? They didn’t exactly leave on bad terms but Gerard has trouble remembering because he was pretty drunk back then more than half of the time his eyes were open. The last time he remembered seeing Frank it was at a party a mutual friend had thrown – there was a band and cake and those stupid little vegetable platters and all Gerard really focused on was the seemingly endless supply of booze that was heaped behind a stack speaker. He hadn’t even said “Happy Birthday” to the birthday boy before he was too fucked up to walk straight. He just kept giggling and pushing the greasy hair out of his face and talking up who ever happened to be in front of him.

It had been at least two hours before Gerard saw Frankie for the first time. He wasn’t sure if he had been there all along or if he had just shown up fashionably late. But there was a lot of vomit and Gerard must have taken the wrong ratio of alcohol to pills and turned into an asshole because the next morning he woke up and went the entire day without speaking to Frank. Maybe he just got sick of him acting like the victim and ended their relationship then. Gerard didn’t remember.

In fact, Gerard never remembered. He never remembered birthdays, anniversaries, dates, important things he probably should have written down on the calendar he forgot to flip. He barely remembered to turn onto Kinney before he was too far past to make the curve.
7. Bob/Patrick
PG-13 +
Patrick gets SMASHED.

His head is rolling, fucking rolling in the clouds and flying and there is this burning in his stomach like black coffee or stupidity and shit, he was so not this drunk five minutes ago.

He’s hot all over. Stripping himself out of his sweater; shaking his fist out of the wristband because, fuck that, everything is harder when you’re swirling up around in the spackle of the ceiling. It’s funny, though, because less than two hours ago he’d been scrolling his fingers over the keys on the piano and belting out Little Red Corvette, giggling over a red plastic cup filled with ruby wine while he tripped over the explanation about how he was “much more efficient” with alcohol in his system. You know, except for when he had to stand up and stairs, fuck, they’re so much steeper with a fuzzy ring around his vision.

And seriously, Patrick could give a shit less about getting smashed every night like Pete sometimes saw the need to do. He liked being drunk, sure, who didn’t?

8. Patrick/Pete, Bob/Patrick
R+
I've Got A Dark Alley And A Bad Idea That Says You Should Shut Your Mouth (Summer Song) fic. I haven't done one yet so stfu. Pete doesn't really give Patrick what he needs so he gets it from Bob but Patrick just can't tell Pete goodbye.
This is all I have.

Patrick never liked to talk about is relationship with Pete. It was just a topic he avoided because, well, it wasn’t even really a relationship at all.

He didn’t know how it started, really, he just got to the fucking after party and he saw Gerard and Frank and they smiled at him and there were drinks passed around, everyone was smoking cigarettes. Frank was rubber-legged, pressed against Gerard’s shoulder and Patrick couldn’t help but just stare into Gerard’s clear sky eyes as he smiled. He had more self control than Patrick was ever going to gather and, god, he was hammered already, he totally was.

9. Bob/Frank
R+
Frank works at an emergency room, winter breaks out and everyone is sick as usual. Until a strange virus starts spreading. Ebola-esque. Was going to be written for mcrfightclub christmas fic but I never finished it because I blow.
Here you are.

The snowflakes covered everything in a thin film of danger – apparently it wasn’t cold enough for the snow to blanket but cold enough that if the moisture was thick enough on the sidewalk there were chances of ice patches and god damn, was Frank less than thrilled.

Frank loved Christmas. The atmosphere began to change right after Thanksgiving and the air gave into all of the sweet scents and feelings of December and they joy of Christmastime. The air became colder, the coldest still to come, and snow fell from the sky like cotton – the winter could get bitter in Jersey. Lots of ice, an angry Jack Frost completely vicious at one’s nose, and unforgivably chapped lips, cold-red cheeks and dry skin, hard workers working even harder. Even if being entirely awake and alert from the middle of November to February was quite painful it was worth staying up to greet the sun on Christmas Eve watching twenty-four hours of A Christmas Story and annoying your friends and family with recitations of ‘You’ll shoot your eye out, kid!’ for a week after all of the presents had been opened and begun to lose their shine.

In his mind Christmas in Jersey was just like that movie – kitschy in ways that should be embarrassing to anyone who had ever been to New York or Los Angeles and told a stick-thin baby faced model or spiky haired punk about the ways at home. The stale, dehydrated Christmas trees left up to rot as long as the cat left the needles alone, deflated Christmas Santa and reindeer decorations that lay under the snow weeks after the cheer had left the building. It was fantastic.

10. Untitled NaNoWriMo project that I never finished.
Rish.
Currently 12,621 words. I suck.

just do it

Sun, 30 Nov 2008 21:04:33 GMT

mcrfightclub

The Sweetest Thing

Fri, 24 Oct 2008 07:18:54 GMT

Title: The Sweetest Thing
Author: shootingducks
Paring: Frank Iero/Mikey Way
Rating: PG
Summary: Atop the soft black fabric are bones. They’re all down the front of him, ribcage, hips, ulna and radius, long bleach white shins and toes. From his neck up, though, is soft milk white.
Disclaimer: You're retarded if you think this is real.
Note: Written for the spookathon prompts.

Frank comes out of the bedroom and he’s clad in skin tight black spandex. Against the plain crème of the wall his arms look like twigs, the smooth curves of his hips are as tempting as a ruby red chunk of watermelon in the middle of a desert. Atop the soft black fabric are bones. They’re all down the front of him, ribcage, hips, ulna and radius, long bleach white shins and toes. From his neck up, though, is soft milk white. His face is porcelain, clean, he’s smiling.

It is typical, his costume, but Mikey doesn’t have much more to brag about. He’s clad in black jeans, a simple t-shirt and a leather jacket he borrowed from his brother. “You look fantastic.” He snorted.

“Yeah, and what are you? A bat outta hell?” Frank stuck the tip of his cotton candy pink tongue out of the corner of his mouth.

“I’m a dark and stormy night.” Mikey set his hands on his hips and rolled his eyes. “Shut up. Just because I’m not tall enough to fit into something made for a twelve year old doesn’t mean—“

“Okay, whatever, you dressed up as the Michelin man. You just have lame costumes!”

“I was Stay Puft!” Mikey groaned.

Frank’s pout opened up as he began to speak but the bathroom door opened and Gerard walked out with a tiny, silver package in his arms. “Diaper on is fresh, she’s rippin’ to go, and she looks adorable.” He held the baby up in his arms, smiling, his cheeks puffed up and his eyes quirked in the corner.

She was tiny and round. She had pink cheeks and huge, dark chocolate orbs and a tiny pink mouth. She was dressed up in silver with a little silver dome on her thick, brown hair. She was a Hershey kiss.

“I guess we’re going to have to let you dress her for Halloween from now on, aren’t we?” Mikey smiled as Frank stepped forward to bend over their baby girl. She waved her hands and he touched a finger to his palm, she squeezed her fingers around his.

“Yes, I like that idea.” Gerard beamed as he handed her over to her father Frank. He set his hands on his hips and nodded with a happy grin. “Yes, that’s perfect!”

Mikey smiled at his brother and nodded his head. “Sure, but we get her for every other holiday.”

Frank hovered over her, pressing his lips to her powder-soft skin and touching a gentle finger to her nose. He was grinning, huge and stretched across his face.

Mikey had a picture of him like that on his mantle from the day they brought her home. And he got to see it every day when they woke up to their daughter and the soft morning glow of sun. And that was all that mattered.

The Son of Daedalus

Sun, 12 Oct 2008 08:46:11 GMT

Title: The Son of Daedalus
Author: shootingducks
Paring: Frank/Jamia
Rating: PG
Summary: Eyes blazing with fascination as the huge, lace colored wings draped gracefully down the span of his back.
Disclaimer: It's a lie, I swear.
Warnings/notes: Follow up to The Envy of Icarus 1,005 words.

She stood at the mouth of the sliding glass doors; eyes blazing with fascination as the huge, lace colored wings draped gracefully down the span of his back, glowing in the low light of the sun. He was almost a silhouette as the sun set in front of him, he was practically a statue and Jamia wouldn’t have believed he was real if she hadn’t witnessed the magnificence sprout from his back only hours before. The mug of tea had gone cold in her grasp.

A breeze kissed at her cheeks; a soft fluttering broke her from her stupor as the maple wind blew a soft scent of smoke in swirling tangents up towards her nose. A cigarette burned between his fingertips, sitting at the very edge of the concrete terrace attached to the back of their home. She shivered gently as the cool autumn air danced around her bare arms, making greedy gestures at her daisy-white skin. She took a step forward and stopped dead in her tracks as he rooted up, wings breaking up as he turned to look at her.

A crooked smile broke his mask. Frank patted the cement beside him with a steady palm.

Jamia took a few steps forward and dropped to his side, offering the mug to him with an unsteady hand and he took it with a soft grin. Jamia gave him a once-over, looking from his angelic face to the smooth drop of his shoulders, the familiar expanse of his tattooed chest and she laughed softly.

“You’re like a gargoyle.” She whispered.

“Do you think I can fly?”

There was a powerful flutter from behind them, Frank’s wings mindlessly expressing some sort of excitement as he spoke.

“Do you think you can fly?” Jamia answered with her face straight ahead to confront the setting sun.

The sky spat fire at them, glowing amber and orange and yellow-red along the soft span of their noses and cheeks, a dimple in Frank’s face underlined with a shadow.

“They’re new,” He said. “Like baby birds. They can’t fly right away.”

“For some strange reason I don’t think you’re a baby bird.”

Frank took a gulp of the half-warm chamomile tea and cast his eyes out towards the setting sun as if he might try and jump straight into the melting pool of warmth and just lounge for a few moments. Jamia stole a sideways glance in his direction and wished she could take a Polaroid of the exact way he looked at that broken second in time.

“Do they hurt anymore?”

Frank shook his head. “Nah, just in the room.”

For a moment Jamia was gripped by the terror that visited her only a few hours before. The tightness in her chest and throat; the tears at her eyes. The moments before Frank’s wings came were quite possibly the worst moments in her life.

Not the embarrassment of a first failed PE examination in front of the rest of the class. No the hesitant scuffle of feet and the clumsy clash of lips and crack of teeth of her first kiss. Not even falling off of her heels her freshmen homecoming dance. Not even close.

She had never felt terror as potent as that before in her entire life. Her heart thudded with the dregs of adrenaline in her blood, like ice claiming her veins as their own. Jamia would never feel the paralyzing terror or the earth-shattering panic she had felt in the moment before wings sprouted from her husband’s perfect porcelain back again in her life.

She didn’t know what to think when she ran to discover Frank hunched over in pain, body wound so tightly she feared he might combust if she laid a finger on him. She had never heard the desperation in his voice before, never smelled fear before.

It was acrid like burning flesh and potent like garlic. It rose up with sharply filed nails and clawed at her insides; it thrashed in her airways and clogged her throat. It dug its way down into her stomach and disturbed the serenity of her insides, gagged her like a fist in her mouth.

And then it disappeared. It was like an exhale of smoke ribbons whisked away by the wind. It was there, real and thrashing inside of her and ripping through their bedroom and as soon as Frank’s wings exploded from his skin everything was okay.

She’d never seen anything so magnificent in her life. They were huge, bright white and sparkled with a sort of royalty as they flopped lazily like a cat’s tail. They sparkled even in the half-light of dusk. They were great without being clumsy and heavy; they curled up to fit perfectly in the contours of Frank’s back, in the dips and valley’s she’d come so accustomed to trace with her fingers.

“Can you even fucking believe them?” Frank broke her from her trance.

Jamia’s lips quirked up in the corners and she lifted a tentative hand to the feathers on his back. Jamia imagined they were what a cloud felt like, cool and cottony and pretty. They were perfect for Frank; soft, smooth, the color of lilies. She smoothed her palm down over them, softly with a barely there touch.

“I think they suit you.” She told him as she dropped her hand back to her side.

Frank reached out to clasp her fingers, cold in his palm like a coin. He smiled crookedly and turned to look at her. He took in her entire face, eyes and lips and nose.

“Will you let me take you flying?” His voice is that of a child’s, she smiled because he’s still the same. She could pick him out from a thousand others just by touching his fingers and hearing him say “Baby, how about a peanut butter and jelly?”.

“When you learn how to use those things?” She pursed her lips and hummed for a moment in thought.

“I think I’d love for you to take me flying.”

get off your ass if you're hungry, you lazy zombie fuck

Wed, 08 Oct 2008 08:35:05 GMT

It was a soft vibrating glow from his television screen; the bleach-white xylophone grins and soft whirring of expensive espresso machines, of nine ninety five shipping and handling, of that false family setting around a square table with spaghetti and fresh-from-your-garden tomato sauce.

thank you, asofterworld.com for being amazing and inspirational and that was the beginning of my trippy shit growing fic.

The Envy of Icarus

Tue, 23 Sep 2008 08:51:11 GMT

Title: The Envy of Icarus
Author: shootingducks
Paring: Frank/Jamia
Rating: R
Summary: She'd always seen something bright within Frank but it was nothing like this in her head.
Disclaimer: It's a lie.
Warnings/notes: Swearing, bit visceral but not really. 1,284 words. For the wtf27 challenge table, prompt 004. wings.

Frank had been out of commission for days, now. He’d been holed up in his bed under the stale sheets, wearing holes and grinding stains deep down into the fabric. He hadn’t even gotten up to smoke a cigarette, left the glasses of water sit on the bedside table to turn tepid and let the television on to chase away the sounds of his groaning.

It started out as regular aches and pains that he dismissed as the beginnings of a cold or the repercussions of working too hard, or “rocking too hard” as Ray had called it. He continued living normally on their off days, enjoying the time off with his dogs and his girl, going for coffee with old friends and repairing lost connections. He’d continued going out, he met up with his mom a week after he’d gotten home and even treated Jamia to a few nights out on the town no matter how much she insisted she’d rather be home on the couch with him watching bad horror movies or sappy love stories with the dogs. He went on the outings to get groceries, went to parties and gotten drunk enough to deaden his aches, fooled around in the car to sober up and went into the office to deal with t-shirt designs and mailing, mailing, mailing packages out.

He didn’t complain about it at first because, well hell, he’d hurt worse before and he could take it. There was no need to burden others with the weight, quite literally, on his shoulders. It wasn’t until three weeks into his vacation that it had become unbearable.

He’d stayed prone in bed, smacking the snooze button each time the alarm clock screamed out. He found it difficult to move, the joints in his shoulders and all the way down to his knuckles were tight, cumbersome. His entire body creaked, the full length of his spine throbbed each time he moved a toe and when he pushed himself out of bed he couldn’t straighten enough to walk straight.

“Take a day off, Frank.” She’d worried over their morning coffee. “You’re supposed to be recuperating, anyway. You’ve done nothing but run since you got home.” She had never been the type to worry; Frank had always sorted things straight before she would ever have time to begin to fuss over a problem. Frank’s pain hadn’t subsided, he’d begun complaining and that morning he acted twice his age.

Frank insisted on working, again. He’d gone in a bit late, moved a little slower than usual but he had finished his work and that was all that mattered to him. He met Jamia outside after their day had finished, his hands gripping his lower back through his t-shirt, face contorted in an attempt to dull the ache.

Jamia’s eyebrows pulled up in the center and she frowned, “I’ll drive.”

It was straight to bed that evening and even harder to get up the next morning. Frank awoke with fire breaking along the span of his shoulders, his muscles tensing around his arms, he writhed in pain on the empty mattress, and the scent of a freshly made pot of coffee was assaulting his nostrils, making his stomach contort.

Jamia leaned on the door frame, eyes resting on Frank as he looked to her helplessly, tears blurring his vision.

“Fuck it, Frank.” She said, her head shaking and her shoulders slumping a little. “I’m calling off for you today.”

She checked on him periodically, walking to his side to press her fingertips to his forehead, checking his temperature and bother him to take a drink and a pain pill. At first he argued, he complained about missing work and sat up on the mattress, wiped the sweat from his brow and gave Jamia the serious face that said “I’m fine, really” but she didn’t buy it. It was when Frank stopped complaining about work, when the silence set in, that she became nervous.

He was still on the mattress, face pressed deep into the pillows, arms spread out like eagle wings. His back rose and fell with his breath, no more whimpers or groans – he was sleeping. It soothed Jamia’s worries a bit.

“Oh God!” The exclamation startled her, the pure agony in the voice made her stomach cramp and she started back the hallway, leaping into their bedroom.

“God, fuck!”

Frank was gripping his hair, knees bracing his body and head pressed into the pillows, eyes pinched shut and mouth open to scrape in some air. Jamia stood frozen beside the bed, throat tight at the sight, limbs stiff in shock.

“Frank?”

Heavy, deep breaths were her answer, gasps and groaning; a profound, sorrowful moan. If Jamia didn’t know any better she’d have thought Frank to be mind-blowingly drunk.

She dropped down onto the bed, leaning in heavily to inspect him; she laid a cool hand lovingly on Frank’s shoulder. “Tell me what hurts.”

“Oh, God. Everything.” His body heaved with the effort of speaking without screaming, his spine arched, his sock-clad toes dug into the mattress, gripping the sheets.

Jamia scanned over the crumpled mass in their bed which once was her husband. Her hands hovered above his trembling form, her eyes searched for an answer to end his pain. “Where the most?”

There was a lull in the conversation, a fast, sharp inhale and an inhuman groan of pain. Jamia felt the vibrations from the vocalization from her spot on the mattress. “Unh, back.” He managed. “My back.”

Jamia wasted no time. She braced herself on her knees and gripped the hem of Frank’s t-shirt, wasting all regard for his pain and ripping the offending article over his head before she threw it across the room. Her jaw fell in horror, her eyes opened up like a Jasmine blossom at midnight. Frank’s back was bulging – there were writhing masses across his shoulders making obscene motions underneath his skin, obscuring his tattoos and causing him pain.

“Oh God, it fucking burns,” Frank bit into the pillow under his face. “’Mia, God Jay, what is it?” The terror in his voice took Jamia by the throat and tugged as hard as it could. Tears bit forcefully at her eyes, her breath burned in her lungs.

“I don’t know, Frank.” She whimpered, fingers floating just centimeters above the thrashing under his skin. Her hands shook, her lips trembled. The moment her skin touched his the wriggling masses underneath broke through, skin splitting cleanly as though it’d been cut, viscous liquid spilling over her fingers.

“Ugh!” Jamia pulled her hands back instinctively, wiping her digits on her jeans. Frank’s shriek of pain stabbed at her ear drums, nearly covering the nauseating wet sound and the powerful woosh that sent tendrils of her hair flying wildly about her shoulders.

Frank was silent. His body had stopped convulsing and he’d relaxed into a flat blanket on the mattress and there were two, distinctively large, white-hot-light wings sprouting from the broken flesh on his back. His wings were swaying idly, feathers sleek, drying as they flexed and twitched. Their color was magnificent, blindingly bright, seemingly glowing in the dull of the room. She’d always seen something bright inside of Frank but it was nothing like this in her head.

“Frank.” She was too frightened to step forward, too stunned.

“Jay?” His voice was softer then; mellow like right after he’d woken up to lemon pucker sunshine in his eyes, like when he smiled.

“You okay?” She took a tentative step forward.

“What happened?” He rested his sweaty face on the pillows, eyes watching as Jamia kneeled on the bed with her gaze stuck to his back. All of the pain had faded. It had exploded in a head of pressure and crimson orange fire and then all of it was gone.

Her lips were parted as she drew a shaking breath in, hands outstretched, fingers quivering as they moved closer to the massive wings. They were warm on her skin, nuzzling up against her touch like Frank did when she brushed the hair out of his eyes. The feathers were soft and they sparkled all clear cut diamonds and glitter. “They’re wings, Frank.” Her astonishment was clear in her tone; eyes alight with fire and fascination. “You’ve got fucking wings.”

eyes blazing with fascination as the huge, lace colored wings draped gracefully down the span of his back

i'm hating every minute that i don't speak out loud

Tue, 16 Sep 2008 18:24:31 GMT

I smell fall --- you are a fox, slipping in like smoke through the clouds or a bird landing on the window sill in the break of the dawn. You are fog, rolling in with the sweet scent of maple. You are craft festivals, you are sweet smelling, you are the bringer of death, you are cranberry jam and the color of thanks. You are deep, rich, red red red and yellow. You are golden apples and deadened leaves, sharp, rough bark against the backs of lovers under the shade. You are the sticky kiss of candied apples, you are the lights of the Ferris wheel, you are the vines snaking around the wrists of trees and the ankles of homes, you are the crack in the voice of the singer, you are the foreboding of red raw noses and glassy eyes.

steadfast

Mon, 15 Sep 2008 23:57:54 GMT

Title: Steadfast [1/?]
Author: shootingducks
Paring: Mikey/Gerard (non-romantic), Mikey/Frank (overall)
Rating: PG (R, overall)
Summary: He did remember being in Gerard’s rust colored beater and laughing, leaning over the dashboard to fiddle with the volume knob on the stereo but its all static after that.
Warnings: Eventually lots of emotions, wheelchair!mikey. Alternate universe.

When his eyes open that’s when he realizes he’s awake – he felt the fingers of consciousness tugging at his eyelids and making his toes twitch and the corners of his lips tremble but he couldn’t find his way through the tunnel to the light. He feels harder then, more real. He’d been sleeping and the lines of his body softened into little pools of pudding and his dreams blurred in with the familiar voices he could hear through the gauze of dark. His eyes had been so heavy, his tar coated lungs breathing deep and even as his body sunk lower and lower into sleep. He didn’t mind it, though. The slumber was so bottomless he swore he could feel the pressure, like being so deep into the water your eardrums feel like they might burst.

There is a soft rustling in the room, paper plastic sheets rubbing together and the tiny wheeze of a breath sucking in, someone rubbing a palm under their nose and across their eyes – the familiar sound of waking. It’s almost like being home, under his twelve-year-old covers with his toes frozen like tiny flesh flavored ice cubes except his mouth tastes like plastic. There is a flavor on his tongue and in his cheeks that reminds him of the way a new toy smells; chemical and slightly wrong. There is absolutely no saliva to soften his poor, stiff tongue and it seems as though his lips have shriveled into brittle twigs of what they used to be.

The blur slowly clears from his vision and he can see the pure white spackle of the ceiling and suddenly he thinks, this isn’t home. He tries to speak but it is as if he’s been holding his mouth open for too long and he’s breathing in cat hair or cotton and it catches right in the back of his throat and he coughs; it hurts. His throat is just as dry and brittle as the rest of his mouth and he wonders briefly if he even has teeth.

“Mikey?” There is a familiar voice and a soft swoosh as a blanket falls to the floor and the sound of bare feet slapping against a linoleum floor and then there is Gerard’s face hanging over his, eyes wide as if he’d grown another head. “Mikes?” A smile broke his face in half, familiar tiny teeth grinned and eyes pinched in a smile Mikey felt he hadn’t seen in years.

“’M right here, Gee.” Through dust caked lips, it seemed, he smiled.

“How are you feeling? You okay?”

As his eyes scanned his surroundings, Mikey realized he wasn’t at home at all and it explained quite a lot. There was a tall window directly in front of him, the blinds pulled down to block out the gray sun; a green pleather reclining chair with its open in facing Mikey, a television on mute tacked high up in the corner of a conservative cream colored wall. Mikey was in a hospital.

“Gee, where am I?”

Any relief that had been sewn into Gerard’s features then melted off and all that was left was a shell of the brother Mikey knew. There was desperation in his eyes, a fear and Mikey swore he could see the hands groping blindly, madly for some sort of explanation.
He didn’t remember much of what Gerard chronicled. He did remember being in Gerard’s rust colored beater and laughing, leaning over the dashboard to fiddle with the volume knob on the stereo but its all static after that. He remembered dreaming about a girl with long, bark colored hair in the fourth grade. He dreamt about the day, right after he got his glasses, when she kissed his cheek behind a water fountain during recess. She moved away two months after that.

From what Gerard had told him there was an SUV that magically appeared in front of them in the intersection and they slammed head first into the side. Gerard’s car was totaled; the other vehicle was partially damaged. Gerard had a bloody nose and a few scrapes and Mikey had escaped with his life and that was about it.

Gerard was hesitant about it at first, going slow and dancing around the topics of injuries, of Mikey and why exactly he’d been sleeping and hooked up to several wires and tubes. Mikey’d been out for nine days straight, Gerard had slept in the rickety green chair each night he was out and “I brought you coffee every morning hoping you’d wake up and, y’know, smell it or something”. The doctors kept speaking in medical terms, technical and foreign to Gerard’s ears until they mentioned “paralyzed” and “severed vertebrae”.

The look on Gerard’s face showed the pain he must have been feeling inside. Mikey winced, his eyes wandering off in several different directions; following the dust that settled in their silence. The man on the television was raving about some portable grill, there was a constant beep beep beep coming from down the hall and the smooth hum of the machines hooked up to the walls and jammed into Mikey’s skin.

“Are you okay?”

He knew he should have been more affected when Gerard told him his legs would be useless, he felt he should have been angry or sad or some shit like that but he didn’t feel much. Maybe that’s what happened when people found out news like that, maybe they just froze up and stopped caring and stopped talking. Mikey found his mouth to be useless, his tongue swelled and cumbersome and he forgot how to speak.

That’s how it must be when people find out they have a terminal illness.

“I’m sorry, sir, you have cancer.”

And then complete and utter silence.

Mikey didn’t exactly feel anything because he’d just found out and hell, he was fucking alive and he wasn’t smashed into the pavement somewhere and he was breathing, he could feel the coolness of the air in the hospital on his face and he could blink his eyes. He could talk and he could see and hear. He could make out the lines of the trees outside the window; he could hear the television and the nurses chattering halfway down the hall. At that moment nothing mattered other than he was alive.

“Mikey,” Gerard’s voice broke through the thickness of the moment and suddenly the world went back to normal speed. “You okay?”

He shrugged his shoulders, his lip pouting out in a “sure, why not?” sort of way. “I mean, yeah.” He said, looking to his brother. “I’m not dead.”

Silver and Gold

Fri, 25 Jul 2008 21:25:08 GMT

Title: Silver and Gold
Author: xxeffulgent / shootingducks
Paring: William/Skandar
Rating: R, to be safe.
Summary: a challenge to keep their breathing soft and low, so the wind could not carry it off for another to hear. This was their time, their present, and their reality.
Prompt: Slutty Skandar @ 100foraslan
Notes: For my Carla! Warnings for slashy goodness. Also, pretty fluffy. 529 words. RPF.

There we’re slobbery bite marks cascading down William’s neck, the collar of his shirt pulled and stretched so Skandar’s lips could find the soft slope of his clavicles; tongue, teeth, lip, kiss, bite.

There was chatter about them, a soft chirping of cast and crew setting up for the next shot; the soft lapping of the ocean on the shore. The heat was gauzy around them, thick with moisture and Skandar’s tongue in his mouth, Skandar’s lips on his. The boy was so cool in Will’s grip, boney shoulders like a puzzle in his palm.

Skandar’s knee was urgently forcing William’s thighs apart, his body sinking closer to the others. Their hips clashed, William’s full and bronzed while Skandar was creamy and sharp. The heat came when he pushed William’s body backwards into the sun baked wall of a trailer, Anna’s trailer, mashed his thigh in between both of Will’s and there was a moment when the air between them froze completely, dropped to the ground and their eyes met without the haze of heat to veil them.

It was a thrill when a voice called out one of their names, when a sound of swishing pants or scraping feet came closer, a challenge to keep their breathing soft and low, so the wind could not carry it off for another to hear. This was their time, their present, and their reality.

Will’s head fell gracefully into the smooth curve of Skandar’s neck into his shoulder, his forehead slick with sweat and burning hot to the touch. William mouthed what skin was touching his pout, lips opening and closing as to draw in ragged breaths that he couldn’t keep down. The warmth building in his lower abdomen, the steady pressure of Skandar’s knee in between William’s legs, the doeish look in Skandar’s eyes (like the time William woke him from a nap for a swim), it was all enough to nudge William closer to the edge.

“Good God, Skandar—“ Will’s voice was like sandpaper, void of all oxygen to his brain he couldn’t think of much to say when Skandar’s hand cupped his hip, when he dragged his fingers over the lumpy waistband of his trousers, snuck a quick palm to sweep over William’s clammy chest.

They pressed harder together, William arching off of the trailer to catch more delicious friction, Skandar to capture a kiss or two, to breathe in the scent of Will; his hair, his shampoo and his soap—he smelled so clean for rehearsing battle scenes all day. “William Moseley, you’re irresistible.” But it could have been mistaken for a sigh.

“Skandar,” William said his name as if it we’re the Holy Grail, some righteous being, a sacred name, a secret. “Oh, Skandar.” Will’s fingers found purchase in the fabric of Skandar’s shirt, his hips jerking along with the fluid motion of Skandar’s. It was ocean blue melting into caramel and William’s rose petal lips letting out the softest whimper, his entire body pulsing and going limp. Skandar gripped William’s hips to hold him straight.

“Pull yourself together,” his voice ghosted over William’s sweaty cheeks like poetry. “You’ve got another shot in five minutes.”

Oh, it's so Amazing Here

Wed, 25 Jun 2008 03:27:12 GMT

Title: Oh, it’s so Amazing Here
Author: shootingducks
Paring: William/Skandar
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Sunburn, strawberry frozen yogurt, broken cell phones.
A/N: In response to hotfruits’s challenge (prompts 2,6,1). I was listening to several variations of “Let Go” by Frou Frou (and the cover artists) whilst writing this and it some how came out to be vaguely sexual (and it’s also where the title came from). Don’t ask me how. Also, I seem to be channeling slightly moody Will, see: Prince Caspian Peter.

Categories – 2, sunburn. Things said – 6, “Strawberry frozen yogurt, my fave!”. Problems – 1, Broken cell phones.

William rested his body in the cool emerald waves of grass as the rest of the group splashed around in the foamy tides of the creek they’d just happened across. Georgie’s voice was the loudest, she screamed and laughed while Ben or Anna splashed at her and Will could just imagine Skandar off somewhere deep in the water looking at the life below them like he might be a scientist some day. The kid might have been born from intelligent blood but he was better off acting, where people could see his pretty face.

They soaked up the air and the sun as the day went on, came early in the after noon to avoid the traffic rush and stayed until early evening. It was still daylight out when the cast headed home; Ben going to eat somewhere near his hotel, Anna taking Georgie back to their room before she passed out from the exhaustion of the day and Skandar convinced Will to drive him to get a sweet treat before they headed back in for the night.

“Do you even know where this place is?”

“I’m driving, aren’t I?”

“Except I’m pretty sure we’re going the wrong way because—“

“Damn.” Will pressed the brakes a bit harder than necessary when they came onto a one-way street.

“Told you.” Skandar laughed a bit, sneaking a glance over at the driver.

“Oh, piss off, Skan.”

Skandar eventually guided Will through the streets towards the correct destination, a small and quite charming ice cream station located in the damn middle of no where. Skandar himself had visited the place several times in the days that they’d been spending in the city and got his fix of frozen goodies. When William asked him just how he came about the place Skandar looked up at him, quite condescendingly, thought his lashes and leered through the side of his lips.

“I’ve got the most ravenous sweet tooth, Will, you should know.”

And Will remembered the times he’d had to hide his stash of sweeties because Skandar had an extra sense where he could spot sweets even if they were hidden under mounds of socks and underwear.

William stood behind Skandar as the line up to the order window shortened, as they moved order by order over to the window a few steps to the right. He couldn’t help but scan over the pastel slopes of his shoulders, scale down the lovely curve of Skandar’s slightly pink neck. They were fourth in line with several people behind them hungry for ice cream and William still couldn’t take his eyes from the perfect form that was standing impatiently in front of him.

“You’re going to be so red when you wake tomorrow.” Will leaned in closer to his companion as he spoke, his warm breath floating over the exposed pane of Skan’s flesh. His voice was husky with the humidity laid around them thickly, he couldn’t exactly excuse it.

The corner of Skandar’s mouth pulled up in a satisfied grin to himself and he shrugged. “Maybe you’ll have to buy me something for that, too.” He stepped up to the window when the person in front of him went to receive their goodies.

There were several faded red picnic tables out on the grass surrounding the place so Will followed Skandar and sat opposite if him with the dark sugar cone of vanilla in his fist.

“Mmm.” Skandar’s vocalization sounded so explicitly like a moan that William had to bite down on his plump bottom lip. “Strawberry frozen yogurt, my fave!”

William cocked a queer eyebrow at his cast mate’s exclamation, pushed his head to the side like a dog. “You are so strange, you do know that, right?”

Skandar shrugged. “You like it,” He fed William his words. “Plus, you’re a dork like me. Now, stop gawking at me like I’m bleeding from the eyeballs and try this.” He held up his cone in front of William’s face, the scent of strawberries and fresh yogurt tempting all of his vices and self control.

Their eyes met, the heat was particularly viscous in the space between them and visible. William leaned in slowly, blue eyes locked with brown, and his broad tongue slipped out to stroke the shining side of Skandar’s frozen yogurt. William liked the expression in Skan’s eyes; slightly jaded, darkening when he licked the treat like he’d just been roughly shagged. It was distantly familiar.

“Good, isn’t it?”

William nodded, his tongue making a wide stroke over his lips to capture any left over tastes. “Delicious.”
Skandar swallowed the bundle in his throat, the strawberry yogurt melting in his hand as he stared blankly at the expanse of grass and concrete past Will’s shoulder, looked for the patterns the heat made in the air when the humidity passed a certain point. “Maybe we should go?”

Will nodded, leaving his cone tipped over on the table as he rushed to his car. His hands gripped the steering wheel; his breath came in slow, deep drags as he attempted to calm his body. Skandar was next to him in the passenger seat, the atmosphere in the car was tense, fragile. William turned the engine over and began to drive in the first direction a street would take him.

“Where are you going?” Skandar inquired.

“Not sure.”

A few moments passed, William pressing the gas pedal and the car gained speed. Skandar would have been watching the passing scenery, would have been able to warn Will that they were going in the wrong general direction and they would be crossing over into the next county, but he was far too busy with staring at the gentle dips and slopes of Williams jaw line, his neck. Will was clenching his jaw tight; his knuckles were incandescent from gripping the steering wheel.

“Do you have any idea where we are?”

“We’re lost.” William shrugged, slowing the car at a deserted stop sign. He looked over his shoulder at the boy in his passenger seat and grinned. “I’m pretty sure that’s where we are.”

Skandar leapt like a leopard over to the driver’s seat, attaching his lips to William’s, no regard for the fact that Will still had his foot pressed on the brake.

William’s arm reached around to pull Skandar’s waist closer, their mouths meshing together in the heat of the kiss; he tasted like strawberries. He tasted better than the yogurt he’d been eating. Skan struggled to straddle William’s legs, to move from balancing the center console on his knees to a more comfortable purchase in the warm companionship of William’s thighs – and the two broke from a deep snog to a cracking sound; William’s foot slipped from the brake and he struggled to keep it back down.

“What was that?” Skandar raised a tentative eyebrow, hoping that the crack wasn’t what he’d imagined it to be.

“Pretty certain it was my mobile.” Will pursed his lips and nodded as his hand felt around for the cracked pieces of his cellular telephone. “Yep.” He assured with a tiny grimace.

“Uh..I’m sorry?” Skandar pulled back a bit, testing his waters with Will. “I’ll buy you a new one?”

William laughed, a smile finally breaking into his features. “You’re wonky, you know.”

He shrugged. “Well, I broke it…”

“Well, if you want to…I’d really like a new BlackBerry—“

“Okay, I may look like it but I’m not made of money- Will.” His rant stopped at the feel if William’s hot palms on his thighs and sliding higher.

“Maybe you could put the car in park? Just for a moment?”

10 song fic meme

Sun, 22 Jun 2008 04:53:33 GMT

I got this from pevensiecest / hotfruits and decided to do it because its cuuuute.

Challenge:

1. Pick a character, pairing, or fandom you like.
2. Turn on your music player and put it on random/shuffle.
3. Write a drabble related to each song that plays. You only have the time frame of the song to finish the drabble; you start when the song starts, and stop when it's over. No lingering afterwards!
4. Do ten of these, then post them.

ps. i apologize the first one is soooo short. i was completely distracted. oh and my shuffle was giving me gay songs.

Title: Untitled
Author: shootingducks
Rating: pg - pg15

Cities of Night - Blaqk Audio

A soft breath drove across the exposed slope of William's chiseled shoulder; Skandar closed his eyes against the wave of light that burned from the screen in front of them, gripping onto the soft fabric of Will's t-shirt. The room they'd first met in; the room they'd say goodbye in would need to catch fire if they were to rid of the memories they'd created.

Macys Day Parade - Green Day

Peter fell asleep on the couch halfway through the movie; Susan crawled back to her room for purchase on a more comfortable mattress and a softer cover while Lucy curled up on an over-sized pillow near the foot of the love seat Edmund had scampered up on beside Peter.

And in the silence that left in the wake of Thanksgiving supper; Peter's soft inhale/exhale through open lips and Edmund's urgent sliding closer.

Dear Jamie - Hellogoodbye

He woke early every day just to walk out in bare feet over the concrete to check the aluminum box that letters arrived in his name every day. A quick glance at the return address and searching, waiting for it to say "Skandar" in that hasty scrawl. But it'll take so long for it to arrive because he second-guesses himself, doesn't he?

I could phone him. But Will doesn't have the grip to do it. I know he wouldn't mind. He'd probably be delighted.

But he could also wait for the letter....I don't want to seem pushy. I'm always so aggressive. Which was never a lie...how many times had he been photographed with his arms around his cast members? A thousand. And just a thousand too little, he would never have enough of that kid with the dark hair and big eyes. No. Never.

And his feet drag on the floor as he walks back.

Maria - Green Day

"Will you turn that rubbish down for godsakes?"

Edmund glared at his brother through overgrown bangs, so serious, so dark.

A queer snort came from his oil painted sibling and he rolled his icy blues in the most ostentatious fashion... “If you keep listening to that crap you’re going to turn into some snobby little punk.”

Edmund thumbed the volume up just a bit more in spite of his brother and he grimaced through the side gash of his lips Billy Idol. “Shove off.”

I Saw It On Your Keyboard - hellogoodbye

William played the most exquisite music than Skandar had ever heard before in his dressing room; he had the most extensive collection of albums and burned CD’s that Skan just really could not resist sneaking in when he had a little time just to browse.

The player was on pause, the tiny white ipod attatched to big rectangle speakers that Skandar imagined played all of the wonderful songs he’d been hearing lately. He took the earphones and pushed the keys on the contraption; music filled his ears and the doorknob turned and William shook his locks out at the sight.

“Kid,”

Skandar dropped the player and his eyes, if they possibly could, widened at the sight.

“You know you can ask instead of snooping.

Hide And Seek - Imogen Heap

William laid sloppy lips on Skandar’s cheeks, arms wrapping around his thin shoulder as he fell into his arms. Tripping on his cumbersome feet. “Skan!” His tone, although speech slurred, was content and warm. He smelled like booze.

“Are you drunk?” Skandar laughed despite the dislike of having to keep William upright and flat on his feet. He pressed his slight weight against the towering body of sculpted stone; against William.

He nodded and aimed his lips for Skandar’s own.

He smelled like booze.

And he tasted like wine.

Worst Pies In London - Sweeney Todd Soundtrack

It was the most difficult thing for Peter to do; to sit next to Edmund in the darkest theater in London and to keep his hands to himself. Every time his eyes felt the light dimming his brain frazzled on the wrong ends and he choked a bit as, behind his eyes, he saw the young fumbling he wished he shared with the dark haired boy sitting next to him.

God. It was so wrong and all he could do was itch.

1000 Words, Piano Version - ffx2

Mum always made Lucy play piano for an hour daily, said it would make her more of a lady. Hell, nothing could make her more of a lady. Lucy was as hell bent on ravaging Narnia, she didn’t need trivial things like being able to read piano keys on paper. She wanted to be free; she wanted to ride horses through twists of tree roots. Screw piano lessons.

Okay I Believe You but My Tommy Gun Don't - Brand New

Edmund watched Peter through jealously hazed eyes every moment of their lives. Whether in Narnia or at home in London Edmund held the worst sort of resentment towards his brother; Edmund hated that he was so damned perfect. Peter. High King Peter the Magnificent. More like High King Peter the Moron. Peter always had something smart ass and caustic to say to him, always had some reason to shove Edmund down into the dirt and then step on him.

Edmund hope he suffered for that. When he was gone Peter was going to miss him, it was that simple and Edmund wasn’t going to give him any relief by calling back or coming back. Peter had it all figured out, right? Leave it that way.

Calling You - Blue October

William woke to the booming ring of his phone, the vibrate drumming on his polished wooden bed stand. The clock burned 1:24 bright into his sleep glazed eyes and he rolled over to grab the call. He rubbed his palm over his lips, eyes closing again with the weight of exhaustion. “Hello?”

There was a silence on the other end of the line.

“Damn. I’m sorry, I woke you.” Skandar sounded so small.

William had remembered the smile in his eyes earlier that evening, when he leaned in and pressed their lips together and twirled his fingertips into his thick ebony mop of hair. That boy was mesmerizing. “Yeah, you did.” William breathed in, trembling, through his fingers and smiled. “But it’s okay.”

“I was just calling to see…”

“Yeah,” William grunted a bit in his sleepy haze. “I was dreaming about you.”

Goodbye

Tue, 17 Jun 2008 02:29:52 GMT

Title: Goodbye.
Author: shootingducks
Paring: Peter/Edmund
Rating: PG-15
Summary: No one would admit it but they didn’t really know if Peter would be returning any time soon…or any time at all.

All you can do is try to know who your friends are

Come Clarity

Thu, 14 Feb 2008 05:52:01 GMT

Title: Come Clarity
Author: shootingducks
Rating: R
Pairing: Frank Iero/Matt Rubano (Frubano?)
Summary: The corner of Matt's mouth perked up like the center of a circus tent. It was the demon inside of Matt that controlled him, made Frank ill every time that he couldn't be around that scent.
Any notes/warnings: For my wb shotgunned_lace.

There was static on the line when Matt picked up. The wind howled tiny shards of glass against the building, slapping loudly on the brick and screaming as they splatter in all directions. The world outside was wet and cold, the window threatening to spiderweb out and shatter.

"Hey...man."

"Hey." Matt scratch rubbed his neck and tilted his head to the left.

"Can...uh can I see you?"

The cold reached far into Frank's jacket even as he pulled it closer to his body. He was rail thin now that it just reached skeleton fingers at him and he shivered. His toes were numb and damp in his tattered shoes, biting off nubs of his skin for the cold. He was sure they would never again become warm if he didn't get inside to steam soon.

Matt sat with his fingers steepled around an auburn mug with a chip on the underside of the handle that kept rubbing at the callous on his middle finger. His tongue was caked with a coffee stale, he was shaking already. It could have been the coffee or maybe it was just his nerves.

"It's freezing out."

Frank looked as if he might fall over right then. The cheap booth seat didn't even make a sound as he sat down, he was so light he probably floated on the air trapped inside of the faux leather.

"You're going to catch your death."

Probably wasn't an understatement. Frank might already have trapped it.

"You wanna get out of here?"

He shook his head, tousled and matted onyx locks falling over the eyes shadowed with sleep deprived pillows. Frank reached over to steal out the mug from Matt's hands and bring it to his own lips. The coffee was almost as light as his skin, too sweet, almost gritty with sugar. "How the fuck do you drink this shit?"

"Get your own then." The corner of Matt's mouth perked up like the center of a circus tent. One look at that grin and Frank could smother a child. It was the demon inside of Matt that controlled him, made Frank ill every time that he couldn't be around that scent, if he couldn't remember the candy cellophane eyes that held his attention every moment they commanded. Frank was a puppet in Matt's hands, he belonged to the other man from his bones and his blood. He could sense what Matt was feeling in every hair follicle, every molecule that vibrated when Matt laughed miles away. Frank didn't sleep unless he could feel him breathing, Frank didn't eat unless Matt allowed him to.

//

Those eyes glittered as the grin came up on his face like a wave, light shone wherever his gaze fell. There was mischief in his eyes, Frank couldn't mistake it.

But he could not do a thing but adore it. He was a marionette and Matt owned his strings, he smiled as Matt's lips curled up. He was a doll, a mirror of whatever Matt was, his slave.

"Do it," Was all he said, no malice in his command. Just pure power. His voice was as sweet as the honey that a bee stings and dies for. He was the thorn on a rose.

Frank gripped the smooth wooden handle and brought the blunt end of the hammer fast down on the top of his kneecap.

//

Pain blossomed out from the back of Frank's skull as it bounced off of the cracked, old rose tile in the bathroom. His mouth hung open in a little "o" shape as he let out a soft moan. Matt pressed closer to the skinny man, his hands searching the frame under the long, bulky coat. His fingers pressed steel into every rib he could feel, mouthing at the tendons in his neck.

His hands were clumsy over the crummy leather belt, tugging until he was able to remove the fasten and pop open the buttons of Frank's trousers. He was a skeleton inside of his clothes, they hung like tents where they used to stretch like skin over smooth curves. Matt wished he could lick the once honey skin and kiss him in the sun. If he was lucky, maybe he'd make it to May.

Frank pressed a palm to the small of his back, a gasp coming from the back of his throat where he normally took long drags of tobacco smoke. He pushed his hips forward, Matt's hand was too hard to find and his thigh was the only tangible thing. Frank needed friction, he was so cold. Matt's skin against his felt like fire, felt good, felt alive.

He couldn't make words as a warm hand closed around him, his energy was low as the waves slowly began to pulse. Matt knew everything that would make Frank shudder, whimper and cry for more. He was, after all, so connected with the other man. All Matt had to do was jerk the way he would have liked it.

Frank threw all of his weight into Matt, pressing his chilly body closer to the real man. So warm, so alive. He wished he could absorb the heat, the laughter and the light from Matt. Frank couldn't control his hips as they jerked up more into Matt's palm, his hands rose to grip his shoulders and he reached up for a breath he would never catch.

Matt soothed Frank's filthy hair back away from his face, the eyes closed, the lips sculpted from marble. "Come on, baby. You can do it." His eyes traveled down to his neck, watching as Frank's lips opened, closed, flapped like a fish losing air. Teeth, sharp and vile watched too as his throat begged for air. His body was nearly convulsing for life, he gurgled as if he was already drowning.

There was still a chill in the air, rain rushing through the streets. May was too far away.

38 weeks

Sun, 23 Dec 2007 21:33:31 GMT

Title: Thirty-Eight Weeks
Author:: shootingducks
Rating: PG
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Summary: Gerard couldn't get up some times, so when he had to go to the bathroom or got hungry he had to reach down over his swollen belly and poke Frank for a favor.
Words: 551
Prompt: 006, Mpreg.
Warnings/Author's Note: Very, very AU, uber fluffy. Written for mychemicaltest wtf challenge as well as wtf27 challenge table.

Gerard's back had been hurting him lately, his toes were turning a deep red on the tips and his ankles were swelling even more so than they had before. He always complained that sleeping on a bed was uncomfortable for him, so Frank would help him out into the living room and onto the Reclining Lazy Boy. Frank would fall asleep quickly curled up near the foot of the chair while Gerard flipped through the channels like a magazine. Gerard couldn't get up some times, so when he had to go to the bathroom or got hungry he had to reach down over his swollen belly and poke a sleeping Frank into consciousness.

Frank was wonderful to Gerard, even when he complained and when he needed help doing the simplest of things like tying his shoes or putting on socks Frank never complained when Gerard asked him to rub his feet or fetch him the heated blanket to soothe his aches from the extra weight. When the days calmed down and Frank had shooed away the last of the visitors of the day sometimes they would curl up as best as they could on the sofa and Frank would press his ear to Gerard's living tummy. He'd listen for muffled sounds from his growing son inside.

Once, when Gerard had begun to sing Frank felt a number of soft pushes and kicks from inside his Husband's womb and he pushed Gerard's T-shirt up and softly touched his fingertips to the glossy, bloated skin. Frank tried to sing along with Gerard, but the comparison was almost painful. Gerard sang caramel and warm while Frank mashed his lips up against his belly and muttered sugary smooth declarations of love.

Gerard was frantic and slick with sweat when they arrived at the hospital, he was already breathing in deep and swift through the tunnel he made with his lips. His hands were gripping the underneath of the swell of his stomach and his eyes moved quicksilver from person to doctor. Gerard had wanted to keep from cursing in front of the baby and during the delivery, he had made the decision early on due to his perpetual sailor's tongue. Frank gripped his hand and whispered low and velvet to him that everything would be fine. Frank ran his fingertips down the slope of Gerard's nose and attempted to distract his eyes when they administered the shot into his back. He dug his nails deep into Frank's wrist and scrunched his eyes up. His lips were teeth bitten red and Frank wanted so bad just to kiss them and calm him down.

They gave everyone in the room a paper blue gown and laid a thin sheet of cold sky gray curtain just above Gerard's gloating tummy. They were fast and laser precise and the room mellowed out before the wave came, joyous and searing.

Gerard teared up as soon as the boy was put in his arms, wrapped tight in a damp towel of the brightest baby powder blue. Frank smiled, he stuck his pinkie out and pressed it against the palm. Gerard had never heard the sound that issued from Frank's Cupid pink lips when five pint-sized fingers stole his up into honey supple skin. He was also sure that he would never forget it.

Geppetto

Mon, 10 Dec 2007 02:47:35 GMT

Geppetto
this is just a whole mess of things, it's not quite done and it could possibly go off in many tangents. the gist: frank wakes up [he's in a strange place and he cant remember anything] to ray and he[ray] is a freaking marionette, like Pinocchio.

When he walks up to me it's dark, all I can see are the shadows that the ridges of his eyebrows make under his eyes, the way his lips create a sort of pirate ship wave shadow on his chin. And I don't know who he is or how I got here.

"Hey, you lost? Want a drink?" He says he knows this place just down the street and he helped me up off of the pavement so how can I say no? I don't think I was bleeding, but there is something sick, sticky and shining sort of wet in the street lamp. He says his name is Ray, he walks with his face straight and he's got this halo thing going on with his hair. The color is muted from the moon, its coarse, it's somehow fake. It looks like fishing wire.

Wherever he takes me it takes longer than it seemed it should have to get there. At one point I'm looking up from the cobblestone street. when the hell was there cobblestone in this part of the city? It looks like an alley that we're in and I think I saw someone peeking down from the rooftop to my left but Ray's hair is in the way.

It's almost as black inside as it was out on the street, the shadows are still present and it seems so impersonal not to see anyone's face. There are small shadows in one corner, they could have been children but their arms seemed too bulgy for kids. Something glinted to my right but it was gone when I tried to find it again. A cat, something skittered out from under the darkness of the bar and ran off in the direction opposite of us. It smelled like paint thinner and a cheap, woody Incense. My eyes burned.

Ray seats me at a stool, my fingertips trail through the bar scabs and sticky mess from the drinkers left behind. He orders two of something or others i've never heard of and the blob, the bartender that looks like a matted wig hands me this glass filled halfway with a thick and warm liquid. I don't know if I was thirsty, but I tipped it back without even giving it a second glance. Ray's fingers tap around the bottom ring of his own glass and they make this tip tip tapping sound that doesn't sound like skin or nails. It sounded like setting the glasses harder down on the wooden bar.

There is a tiny flicker of candle light somewhere up high and it floats down over his face like the sun in the morning. There's something on his forehead, just above the hard curve of his eyebrow. I reached up to get it, it bothered me like a stray hair or snotty nose. Something dry, like paper left in the elements for too long flaked off into my fingers. It was the color of sun kissed ivory.

Ray looked at me like he was a friend, his eyes weren't demanding and they didn't scare me at all. Something was blossoming over the place I had touched, it was dark, burnt, rotted old wood. "You okay? You don't look so fine." The voice that came from his mouth was unflinching, solid, unusual for the way his mouth moved. "Hey, Frank, kid?" Did I ever tell him my name? His chin dropped before a sound came out and popped back up with a click before a syllable was finished. The corners of his lips down to the end of his chin were slotted. His eyes weren't glossy, the way he blinked like he was waiting for me to say something.

Oh how did I end up here?

Slow Burn

Mon, 05 Nov 2007 03:04:40 GMT

Title: Slow Burn
Author: shootingducks
Paring:Bob Bryar/Mikey Way, implied Mikey/Frank Iero
Rating: NC-17ish
Summary: Can I have my ring back, please? It was expensive and I don't think it would do a corpse any good. You're getting blood all over it, you ungrateful bitch.
Disclaimer: 100% fake. Don't sue, don't take.
A/N: Lots of swearing, lots of brash sexual references, general bitchery, some blood and violence. I was in a really bad mood when I wrote it...it's...different.

Oh come on, what the fuck did you think I'd do? Look down and close my eyes? Turn away in shame? How about spit in your face and break out a gun? Shoot you in the back and see what happens when there is a hole in your chest. How could anyone be so stupid? Are you really that moronic that you can't clean up after yourself? The least you could have done for me was wash the sheets after he made them filthy.

Yeah, I know I know. You love me and I love you and thats all fine and dandy but when you laid next to me in bed and told me that you wanted to spend every motherfucking moment with me until you die, I didn't really expect to come home from work and find you fucking another guy in the same bed I proposed to you in. Fucking him face on, none the less. You could have even been a bit quieter, maybe I wouldn't have heard you before I even opened the apartment door and he would have time to get away and I would still be all satisfied, sparkling and oblivious in my little bubble. Can I have my ring back, please? It was expensive and I don't think it would do a corpse any good. You're getting blood all over it, you ungrateful bitch.

Hey man, thanks for understanding, you know? It's so cool that you didn't yell or whine like a girl when I dragged you off by the feet before you were dead. Your head made a pretty smear on the pavement, though. Too bad I had to clean it up before it could be admired. Don't want the police knowing were you went, y'know, 'cause I can't be blamed for this and all. I'm so glad I didn't scream when I saw you two on the bed and we didn't really have a fight because now there is really no reason for anyone to suspect anything, you know? That boy left pretty fast, so he couldn't have heard and I was calm and everything after you stopped sputtering around like a pansy. There is no way your body will be found before it is eaten by the worms. I hope they keep you company.

"Remember that night you took me out to that stuffy, uptight place in Manhattan...the one with the waitresses in skirts? Yeah, that night sucked." Why are you bleeding so much? You anemic pansy ass bitch! You're getting me all dirty, that slut you were screwing better not have had HIV because if I die because of you you better watch your back when you're burning in Hell because I'll be after you with a pitchfork. "You couldn't even get it up, you lightweight. You had like, what? Two drinks and you were too drunk to fuck." Jesus Christ, you're heavy. When did you get so fat? Should have laid off the Snicker's bars, you lazy cunt sucking hooker. "That was the last time you ever tried to fuck me!" God I crack myself up!

It didn't have to be this way, Mikey, you know that. It could have been so good for both of us. I could have come home with the damn champagne and poured it out in pretty clear glasses and we could have soaked in the tub, baby. I would have pulled you close and brought you off in the water. I would have kissed the corner of your mouth as your back tensed up and your lips fell open like roses in the sun and God! It would have been like poetry. I could have curled my arm around your back and pulled you in close to me and fucked you in the water. Yeah, that's what you're missing. We could have curled up in the towels on the bed until we dried up and fell asleep to wake up to the sun all effulgent on your back and the room would smell like flowers from the ones I bought you the other day and your hair would be soft against my cheek. Maybe when you woke up you'd suck me off before you got up and bring me back coffee and we'd fall asleep again to let our mugs go cold on the nightstand. We could spend all of our Saturday mornings sleepy like that.

But baby, you really ruined my day.

Thu, 25 Oct 2007 22:32:25 GMT

Title: Cry Baby
Author: shootingducks
Rating: PG-15
Summary: He would have thought after the Doctor revealed there was a cancer eating away at the apple-colored things inside of him that Mikey would fall into himself...
Disclaimer: 100% fake. Don't own, don't sue, don't take.

Mikey smiled towards the door from the island of his hospital bed. The air in his tiny little room was sterile and had a smell of burnt sugar. The goose bumps on Frank's arms rose as he stepped under the threshold and into the prefect, white square.

"Hey, baby." Mikey's voice came too strong from his thin and cracked lips. His smile was rough at the corner and his lips were the color of dried rose petals. His hair, once a deep chocolate cake color had faded to a dull, lack luster mop of dishwater. His skin was pulled tight over his cheekbones and shone with a slight sheen of moisture, like he'd just been sweating under his paper gown.

The left corner of Frankie's lips tugged up at the sight. "Hi." He moved across the floor with a clack, clack with each step. He never left his work at the office, the computer monitor was slung around his neck and going to see Mikey in the hospital was another squeeze on the stress ball.

"How was work?" Mikey seemed all too well for his condition. He'd always been empathetic and always asked how a day had gone but Frankie could never understand why. He would have thought after the Doctor revealed there was a cancer eating away at the apple-colored things inside of him that Mikey would fall into himself, at least worry less about others. Frank had been all too surprised when Mikey seemed to become more apt to ask how he was feeling.

Sometimes Frank hated it. He wanted Mikey to be angry, he wanted him to cry and scream and yell and be selfish. Frankie wanted some justification to his own anger, to his own sorrow, to his own scared little boy self inside of his gut.

Frankie shrugged. "It was fine." There had been a coffee spill in the early morning, right after he had kissed Mikey goodbye for the morning; the water cooler had begun leaking around ten fifteen and by noon there was a nice, squishy patch of carpet in the hall everyone had to walk through; Boss, a.k.a Major Cunt had been pushing him to write a three page article on some finicky little author/singer/songwriter from New York and to top it all off the leaking had to intensify because no one was fucking smart enough to take the water off of the cooler part and there was damage to the ceiling of the floor below. The office was tension central, Venti cup of steaming family drama with a glazed scone of I have an STD and it's not from my wife. People could kill you with their stories if you even said "Good Morning" with your head down. Mr. Irritable Bowel Syndrome droned on and on about his sex life lacking meat and his Daughter who hated him because he wouldn't allow her to buy a thong. Mrs. Staph Infection bitched about her Ex-Husband and his new happy marriage with two kids from the other litter. Frank had to hold himself back from wrapping the curly phone cord around his neck and pulling it tight until his vision went blue.

Mikey pushed his stick body to the side furthest away from where Frankie was standing and patted the thin, springless mattress with his palm. "You look tired. Come on."

Frank stared at the back of Mikey's hand for a moment. It was so white, like a slab of linoleum stuck to his wrist. Frank was sure he could see straight through the skin to his bones. Hollow, fragile.

"Come on, babe. Wanna nap?"

The bed groaned a little when his knees sunk into it, like he was hurting it because he didn't weigh eighty pounds like Mikey was all skin and empty bones made of plastic. The paper stack mattress was lumpy and cold against his back, Mikey felt similar beside him. Frank closed his eyes and leaned his head on the flat pillow that took up the entire width of the bed.

Mikey trailed chilly, waxy fingertips across Frank's girlish brow, down his nose and swept under the bags near his eyes. Frankie wanted to ask how Mikey was, how his day had gone and if he had been tended to with enough care but he couldn't. He didn't want to know if the Doctor told him he was taking a turn for the dirt, he didn't need to hear that the cancer was going to come back no matter what they did. He vowed never to cry in front of Mikey and as time wore on he was never sure if he could keep that promise. One shredded paper scrap of bad news and Frank was almost guaranteed to break down.

Tears slid hot and shining down the olive slopes of Frank's cheeks. Mikey watched with a silent smile that hinted sorrow. Was Frankie sleeping?

Mikey pressed his reptile lips to the soft pads under Frank's sleep closed eyes and sucked up a tiny bauble of salt water from his skin. "Baby," He breathed on the wide surface of Frank's brow. "Baby, don't cry."

Frank didn't answer, his chest rose and fell against Mikey's like a constant wave and he could feel the moist warmth of Frank's breath on his throat. He looked like a baby doll, like the ones you fed and they peed in their diapers or cried cold tap water tears. Frankie just looked more breakable, less plastic and more real and soft. And he had warm tears, tears that tasted like the ocean and he kissed back and Mikey didn't know what he would do without him.

Candy

Tue, 04 Sep 2007 23:46:36 GMT

Title: Trick
Author: shootingducks
Paring: No paring, really; but use Frank/Bob
Rating: PG-13ish
Disclaimer: NO, MOTHERFUCKING NO.
A/N: First part of two.

Your greedy hands tore at the wrapper like the little claws of goblins. Your face was smeared with grease paint, oily and thick. I wasn't really sure what you were supposed to be, but it just looked like you swirled a storm all on your face, hungry honey eyes alight with excitement.

It was poetic when you bit into the chocolate and the blood ran from your lips in little rivers and streams. It made a line, little geisha lipstick down to drip off of your chin. Didn't your mother ever teach you not to take candy from strangers?

You looked ethereal, dripping crimson from your mouth twisted and gaping like scrap metal. Jesus Christ, this was art. This was lovelier than burning buildings and falling ash. This I could savor like you with your candy.

Slow Motion [one shot]

Thu, 19 Jul 2007 02:26:48 GMT

Title: Slow Motion
Author: shootingducks
Paring: Frankie Iero/Ray Toro
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The air was sweet around them, blowing through the open window, the scent of summer floating in.
Disclaimer: Not true.
A/N: Thanks to shotgunned_lace for smashing the dam and getting rid of the block. ily so hard.
Warnings: Fluff. Like...enough to make your teeth fall out. And then some angst to kill that. Mild gore. Death.
Beta love: xbrokenbulletsx ♥ (for real this time XD)

The kisses came whisper-quiet and cotton-soft against the bridge of his nose. Frankie's all-too-pink little boy lips , thin and soft, pressing gently into ray's olive skin. They were sunk together into the corner, Frank urgent and firm against Ray. His eyes were closed tightly, lips puckered and forceful.

Ray smiled gently, amused. He raked long, rough fingers through the choppy ebony locks. "What are you so excited about?"

Frankie nuzzled the ridge of Ray's sharp jaw and sucked in a breath through his nose. "Why don't you just shup up and deal with it?" Against Ray's chest, shaking with laughter.

X

The air was sweet around them, blowing through the open window, the scent of summer floating in. Frank was wrapped tight in Ray's thick arms, face pressed firmly into his sternum. He listened to the soft thud thud of blood pounding through Ray's heart and let the warmth redden his face. He shivered at Ray's hands moving patterns up and down his back, lips kissing his beachy hair, dried stiff with salt and sand.

Frankie's skin was silk against rough fingertips as they danced along his brow. Ray's lips cracked and tugged up near the corners at the kisses being pressed into his T-shirt, and at Frankie's soft mewling as he kneaded his chest like a cat. He tightened his hold around Frank's slim body and smushed him closer to his heart.

Words were spoken from Frank's girlish lips, still pressed against synthetic materials and warm, living skin. "I love you."

XX

The park was filled with laughing little kids with skunned knees and their parents wrapped tight in leather jackets, away from the cool fall wind that blew smelling like of maple. Ray's 'fro was damp from perspiration, turning the brickish red color darker at the roots as he rolled after Frankie on his skates. Eight wheels were a challenge when your hair wasn't aerodynamic. He pushed himself faster on the wheels, wind blowing back his locks.

They both clattered to the ground; Ray pinning Frank into the grassy dip just beside the pavement. They were all swirls and laughter bubbling up and bursting into the air. He could feel all eyes on them; could just imagine all of the things being said. He couldn't stop, though, not with the sound of Frankie's delighted laughter. The view was perfectly paramount, there was no way he was giving it up.

Frankie squirmed a bit under the weight, his knee slipping in between Ray's as he struggled to scramble free. Fingers grasped at fleshy hips and they pressed together even closer. Ray's choked gasp made Frankie smile, made his eyes pinch in plotting, made him sigh in satasfaction.

"Frank. We're in a park." There was a stone quality to his voice, a tone that made him stiffen and furrow his brow.

Frank pouted like a child, kid grin forming in his sparkling eyes. He puckered his lips up and pressed them gently, oh so gently, to Ray's, ignoring fuss and protest. "Will you marry me?" The question was serious and savory on his tongue.

XXX

The car was a mess of tangled, jagged metal and sharp, terrible shards of glass when they got there. Glass was stuck in his flesh, his life and love pouring out as they slapped him on a guerney and rushed him in a blur of blue and red frozen lights. Frankie held his hand carefully, trying to pay close attention to the burns and contusions there. He stared deep into the eyes of his lover, smiling and telling him , "everything's gonna be alright, Ray. It's gonna be okay."

This couldn't be happening, this was not right at all. This wasn't the fairy tale ending Frank had always known to be his destiny, the one he deserved and saw when he was with Ray. There was no blood in his castle, there were no bruised princes, no red-eyed princesses. There were no rushing EMT's, no broken windshields.

"Ray-Ray, come on, look at me." but his brown continued to drift off towards the roof of the ambulance; His grip, never tight to begin with, was losing pressure and gaining sticky masses of red, red love. Frankie didn't know there were tears sliding down the slope of his cheeks. There was air whistling through the tin can rescue car, sharp and cold silver Silver and white designs hanging in it. Frankie hadn't noticed the blood pouring from the throat he had kissed so many times until a green-gloved hand pushed more cottony-white gauze onto the pool of waiting crimson.

This was all wrong.

Ray's mouth opened in a gasp and snapped close in an instant. Open, close, open, close like a dying fish, a fish out of water. They were a mess of blood and glass and all Frankie wanted was for Ray to hold him close like that once more. He wanted to kiss him in public, he wanted to hear his angry scoff and watch his cheeks turn red; he wanted him to tug him close when they were alone and just breathe him in.

"Do something!" Frankie cried, all clamour and fright as he rushed about to grab everything and whatnot for Ray. He grabbed handfuls of patch Band-Aids, rolls of gauze and fluffy clouds of cotton balls to press into his wounds and heal, to erase every bad thought and thing from his body. Before Frank could even try to better Ray's torn and battered body they had his shaking frame held back from trying to help, to repair his shattered fairy tale. They gripped his shoulders tight, someone looping arms around his waist as others hummed over Ray and his wounds.

Time slowed in that instant, spreading to twenty million frames of a movie moving at snail speed. Frankie collapsed against the pressure on his chest at the sight of Ray, his Ray, on the guerney; arms hanging off the side , limp as paper. The fingertips he used to run along Frankie's jaw line were losing color. It was more painful in slow motion, to watch the scrub clad EMT's rushing and fussing over his slices and bruises, trying to replace the blood he was losing. Frankie thrashed against the binds holding him back. "Let me go!" His voice would echo in the space, he'd thrash some more and let out a wordless sob. "I can help him, get the fuck off of me!"

But they wouldn't let him go and they wouldn't let him hold his hand or touch his face. They wouldn't let Frankie hold the broken pieces. They held him back and they let him die. And they made him watch in slow motion.

3 Drabblets [Corpses, Lick, Waves]

Sun, 01 Jul 2007 19:31:53 GMT

I didn't know where to post these, community wise, because none of them have anything in common, so here you go, if you have any ideas on where to post them, that'd be cool too. hope you like =]

Title: Corpses.
Author: shootingducks
Paring: Mikey Way/Ray Toro
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Ray bowed his head down to kiss the firm flesh under his eye, bruised purple and black.
Warnings: Gore.

He was cold, he had been for a few hours, and now he was stiff. The color had drained from his face, the skin covering his sharp cheekbones turning a sickly blue, lips pale, eyes closed. Ray should have gone to get someone, he should have run as soon as Mikey had been bitten, but where to? Who would be out and about now? The hospitals would surely be ransacked, blood smeared on the walls and the bloodied remains left scattered on the floors, wheelchairs tipped over and spines torn from flesh. It was better this way, for him to go with someone holding him tight. Mikey wouldn't want to be alone, Ray wouldn't let him die alone.

Ray bowed his head down to kiss the firm flesh under his eye, bruised purple and black. His lips felt so warm in comparison to Mikey's flesh, so soft. Ray closed his eyes to the burning stream of tears filling up and threatening to spill over the edge. He leaned his forehead onto Mikey's, just wanting to feel him breathe again.

He felt the soft, butterfly touch of eyelashes on his cheeks, the cool breeze of a sigh across the bridge of his nose, the rough grasping at the base of his skull and the pain, oh the pain, like fire ripping through the soft, sweet flesh in his neck. Ray opened his eyes, opened his eyes just to see. He'd see Mikey again, soft little Mikey with open arms and bloodied eyes. Together again, they way Ray wanted it.

Title: Lick.
Author: shootingducks
Paring: Gerard Way/Frank Iero
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Frankie didn't see him coming and he couldn't hear his crooning over the screaming.
Author's Notes: For stgerard even though this doesn't even do justice. I promise I'll write more for you. =]

Sweat danced its way down from his hairline, tickling burning skin the whole way to the dip in his collar bones where it pooled. The sun beat fury and might down upon the five thrashing on the black stage. Frankie didn't see him coming and he couldn't hear his crooning over the screaming. His eyes were closed to keep the tiny beads of sweat from burning him into tears. Gerard's tongue came hot and wet on the back of his neck and his fingers fumbled to find the right frets to press. His mouth was dry, hanging open and panting. In that moment, with Gerard's fingers pressing into the fleshy swell of his hip, he could have died.

Title: Waves.
Author: shootingducks
Rating: PG
Summary: The roar of the waves was comfort enough.

Gerard let the waves carry him along, warm water rolling over the hills of his arms and dripping into the dips if his ears and throat. Being in the ocean was surreal, it was as if he was the only person in the world. The roar of the waves was comfort enough, enough to take him from every day of being surrounded by an entourage being paid massive amounts of money by the hour. He liked it that way, just his being suspended in a body of never ending waves. It was bliss.

He knew he should have panicked when the sun blinded him, when he couldn't smell the grease and the alcohol, when he couldn't detect a hint of cotton candy from the Boardwalk, he should have been going over all of the things he'd learned from watching I Shouldn't be Alive, but he was calm, his heart beating a perfect pattern to fall asleep to. Wasn't that what he had been looking for? Perfect silence, some alone time, to feel human? He had what he wanted so he couldn't rightly complain.

needle and humor

Mon, 11 Jun 2007 05:41:02 GMT

Title: Sleep
Author: shootingducks
Rating: R
Pairing: Gerard/Mikey (Non-sexual)
Needle use: Sedative injection
Words: About 600
Notes/warnings: Gore. Weirdness. No napping kittens.
Summary: Hazel eyes shining bright in the midday sun he wondered how it felt to embrace the grille of a semi.

There was gore everywhere, splattered along where his insides spray painted the highway. Some of him had even managed to fall onto the guard rail. He was unrecognizable, lying on the fat yellow lines. Bones shattered, tendons snapped, teeth cracked. In the stream running from his parted lips Gerard saw his last breath. Hazel eyes shining bright in the midday sun he wondered how it felt to embrace the grille of a semi.

---

He woke with a start, sitting straight up in the paper sheets. The air was sterile and stale as he sucked in to let out a sob. Cream skin collided with onyx linoleum, ice upon high cheekbones. Involuntary tears streamed from weak eyes as the body convulsed and shook. Gerard struggled to stand, jello legs and sleeping muscles made it near impossible to get a hold. He heard the clamor even over his hysterics.

A parade of uniforms flooded into the room, each one a carbon copy of the other. Nurses in tight dresses cut off just above the knees. Brunette locks pinned up and out of their faces albeit a swatch swooping down to cover tan skin. They moved in a pack, silver and jerking like robots. They set themselves up like geese, their leader standing at the front of the 'V'. She looked most dangerous, eyes full of glass, blood dripping down a face gashed out. In her hand was clutched a syringe, like an appendage she grasped it with talons the color of earth.

The needle itself glowed in the only light in the room, the light from tough lamps on the walls to let patients know they weren't dead. Gerard couldn't take his gaze from it. Who knew what kind of chemicals were inside of the object, there was no saying how much pain it would cause when it entered his veins and pushed its poison inside. The thought alone made hearts thump.

Black eyes fell down on Gerard as he sobbed to the ground, fingers and toes grasping at the cold floor for leverage to drag himself away. Tiny drops of saliva spewed from his mouth and snot sludged its way down the slope of his lips as he cried out, for his brother and for himself. His body shook uncontrollably with shock, the shock of seeing Mikey there on the road again. It happened every time the visual assaulted his dreams, wreaking all sorts of havoc on his brain as he attempted to rest.

She took one step forward and her clan was descending upon Gerard like vultures. They danced about him, their claws tearing at his skin as they picked him up and heaved him onto the hospital bed.

Freezing, dead fingers pushing him down into the mattress, the crinkling paper sheets and gown, his mouth agape to scream, throat closing by the work of cold hands. She came over, blue paper now stretched over the absess in her face. Midnight orbs smiled at him, cruel and unusual.

There was nothing for Gerard to do, the hands were far to numerous to fight, she moved too quickly for him to even begin to try. He thrashed against her icy fingers, trying to scream all the while but he could not.

She was quick at administering the injection though he felt every second of it, the freezing temperature that was traveling up the tunnels in his arm. All of the trashing stopped then, he laid there with dead fingers all over him and let his eyes roll back into his head. Slipping back into his dreams.

Slipping back to Mikey.

Tough Guys Carry Knives, Scared Guys Carry Guns [3/?]

Tue, 08 May 2007 19:40:00 GMT

Title: Tough Guys Carry Knives, Scared Guys Carry Guns [3/?]
Author: shootingducks
Paring: Frankie Iero/Gerard Way [soon enough]
Rating: PG-PG-13 for swearing.
POV: third.
Summary: Of course, Gerard's master plan was foiled and soon enough he was fighting his own flesh and blood for rights to stand on his own two feet.
Disclaimer: When Bruce Campbell actually comes to my house, hand replaced by a chainsaw and all, and gives me a great big hug...that's when this will be true.
Author's Notes: Title props go to Mark Scrieber, its a line from his book Star Crossed.
Warnings: Swearing, cynical views, exaggerated angst, odd metaphors/visuals. =] for your reading pleasure.
Previous parts:
first things first, ms. monroe rises from the dead.[1]the henchmen came knocked down the door to my never never world. [2]

The smog never let up, Gerard had noticed. He and Mikey and his mother and father had been in Newark three days and the sun never came out to play. Waking up with the rays invading his eyespace wasn't a problem, even with the complete lack of sheers to go over his bedroom window. Waking up was a hassle, who could be alert when the sun wasn't even coming to work anymore?

"Gerard! Come on, Mom says if you're not up in five seconds i'm allowed to come in and drag your ass out into the bathroom and throw you in the shower with the cold water on." Mikey's voice came through the tiny crack in the door. Faintly, after Mikey's use of the word 'ass', Gerard could hear their mother sighing heavily and scolding with an annoyed "Mikey!"

He had heard his brother well and clear, Gerard just didn't feel like moving. Lying under the covers sounded nice, alone in the silent dankness of his room and listening to the rain fluctuations of New Jersey. It began as the tiny drum of kitten paws on the roof, unsure and pausing every few moments. As the darkness set in, though, the drops gained weight and fell faster, becoming the pounding drum in the back of ominous music records played in the back of horror flicks. By morning, though, the sound had completely died out and left the world damp and foggy, precipitation rising up from the concrete slabs of hell Gerard now thought of as Newark.

Gerard hadn't left the new house much in those three days, only when his mother forced him into the local Home Depot to pick things out for his new room and maybe to grab a bite to eat with his brother. Of course, his room stayed bare due to the fact that everything Gerard had wanted to make his room feel more like home was back ordered. At the current time, all things from his old room in Belleville were still packed in the numerous boxes still left unpacked in the living room. There were at least three labeled "Gerard's Room" sitting beside the ghetto-rigged television the family gathered around each night before filing off, one by one like soldiers marching on in preparation for the war ahead, to bed.

Gerard had been dressed, knowing that he couldn't escape the clutches of his first day at being the new kid in town. No matter how long he ran from it, when he decided that it was time to fill his brain with words and numbers, he would still be the new kid. It may have been better for some people to get it done and over with, but procrastinating never hurt anyone.

Of course, Gerard's master plan was foiled and soon enough he was fighting his own flesh and blood for rights to stand on his own two feet. Mikey was dragging him, physically gripping at his tee shirt and tugging him out of bed. They were on their way down the hall before Gerard could get a nice shot at his brother. Luckily no water had been turned on, luckily he didn't have to change, luckily he was able to rip himself away from his brother and shove with a laugh.

"Now boys," Their mother came into the hall with her hands on her he hips, a spatula clasped in a long nailed grip. "No blood shed before school."

Luckily she had a sense of humor or the day might have been completely ruined.

They shoved a peel-off, sticky back sheet of paper into Gerard's hands while he stood inside of the main office in the school he would spend his last educational year in. From the quick glance around/orientation Gerard memorized the huge, glass paneled windows encompassing the entire front wall of the Office, the wall that connected with the main hall, where the students entered and exited the place. Inside the office were four ladies at computer desks, a blond, two brunettes and one gray haired woman. There were also two hallways at each intersection of east and west. The eastern one lead to the copy room and teachers lounge, the west to the dreaded and contrastingly popular Principal's office. Before he could bury any details into his brain to uncover later he was whisked out and blown down the hall in a tornado of students.

First period of the day and Mikey was sent off to Geometry, block classes first so electives could be picked later, and Gerard was shipped to English. The brothers didn't get to conspire any further than that and agreed to meet up outside, right beside the third pillar on the main stairs, before they walked home. Gerard had Mikey's cell phone number and vice versa, but cell phones were strictly prohibited in most classes and Gerard didn't want to risk loosing his emergency line to his family. Unless something dire and urgent happened, don't test the professors and don't use the "but i'm new" line. No one likes a new, loser, brown nosing mouse. Just shut up, pay attention, and keep your eyes down.

Gerard followed his own rules as he padded through the halls. He was late, each student now tucked safely away in their desk, each teacher ready to start the lessons. He wasn't choosing to be tardy, that only meant more attention on him, but the numbers painted on each door were confusing enough! Who the fuck zig-zaged when numbering rooms? Or maybe it was just him.

With nerves jangling like jumping monkeys in the zoo of his body, he finally found the number he was looking for. 108, on the corner of Here and No Where in Newark, New Jersey. Gerard was just glad he hadn't sauntered past the tiny window a few times before realizing that he was a dick head.

He knocked softly on the door and stood with his weight properly splayed between his two feet and waited. It took a bit for the door to be answered and Gerard thought no one had actually heard him until the sharp click of heels came closer.

Gerard saw the short, blond with a bull cut in the window first. She smiled, her nose scrunching up like a bunny under the thick, sliver framed glasses. She wore a peach colored shirt and comfortable khakis. "Hello!" She greeted, over the top and just perfect for an eccentric english teacher as she tugged the thick wooden door open. "Who are you, why are you so late?"

"Um...I'm Gerard Way, it's my first day here..." He trailed off, hoping she'd pick up on his mental waves 'I don't want to talk any more, just sit me down please and continue on talking about Shakespeare or grammar or Capote or whatever'.

The woman nodded, smiling gently. "Well, nice to see you! I didn't think you were coming!"

Gerard reveled in her comment, his mind swirling with thoughts and slashes. 'Yeah,' he smiled. 'I almost didn't.'

"Gerard, come on, you're boring." Mikey stood inside of the room, his hands gripping the sharp angels of his hips through the thin black fabric of his generic band t-shirt. He had been poking and prodding for the past twenty minuets for Gerard to tag along to a local band's show. To say the least, Gerard wasn't having it.

"No," He began. "I don't know anyone, you go."

"We've only been here for a week! Of course you don't know anyone!" Mikey stomped his foot into the carpet, arms flailing as he grunted in protest. "You'll be able to get out! Come on, no one likes a loner!"

Gerard had to laugh at that. "I'm not a loner...i'm just taking time to get adjusted."

"Well you're never going to get adjusted if you sit in your room all day, sucking your thumb." Mikey shifted his stance, straightening his spine and posing with his thumbs hooked in his front belt loops. "How are you going to meet people?"

"I don't need to meet people. I know people...and it's not like I'm going to be here for two more years like you. I'm graduating in five months." Gerard attempted to reason. Truth be told, he didn't want to go because he hated everyone in Newark. They made him want to take Comet and a steel wool brush to his skin.

"Well I don't care when you're leaving, you need to know people!" He whined. "What are you going to do, sit in all day? No dude, come on." Mikey reached out to take Gerard's wrist in his fingers and tugged him to a stand.

It hadn't taken too much longer after Mikey pulled Gerard to a stand and dragged him into the living room to whine to their mother about how he was going through a lonely time in his life and needed to be forced from the egg shell (therefor coaxing the wiry blond to nod and laugh, jokingly pushing him out of the door), to get Gerard to agree, even if reluctantly. But Mikey was happy, he jabbed on and on while they walked to the venue, which Gerard found out quickly enough was a fire hall. There were two stories, the first one closest to the ground was a large empty space with glossy wooden floors and dark paneled walls and the second housing a kitchen. The place was filling up, quite rapidly with a rainbow of kids. Ones with mohawks, some with shaved heads, others with long curly tufts and even others with an actual rainbow on their scalp.

To Gerard this was new. Sure, he had seen the pictures of Danzig and Jerry Only with their devil locks and he saw the footage of the Sex Pistols on television...but there was nothing close to this spectacle in Belleville. He had been one of the more exotic ones there. Being up close to it, right there in the action made him giddy. He liked the electricity already coming off of the crowd. It flew straight to him and into his nostrils, coating his skin like butter. The energy was thick all ready and they had only made it a few steps into the place.

"Who is playing tonight? Have you heard them before?" Gerard curiously questioned his brother.

Mikey shook his head. "No, I was just handed a flier at school and thought it would be cool to come."

"So you brought me out into this for no reason? You don't even know if these bands are going to be shit!" He gasped.

"Oh Gerard, you're so dramatic. Just calm down."

Gerard raised an eyebrow in question, staring at his brother as if he had said something completely inane. "Are you blind Mikey?"

He laughed out loud. "Blind to what? Your crazy-psycho view on the world? Oh please." And he took his brother by the arm to lead him through the throng of young bodies and interesting hair. If it hadn't been for his oozing and inflamed brain, full of hateful thoughts towards his brother about how they could be killed or raped or something equally as terrible, he could have been inspecting the heads of the masses of seventeen year olds, attempting to work out how each of the styles stood up so strong in face of the elements, especially a room full of smoking teenagers. Wouldn't the humidity get to them? But before he could pick out a mop to inspect, Mikey had stopped them both.

"Hey, you made it!" It was the voice that caught Gerard's attention. He looked from the mass of bodies to the lone boy that was speaking to his brother.

Gerard stared, hoping he didn't look like a drooling idiot. He attempted to keep on the 'will kick your ass big brother' look as Mikey and the Stranger shook hands.

"Gerard, this is Frank." Mikey stepped out of the way, "and Frank this is my brother, Gerard."

Frank had brown eyes. Gerard noticed that before anything else. He had a chocolate gaze and cream colored skin. His hair was black, like the tires on a car, and it came down to hand in his eyes, cut just below the base of his skull. The boy was short, that was for sure. Gerard had never been applauded on his ability to tower over people, in fact his Mikey was close to surpassing him in height, but Frank was short. He was skinny too, his band t-shirt stretched shamelessly over his tiny body, his black denim jeans pulled as taunt as his skin. He smiled at Gerard and held his hand out.

"Mikey's told me a lot about you." Frank said as they shook hands.

Gerard smiled shyly. "Oh, I'm sure he has."

Mikey watched Frank and Gerard stare down at their hands when they met, and he saw how they stepped apart with their hands in their pockets after the greeting. He couldn't help but notice the way Gerard looked up through his bangs. Perhaps Gerard had made a friend already.

Maybe it wasn't so bad. Gerard thought as the fire hall was emptying out and kids were venturing out to have one more smoke before going home. He was one of those kids, with his brother and with Frank. They stood just out side of the hall they had watched bodies thrash around in the hour before and relaxed and cooled.

Frank lit a cigarette, and Gerard watched in awe as he put it to his lips and sucked at it until it roared to life, mesmerized by the sheer simplicity of his movements. Gerard couldn't wrap his mind around the way he was so enthralled by him. Gerard had never been one to think he was gay, sure he didn't mind all of the tight pants kids now days wore but he, plain and simple, liked chicks. So why was, all of the sudden, this strange boy his brother met making him such a little girl?

"Well guys," Frank began as he took another drag from the cigarette. "Hope you had a good time and I hope you liked the music...but I'm going to go."

Gerard watched as he stepped away from the wall, his motions fluid and controlled. "Do you go to school?" He asked.

Frank shrugged. "Nah...not really." With a chuckle and laugh, staring up through the ebony curtain of his bangs. "Well...I'm enrolled but you won't see me there too often."

Let down, bummer, complete tragedy. Gerard held his composure well in the face of danger, though, and he just nodded.

"But," An interesting prospect? A ray of light? Jesus was real? "I go to shows all of the time, when I'm not in school, I'm here," he gestured grandly to the fire hall they had been leaning on. "Which is cool because its open to th public, twenty four seven." Frank grinned and Gerard swore he winked.

"I guess we'll see you around then." Gerard said softly, his smile returning softly to wave Frank goodbye.

"Heck yeah we will!" Mikey exclaimed.

With a shake of his head, one that sent his oil colored locks flying, he grinned back and turned to walk away.

Gerard listened to the crunch of shoes until Mikey sighed heavily, sucking in the damp air pressing down on them. "We should probably go." Gerard announced. "No matter how elated Mom is that you got me out of the house," he joked. "Its not a smart idea to be wandering these streets after dark." Especially without Frank, super Frank the gangster killing ninja, Chuck Norris's prodigy.

With an eye roll meant for Broadway Mikey sighed. What a party pooper.

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Missing you

Mon, 07 May 2007 02:21:21 GMT

Title: Missing You
Author: shootingducks
Paring: Mikey Way/Gerard Way, Mikey Way/Female
Rating: PG
POV: First, Mikey's.
Summary: It's like pulling teeth.
Disclaimer: No matter how hard you wish and pray, this is not true.
Author's Notes: This is short. I needed to take a break from typing Tough Guys 3.
Warnings: Swearing mostly.

I lie in our bed, the one that belongs to her as much as me and i'm thinking about you. There is a kitten crawling on my knees, balancing like a tight rope walker, and I can't help but be reminded of you. Before the wedding and before her...we were closer than ever.

I went over the years I spent with you in my head as I lay there, when we were kids and how we would run around the house pretending to fight crime. You would always tie a sheet around your neck and you'd be Batman. Together we were invincible and powerful, saving the citizens of Gotham city every time. We never failed. Together, as one, we rocked.

And then I remembered the years when you went to New York for school and I stayed home to intern at Eyeball and those were the worst years of my life. I never let anyone know, but I missed your company more than anything. I missed how you and I would fall asleep on the couch watching shitty horror movies, and I missed staying up just so I could feel your breath on the side of my neck, to feel your body slide down mine when you were in that deep state of sleep, when you dreamed of all of the things you loved, maybe of vampires or pogoing at a Smashing Pumpkins show. I hugged you so hard every time you left from home...i'm surprised you never burst.

That day that you called Toro and said you wanted to start a band and I thought I would die. You were going to come back to Jersey and I knew somehow I needed to take that leap with you, I needed to be with you when you wrote and played. Thank god you needed a bassist, thank god I was a quick study, thank god I was with you again.

We all lived in that godforsaken apartment with the mold that kept my allergies raving inside of my skull and the dirty dishes and the dust. There was a cigarette smoke atmosphere twenty four seven in that place, and despite how miserable it made me in the summer, I was close to you again. We were family under one roof, and the guys were family too. We were all a big, honking, tobacco sucking family.

We started playing shows and people started buying our records and more kids showed up to watch us play and they started singing along with us. We were My Chemical Romance, the way you yelled it on stage, Like a feral growl. The way that made me smile every time.

Of course no one knew about my need for you, that would be uncalled for and terrible, something that couldn't be released to the world like one of your singles. And then she came. I loved her. Of course, Gee, each time I laid in bed with her I thought of you and imagined if it would be different when you fell asleep next to me. Would you hide your face in my rib cage? Or rest your head on my shoulder like she did?

We bought an apartment together, she and I, and suddenly I wasn't close to you every night. And I woke up to her and she'd kiss me gently and I'd make coffee and smoke like we used to do together. Only now I'd hang out the window while the cats ran over my toes and sometimes I'd think about you. If you were up yet, what you were doing, how you were feeling.

Then came the tattoo, reds and orange poked into out wrists, a heart and 'forever'. I remembered that you hated needles as they stabbed through my skin. This ink was a sign, a representation of our relationship, just like the ring that soon came and her dress.

I love her, Gerard, but I can't help the thoughts of you that pop up every day. Sure, I see you all of the time, we're brothers after all, but sometimes when I just step out of the shower and I'm wrapped tight in a towel, I'll imagine you standing next to me, smiling and dripping wet. I love her, Gerard and everyone knows that. You included. But every day without you...its like pulling teeth.

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Tough Guys Carry Knives, Scared Guys Carry Guns. [2/?]

Wed, 25 Apr 2007 22:46:29 GMT

Title: Tough Guys Carry Knives, Scared Guys Carry Guns. [2/?]
Author: shootingducks
Paring: Frank Iero/Gerard Way [eventually]
POV: Third.
Rating: PG-13 for now.
Summary: Anything was better than that, even wandering about Newark in search of something to spark his interest and slaughter his boredom.
Disclaimer: N-O-T true.
Authors note: The title is from a line in a book called Star Crossed by Mark Schreiber. Props to him for having such a clever mind. As i've stated before, i've never been to New Jersey, therefore i've never been to the cities i've written about. So if they're described incorrectly, expect it.
Dedications: The people who just picked up their dogs shit in a bag and set it with our garbage. They've got balls.
Warnings: Cussing.
Previous parts:
first things first, ms. monroe rises from the dead.[1]

Rain? He thought with a soft chuckle as the first drop settled on the bridge of his nose. Frank Iero wiped it away before it had time to set in its tracks and slide halfway down the slope of his face. It had been raining a lot ever since the last batch of snow baked fresh from God's freezer had melted into the earth. It was still cold, too. No humid, hot and sweaty spring now. It bummed him out somewhat. Frank was the kind of person that liked it hot -- if not hot a bit warm -- to keep the hair on his arms from sticking up. He would have some place to go then, he wouldn't have to sit inside when the time came for him to avoid school at all costs. Frank could walk to his favorite haunts to watch the local bands that had opted not to follow suit and killed the school days for all they were worth. Most of the time the bands played at the fire hall a few blocks away from his own place of residence.

Frank wasn't much for home, his mother was a smoker and always sprayed massive amounts of hair products into the air, maybe to keep her mop from drooping in the house, his father, always with a beer in hand, was perpetually drunk.The two hated each other, they always fought and were never in close proximity. Frank's father sat in the living room collecting fat in his middle section while his mother cooked dinner, she ate in the kitchen, his father stuffed his face on his favorite chair while Frank took his meal to his bedroom. Frank liked to avoid the pair at all costs. Any kind of contact could lead to some sob story, maybe even a slap to the face. Anything was better than that, even wandering about Newark in search of something to spark his interest and slaughter his boredom.

Nothing was sparking anything that day, it was the same thing. Like the line up of Nick At Night. The streets were barren, most likely due to the fact it was going to rain. The other kids were probably holed up in their basements smoking pot and attempting to beat each other in Mortal Kombat. Frank himself was a master at the game, but not the newfangled ones. He liked to reach for the Super NES and throw others into a spiked wall instead of stare at the new, shiny and smooth graphics and go on missions. Wasn't Mortal Kombat supposed to be violence and no substance? Something tasteless and mindless?

So the clouds were weeping and he was bored to hell and back, two strikes against Frank Iero who wondered down the street anyway. There were more opportunities outdoors than in, no need to rot away inside the smokey walls of his house listening to the stale sounds of his stereo, reverb and recorded. He was searching for something live, something hot and full of blood. Something like a new family in town.

Frank first noticed the one that looked bitter, his arms crossed over his chest as he stood beside the deep maroon Civic, another boy just a breath away. Frank noticed his hair first -- the way it flowed, how it looked in the weather, the ebony hue. It was damp, tiny beads of moisture clinging to it like velcro, weighing it down and turning it into a wig of yarn. He was pale, Frank noted, creamier than the taller boy beside him, like a glass of milk next to the wild blond and the salt and pepper 'Pa in the yard. He was disgruntled, his nose scrunched up as if it had been taped there, one knee bent, weight on one foot. His eyes were ahead, pinched in disdain as the blond and the gray walked into the house through the front door.

Frank's rubber soled shoes scraped on the concrete of the sidewalk, the sound somehow penetrating the atmosphere and resounding throughout the world, too loud to be natural. Too loud to allow him to pass undetected.

Frank first met Gerard from far away -- their eyes meeting through the screen of rain, vision filtered and eyes bleary from the wind. It wasn't all sparks and blossoming flowers, more like eating sawdust. Glares were exchanged, somewhat non-intentional. Frank always walked about with his eyebrows steepled high up on his face, as if the sun was always invading his pupils and scorching his retinas. Gerard, however, looked as if a lemon had been forcefully shoved into his perfect little pout. Their initial meeting was nothing like it should have been; there should have been doves soaring out from the sides of the screen, there should have been perfect, bleached clouds in the clear azul sky and not a drop of rain in sight. They shouldn't have been so angry, there shouldn't have been so much tension. Frank should have marched straight up to the smiling boys and said "Welcome to the neighborhood!"

Instead he shifted his eyes back to the broken concrete, in place of the cheerful welcome speech there was a view of his shoulder. Instead of finding out his eye color, Frank left the Newark newbies to themselves.

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A/N: so the ending sucked, oh well so this chapter was short, oh well. I'm working on the next part now. Don't know when it'll be up.
As i've said before, I'VE NEVER BEEN TO NEW JERSEY. The descriptions are inaccurate, don't tell me so. I already know this, Thanks.