Dear everybody, or who ever's listening:

mareepa @ 2007-10-27T22:01:00

2007-10-28T02:01:55Z

a synful revenge (9:59:43 PM): I found my password, want me to make an update for you? What do you want me to say?
TrueQueerLove (9:59:48 PM): what about good little wife???
a synful revenge (10:00:10 PM): Uh, I don't know, I never read that one. I just saw kid stuff and six minutes and broken down emotions.
TrueQueerLove (10:00:31 PM): but you don't know if you wrote it???
a synful revenge (10:00:37 PM): I've never seen it.
a synful revenge (10:00:40 PM): Link?
TrueQueerLove (10:00:55 PM): it's in her forum

La la la this is my journal not Aries' and I've never posted anything under that name, only mareepa :D

Hola friends list, I'm trying to fix things.

mareepa @ 2005-12-09T20:52:00

2005-12-10T01:57:58Z

heyy kids.

goodxnight is my new writing journal. it's gonna be friends only for many reasons, mostly the fact that i'm not just writing slash anymore, so i feel i have the right to know who's reading my personal stuff, you know? uh, i'm telling you guys this because i know there was a lot of people who read my stuff who would still be interested in reading it.

any story not chaptered is archived under that name. Make Me Strong is on there, only because it was my favourite. i might archive Broken Down Emotions, Kid Stuff, Take Me For Granted, and a couple others later on...

anyway, consider this my personal invite to add the journal.

that's all.

-caet

mareepa @ 2005-08-28T17:21:00

2005-08-28T21:24:57Z

Hi! I'm conducting an experiment!

Title: My Electric Bill Is Triple Digits [I Left The Light On For You All Winter]
Pairing: Jepha Howard [first person narrator] and Bert McCracken. [the used]
Rating: NC-17 for explicit themes.
Summary: I won’t say this is a tear jerker because we all have different levels of sensitivity. This is about moving on and deciding when you’re ready or how far you’re willing to go. This is about different human emotions; honest, raw, brittle. This is the thoughts you think but you don’t say. This is about fucking.
Disclaimer: This is a work of f[r]iction. All events, characters, names, and places featured here are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual person(s), living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Author's Note: This was about two weeks of productive work. Months spent idling over the idea or shoving the whole thing on the back burner. I don’t use betas. I like feedback.

***
When we’re out on my front step with my trench coat hanging off my shoulders and my cell phone digging into my thigh, I think about how much better this could be if it were you. I think about your number on speed dial and my toes are turned in slightly, weight swaying, cement cold and smooth underneath me.

He’s shorter then me, but not by much. He’s somewhere in his early twenties, with a certifiable glamour grunge look about him; unshaven cheeks and bagging shorts in the dead of winter, combined with red eye shadow and smoky liner accenting the crystal colour of his irises. You, you just have brown eyes, deep and dark and bright, like a thoughtful puppy. Like a sad Saint Bernard. You’ve got easy ashen blonde hair, but his is black, messy and unkempt with random unnatural highlights, reds and greys and orange. His is bordering inadvertent dreadlocks from the lack of maintenance, while you actually tended to yours with a hair brush each morning.

Smoothing down flyaways is just another little detail I’m missing. I think I’m describing you wrong. I think you’ll forgive me for that.

My hands are in my pockets and I can feel the metal of my keys and I can feel my cellphone in their respecting sides, and it’s suddenly like I’m making a choice. I could send him on his way and spend my night leaving messages on your machine that you’ll never listen to…or I could invite him in and not think about you.

“Jeph…” my date says softly, coaxing, standing at the bottom of the steps. He reaches upwards, moving his fingers around my wrists and his skin is cold where it touches mine.

“Hmm?” I breathe, blaming the cold for the sting in my eyes.

“I know it’s been hard for you…”

I keep still, not wanting to influence him to do much of anything.

“It’s hard when people leave you…” he continues, taking a step up while I stay on the edge of the porch.

“Yeah,” I agree half heartedly, feeling my brow fall lower in concentration, trying to listen to him and ignore the freezing temperature. Between us, our breath is a silver fog, dissipating into the thin night air and the stars are alive as far up as I can see. The city pollution isn’t even a factor and my front lawn is frozen into jagged bits of jade coloured glass.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, you know. You’re a great person,” he tugs on my wrists until he’s freed my hands from the warmth of my pockets, his fingers closing tightly around mine.

If only he knew. I wish you could answer your phone just this once so I can share the joke. We both know I’m not even a good person, much less the more enthusiastic ‘great’. I’m not talented or special. I never have been. If I were ever anywhere close, it was only because you pushed me to my potential.

I never even said thanks for that, did I?

“It’s okay, Bert. Really. We don’t have to talk about this.”

“It’s important to me,” he says genuinely, looking up the steps into my face. His skin is pale in the white moonlight, cheeks showing more shadow then usual, his eyes frosted with black liner and he’s more sincere and sensitive right now then I’ve ever witnessed him. It’s just another joke I want to share but can’t. Maybe we were just cynical assholes, but I know you’d get a kick out of this. “I feel like he’s the reason you don’t want to get serious. You’re…almost… waiting for him to come back to you,” he looks like the idea scares him.

It intrigues me.

I blink and feel this strange, inadvertent smile on my lips. “What makes you think he won’t?”

Bert shakes his head sadly and steps backwards, looking appalled and devastated all at once. He’s dropped my hands and I tuck them back into my pockets quickly for warmth, fingering my keys. Somehow, his clothes seem to be hanging off of him even more dejected then prior, and he looks meekly pathetic, staring up at me like a freshly disciplined little boy. “Jeph…Jepha, look. He won’t. He’s not going to. You know that. I wish you’d believe me.”

I heave a sigh and watch the smoky breath float off into the still night. “It’s not that I don’t. I just feel like I have to leave a light on for him. So if he ever…decides to…or wants to…he always can. Maybe not even for... Like. I don’t know, like I have to. Like I can’t just write off everything…like it never happened, I’m just. You know. I’m his friend, Bert. I have to.”

“You’re wasting electricity,” he says darkly for a moment before glancing away, almost sniffling. “Am I wasting my time?” Bert asks, and his beautiful eyes are wide and bright, and he’s got his lip trembling, but he can’t look like a kicked puppy. He looks more like a furry, sad kitten, abandoned in a gutter down town. He looks like his soft, scruffy kitten fur has been exposed to too much city filth and he looks like he belongs curled up in someone’s lap by a fire side, lithe and cuddly and interested.

He’s a starved kitten in an alley way; you can’t expect me to turn my back on that. He needs a bath and a decent meal. He needs that warm, inviting lap. He needs my lap.

Oh god, when did I become this? If I’m coasting on prolific, you know I don’t mean to. When did I become such a fucking cop out? And next, I’ll be rambling about how he tastes like strawberries and I want to buy a picket fenced house with him.

You know what though?

You can’t rough house with kittens.

Maybe you can’t rough house with puppies either.

I never got the chance to tell you I’m sorry, but I am.

“No…no, that’s not what…I mean. You’re not, really. I’m over him. I really am. I just…I don’t want him to…I won’t forget about him, ever, I just…”

“Invite me to stay the night, Jeph. For us.”

I think about how that sounds, tilting my head up to the sliver of moon and lit up night sky. Us. Me and Bert. It should never have even gotten the chance to be that way, you know. I know it.

I wonder what you’re doing right now. I wonder what you’d want me to do. Move on? Forget? Start over?

“Bert…”

I watch his shoulders tense, his head dropping lower and his messy, uneven bangs falling over his eyes in a calculated arch. He says nothing, but his ribs decompress to force out a heavy sigh. His knee high socks are black and his shoes are coated with a layer of ice. I’m used to seeing him goofy, never pretentious, and never letting disappointment show. Spending time with him, I’ve labelled him a pessimist in denial, although labelling people has pretty much lost its interest since you’re not here to laugh with me.

I shake my head and turn away, pulling open the screen door and tightening my fingers around my keys.

I stick one of them into the slot on the doorknob, unlocking the front door. I push it open and it’s a wave of warm, comfortable smelling air, something akin to cigarette smoke and the fabric of my hoodie when I bury my face against one sleeve and inhale. It smells like spiced tea and vaguely of incense and I just don’t want to be alone right now.

I hear Bert’s shoes crunch against the gravel and ice and my chest tightens, glancing over my shoulder. “Bert?”

He glances at me, his shoulders hunched against the cold, eyes partially hidden.

He can’t stay. I know that. You know that. I don’t know when I become someone desperate for reassurance, but I used to be cool. I used to not need this. I used to like being left up to my own devices.

The words on my tongue are goodnight, but they come out wrong.

“Come inside.”

His face contorts, brow creasing, and he looks like he wants to decline, as we’re pretty much doomed to sit in my living room awkwardly, staring at each other if he does come in. “Okay, Jeph,” he says, so lightly I almost don’t hear. This I think is odd too, and I wonder why neither of us are falling into our usual calculated roles, me being distant and apathetic while he’s cracking silly jokes and being generally personable. Tonight, my empathy is showing through clearer then the stars in the fresh night sky and he’s being nothing if not reserved.

It’s not really relevant though, because I heard him.

And I’m sorry.

***
It’s not as weird as I wanted it to be, our first real kiss. I wanted it to feel bad, just for you. I wanted to feel guilty, but I don’t.

It’s not the first time we’ve kissed. It’s not even our first make out session, but it’s the first time his hands are sliding over my hip, up the bottom of my shirt. It’s the first time my fingers trail up his bicep, ending up fisted through the back of his jagged hair. Our noses nuzzle slightly and his cheek is rough against mine, and his skin feels warm and smells deep.

He doesn’t smell anything like you.

He doesn’t feel anything like you.

I just feel his hands sliding over my ribs, his thumbs tracing the bones beneath my skin, and I’m falling back on the couch until the back of my head hits the armrest. As soon as I’ve got support from behind, I bend my legs up with my thighs open, his thin body falling right between so our laps press together.

I feel warm instantly, my lower back straining up from the cushions to push our hips together harder, my chin tilted up to keep our mouths together. His tongue is thrusting in and out of my lips, my teeth catching against his lower one with my liprings clicking between our mouths. He pushes his lithe body up against mine again, tugging my shirt up the expansion of my chest, his palms still cold from the dead winter air.

I feel something like a moan fill up my chest when he keeps pushing up against me, that tingling warmth from before spreading through my entire abdomen and all I want to do is tell him not to stop.

I’m sorry. I need this. I haven’t been touched by anyone in so long. I can’t even remember the last time I masturbated. I can’t remember the last time I got off. I can’t remember the last time I had any release.

“Oh…god,” I let myself moan. I’m almost fully hard now, my jeans feeling tight and coarse against my skin, pinned up against his warm, thrusting body. I just clench my eyes shut, head tilted back, feeling his mouth latch below the curve of my jaw, teeth and wet tongue against my skin.

He pulls back for just a moment, leaving the fresh mark exposed to the cold air, his ribs stirring against mine with each of his heated breaths. He’s tugging my shirt off, tossing it across the room before returning his hands to my chest, stroking his thumbs and the warmed pads of his fingers against my skin gently.

I squirm beneath him, forcing our hips together harder, wanting blunt, crude pleasure. I’m not in the mood for these easy, calculated movements. I want something hard and impulsive. I want to feel teeth and my muscles straining and tensed up as much as possible.

I feel for the bottom of his hoodie, tugging it up the smooth ness of his spine, his shoulder blades flexing beneath my palms. He’s wearing a long sleeved shirt beneath that and it’s almost tantalizing, him wearing layers to keep my hands away from his bare skin.

Beneath him, I’m looking up into his pale face, my fingers scratching at the bottom of the shirt, letting out small whimpers every time he shoves forward. He smiles so I can see the straight white ridge of his teeth, sitting back on his knees off of me to remove his shirt. I watch his back arch and his muscles move so smoothly, his hips wriggling and chest sliding with his breaths.

I shiver, tightening my thighs around his body as much as possible, needing more pressure against my lap.

He braces his hands on either side of my shoulders, his weight sinking the cushions slightly, holding his mouth over mine. He lets his nose nuzzle mine, thrusting up against me again hard and steady, and I think he’d be good at real fucking.

I don’t mean to be thinking like this. I didn’t mean to really want him, maybe just a few kisses and an assurance that it’ll just take some more time…I didn’t think it’d go this far.

But it’s been so long…and I’m really turned on by him, by his litheness, by his purrs and nuzzles and the push of his body against mine, the warmth of his skin, his breaths and his movements.

I kick my shoes off and wrap my arms around his bare shoulders, our skin pressing together so tightly that I can feel his heart resonating through my own chest. The discarding of my socks proves to be a harder task, but I manage and hook my feet against his knees to keep our bodies together.

His tongue thrusts into my mouth again, my lips sucking on the wet ness, biting at his mouth with my teeth and kissing him back fervently. My nails are sliding down his back, gripping his ass beneath the coarse fabric of his black shorts, and he moans out instantly, the first deep, masculine noise he’s made.

I whimper back, opening my legs up again, his hands sliding down the contours of my chest, nearing the tops of my jeans. My hips jerk upwards in response, wanting contact from him more then anything else.

It’s taking him forever to discard our clothing, and I spend the mean time sucking on his fingers, splitting them with my tongue and licking, nipping, getting them wet and dripping in my mouth.

I have to grab his wrist and push his hand down, spreading my legs out for him and lifting my hips suggestively before he’s pressing wet fingers between my thighs, rubbing and touching.

I grunt softly and sort of thrust up against the air, sinking my ass back down on his fingers while he steadies his hand and lets me sit back slowly. I let out a satisfied groan of pleasure, pushing my ass down until his two fingers are deep and curved against my sensitive insides, my eyes rolling back in my skull as I rock downward.

“God…that feels…” I can’t form a coherent sentence right now so I give up and try to just make encouraging noises. I don’t want him to stop. I love the feeling of being penetrated, and I’m sweaty and panting, riding my ass down against his hand.

“I can just fuck you with my fingers…” His voice is breathy and constricted, his lips nuzzling against the hinge of my jaw, and I’m trying to lift my weight up on the balls of my feet with my shoulder blades flat against the couch and my knees bent. “If you’re not ready to…”

I thrash my head back to get my bangs out of my eyes and when I talk, it’s through my teeth. “I want it deeper…” my voice puts a strain on the last syllable and I let out a gasp and swallow a mouthful of spit. I feel his fingers curve and his wrist twist, feeling deeper inside of me. “Fuck me.”

“We don’t have to…” his fingers slow a bit and he looks down on me almost sympathetically.

I twist and sort of curl my toes against the cushion. “I want to. I do. I want to now,” I grasp for him, but he almost leans away, unconvinced. I’m panting, my lips wet and swollen and watching him beneath the over hang of my bangs.

“I don’t know…” he trails off while I reach for him, trying to find his erection between his legs without taking my eyes off his face.

I don’t know why he’s doing this to me. Denying me what I want. Making me beg and look pathetic and sex starved.

I keep my knees up, grasping his dick and pulling it between my legs, giving him a look of pure desperation. “I do though,” I insist, feeling his fingers brush against the inside of my thighs while his dick touches my balls. “Give it to me.”

I wriggle my hips a bit to get closer to him, licking my lips and picking my ass up a few inches. He winces like he’s pained, one of his hands lifting up to brush the side of my face.

He keeps rubbing at the inside of my thigh with his free hand, frowning at my withering, my panting and sweating. It’s like he’s trying to calm me down, make me relax, but I’m so fucking turned on right now, not necessarily by him, but just in general. My cock aches, my whole stomach aches, and I want to get fucked so badly. I just want to come. It’s the only thing that’s going to make me feel any better.

“Jepha…” he whispers it, sounding sincere and apologetic.

I swallow again, reaching for his wrist and moving his hand to my dick. He bites the side of his lip, letting his fingers ease around me, looking down.

“Mmmph…what?” I squirm again, arching my back up so his cock brushes between my legs and I watch a strange look of pleasure wash over his features at the movement. I do it again and his fingers squeeze my cock.

“I want to love you…” he looks up at me earnestly, like such a small little boy aching for approval, but I don’t have that kind of authority.

“I want to fuck you,” I reply before I can stop myself, and he looks crestfallen. I can’t feel sorry for him right now. Maybe I will later when I’m in a better state of mind, but not right now. Not like this. “After…after, we’ll talk about this after you’re done with me?” I try to match his earnest expression, feeling his fingers slip lower again, but mine isn’t genuine like his.

He nods in a detached way, pushing two fingers inside of me again with my hips lifting my lower body up. He obviously doesn’t want it to be this way, but I do.

“Don’t…you don’t have to finger me anymore, just fuck me with your cock,” I groan, lifting my ass up again.

“Is this how you want it?” he mumbles, touching my thigh with his other hand and pushing my knee back against my chest a bit.

I can only nod my head emphatically at this point, pushing up against his body to give him better access to my entrance. I watch him fumble a little, spitting into his hand and coating his dick with the saliva before lining us up, and I strain to keep my hips raised.

He presses his tip against my ass and I close my eyes, feeling him push and feeling myself get even more stretched out. His hand stays down there for a few more moments to steady himself before he lets go, moving both his hands up, resting them on either side of my ribs.

He keeps pushing his hips forward and after my sphincter, his slides in a lot easier, dick pressing up against sensitive spots. He holds still and watches me while I exhale in pure satisfaction, flexing my fingers against his shoulder blades.

“Ohh…mmmmph…” I whine, nuzzling my mouth against his collarbone. I need him to move, to make that rough, constant massage against my prostate. I want to get off with him inside of me. “You can fuck me.”

He nods, looking down at me, pulling his hips back from my body before snapping them forward again. I groan loudly, thighs trembling and tightening against his sides and my head falling back. It’s been so long since I’ve been fucked.

This is me, all shaky and breathless while he starts moving, fucking his hips up against my body. I lift my feet all the way up into the air, crossing my ankles behind the back of his head while clutching onto the couch cushions until my knuckles are white.

My cheeks flush and I make more noise for him then I can recall making for you, but I’ve never been a loud one. It’s just been so long and he needs a lot more encouragement then you.

At some point, I’m just screaming fuck me over and over again, hoping to drill it in his head while he drills his dick up my ass.

At some point, my hand is all over my dick, masturbating myself while he grabs my hips to hold my body steady, thrusting and working himself in and out of me. I’m screaming out loud to a hopefully empty room. I’m in a delicious amount of pain and ecstasy. I’m hot all over with a clenching stomach and shivers working their way all beneath my wet skin.

I’m still screaming to be fucked, even after I tense up too tightly, after my whole body flushes and shivers and I lose it all over my hand.

And he doesn’t pull out. He just keeps thrusting, deep, pushing all up against my prostate and I feel like I’m going to lose conscious ness from the pleasure of it.

He falls down against me, lifting his head to look into my face earnestly. “Do you want me to…”

I already know what he’s going to say and I’m shaking my head no. I don’t want him to go. I want to curl up with a warm body right now, so I loop my arm around the small of his back and hold his heaving chest down against mine. Our skin is wet, touching, comforting me in some weird way and I want this.

Right now. I want this.

It’s not you, but we all have to make compromises we hate.

You, you would be yelling at me right now. You would be saying, never compromise. You would say be what you want. Get what you want. All that.

Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I haven’t heard you talk in so long, maybe I haven’t heard you spill your guts in so long, that I forgot what it sounds like.

Bert, he lays his flushed cheek against one of my damp collarbones, keeping his hips between my thighs as he hardly stifles a yawn. I raise a hand and brush careful fingertips through his hair to soothe him, scared of scaring him.

Scared of scaring him off.

Gentle sweet and nuzzling. You knew I had it in me, the capacity to appreciate human contact. You always knew I had a lot in me before I knew I did.

Bert is asleep before I am. He’s asleep before I have to come up with an excuse not to talk again and I’m thankful for that.

I guess I just don’t like talking to anyone else. I like talking to you. You understand. I’ve been spoiled by you because you always get what I’m talking about before anyone else does. I don’t want to be despoiled. The thought makes my guts wrench.

I need to talk right now.

I have to talk to you even if you won’t answer.

***
I walk out onto the back porch, cold, smooth cement underneath my bare feet and the sky a murky rose now that the time is creeping towards dawn. The backyard is small and fenced in, a slim expansion of broken grass and balding patches of earth. The back porch, it’s small and concrete and peeling with an old coat of red paint.

I take my cell phone out while reaching for the weather stained patio chair laid on its side just off the side of the porch. A bit of twisting and its settled on all three legs with one of the back slightly shorter, making it tilt back and forth unevenly as I sit down in it. I’m already cold and shivering, wrapped in a blanket stolen from one of the arm chairs.

Me cell phone lights up blue as soon as I hit a button, my thumb moving over the smooth keypad to punch in the same number I always find myself calling.

It rings once.

You won’t answer and I know that. It’s funny, that I’m the one keeping your phone line on. Your apartment has been cleaned out until it’s devoid of nearly all furniture, or so I’ve heard.

Your mother told me this but your mother never really liked me, so who knows.

You mother probably thinks I’m crazy.

It rings twice.

Hell, I think I’m crazy sometimes. Calling you like this. It’s so late it’s early now, maybe the sun thinking about raising up over the black, gnarled definition of the tree lines in the distance. I think most people would say that I need to let you rest in peace. I think, if I was confronted on this, or if I confronted myself, I’d just be shooting the rod.

It rings three times and I curl my bare, cold toes against the concrete and stretch a bit against the uncomfortable plastic hardly supporting my spine.

You know me well enough to know that I’m not the type to forget.

Fourth ring.

I smile, very faintly but it’s very genuine and I guess that’s all that matters.

I know you well enough to know that even if you never pick up, even if you can’t pick up, you’ll find a way to hear this.

Fifth ring.

Of course I was torn apart when you died four months ago, but we all deal with things like this in a different way. Some people are probably more healthy about it, but I have to take this one step at a time. You should know that. One careful baby step at a time and I don’t want you to miss out.

When you died a huge part of me went with you and I want you back and I want me back, but all I’ve got is this and your answering machine.

Sixth ring and there’s a beep and the tape clicking and your voice rolling over the phone line from dimensions away.

”Hey, I’m not in right now. Leave a message after the tone and I’ll get back to you as soon as I get around to it.”

I believe that you’ll get back to me as soon as you get around to it.

There’s a faint, early morning breeze that ruffles my bangs to the side, and I tuck them behind one ear with two fingers while I tilt the phone to my opposite ear.

“Hey Quinn. It’s me again. I finally let Bert come in…”

mareepa @ 2005-04-27T09:52:00

2005-04-27T17:57:00Z

Title: log from sex__education

Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own, never happened, permission less.

Rating/Pairing: NC-17, Bert McCracken/Jepha Howard of the Used.

FYI: Over at pandemonium_rp, my character Jepha and his boyfriend Bert have a sex journal, (see link above). Hah, too bad for you it's friends only and just for the other players at pandemonium. I just thought it'd be nice to share something and pimp the com. This is not all mine. What anima__sola and I do is go back and forth and then I convert it to word. So. Half credit to her.

____________________________

So this time, it starts with me lounging on the floor, making Bert read out loud what he’s written so far for the sex story he promised AGES back.

Mostly, I’m just interested in reading his perspective of things.

“Uhn,” It’s not really anything but a grunt in response once he’s done, but my stomach is sort of tightening up. “Wow. I love you.”

“Like it?” Maybe he’s feeling insecure, but I don’t know how he could. Our sex is awesome and now everyone knows it.

“Love it. Want to reinact it.” I don’t know if that’s really a word or not, but I said it. Oh, and when I’m turned on, my sentence structure is greatly reduced to something almost nonsensical.

Bert knows this very well. Jungle. That’s all I have to say about that.

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“Meet you in the kitchen in five,” he says, because he has to finish up his story or something like that.

I strip on the way, hopping back up on the counter and it’s cold under my bare ass and I’m sliding a little, but I don’t care, because Bert’s right behind me, and then he’s right across from me, leaned up against the fridge, same as before.

So I’m naked up on the counter, and my hand is one my dick, rubbing at it to get myself hard, which isn’t particularly hard to do because one, I’m Jepha, I’m easily aroused, and two, my incredibly sexy and talented boyfriend is about to finger me senseless.

Bert walks closer, and one of his hands are on the counter next to me, while the fingers of his other are sliding up my naked thigh and from here on out it’s tensed up, shivering Jeph.

“Do I have to watch this time? Or can I just jump right in and help out?” He asks, and he’s sort of playing with me, obviously.

My legs open up in response to him touching me, and I’m making myself squirm too from the friction of my own hand. I lick my lips, wriggling. “Jump in any time!”

He swats my hand away, replacing it with his, pushing his mouth to mine and tugging on one of my liprings with his teeth. He brushes his thumb against the overly sensitive head of my dick and I groan softly against his mouth.

I move my hands to his hair, thrusting my fingers through the pieces and tugging, steadying my weight on one arm. My head tilts to make his teeth tug harder against my lip and I make a noise, something like an “mmm” of approval or arousal or both.

His fingers tighten around me and he moans through his nose, biting down harder on my lip while his fingers trail down my chest. I arch my sternum into his touch while my hips push against his hand. I slide my arm around his neck and lean my mouth forward to lick his teeth, and I’m already desperate to feel his fingers in me again.

“Uhhnm, hurry?” This is muffled against the warm wetness of his mouth, our tongues touching and brushing together. This is lips pressing and touching and piercings clicking against teeth.

He bites at my tongue for a moment before moving his mouth to my neck, which is my instant hot spot. As soon as he licks the skin, my whole body tightens up, and his hand moves faster on my dick. He brings his fingers up to my mouth, touching my lips while I arch up against his hand, lifting my legs.

“Uhhn, please…” I beg. I’m not above begging. At least not from him, because I know I’ll get what I want.

He pushes his fingers past my teeth and I suck on them eagerly, licking at them, parting them with my tongue, my cheeks drawing inward while I rub at his hair. His own mouth is working my neck really hard, sending these warm shock waves all through my body, down my back and across my shoulder blades, so my skin is getting really slick and wet.

He pulls his fingers from my mouth and they’re quickly pressing between my legs. “Is this what you want?” he asks, moans it against my neck and it’s another full body shiver.

I’ve got so much tension building already, I can’t hold still. I’m squirming up on the counter, leaning my head all the way to the side to fully expose my throat, opening my legs up as wide as I can for him.

“God…yes…fuck me with them,” I whimper/moan/groan/beg.

He starts sucking on my throat like a fucking vampire which gets to me so hard, and to top it off, he pushes those two wet fingers into me really deep, his wrist twisting whilst trying to find my spot.

My stomach clenches and I tighten the muscles in my open thighs automatically, biting down on the side of my tongue to keep from crying out. I tug on his hair, pushing his mouth down harder against my neck, squeezing my eyes shut.

“Oh my…god…” I pant, because it feels so good, I don’t know what to do with myself, with his fingers thrusting into me and his teeth and tongue and lips on that sensitive spot right below my ear.

I swear I could cum just from this.

“Uhhn...so…fucking…tight…” he grunts, and he’s working his fingers faster, and I’m a moaning, twisting, sweating, panting mess up on the countertop.

His free hand goes down his shorts and just the thought of him touching himself almost makes me lose it. His fingers shift angles just slightly, and he’s hitting my prostate so hard and right on each time, all I can do is arch my hips up to help him hit the same mark over and fucking over again. I’m panting and pushing against him, my eyes widening slightly because he’s hitting right. there.

“Uhhn, fuck me…uhhn, shit, Bert, fuck me now,” I demand it. I need all of him.

He pulls his fingers out of me, writhing out of his shorts and boxers. There’s some shifting of positions here, but eventually, he’s laying out on top of the counter and I’m straddling his lap.

I grasp his erection beneath me to steady it and sit back on it, and I moan out long and low, my head dropping forward. I’m sort of stretched from the fingering and then there’s his precum, but I don’t care because he’s inside me and that’s all that matters right now.

“Uhhhn, shit…mmm….mmmyeah…you feel sogood,” I tell him, because he does.

He pushes his hips up into me. “Uhgh, come on baby…mmm, ride me.”

My cheeks are so flushed and my muscles spasm a little at his words, because talk like that turns me on. I move my hands to his shoulders for leverage, leaning up before grinding my ass back down on his dick, crying out because it feels so good. I shift my hips and repeat the actions over and over and I’m moaning and whimpering really loudly and constantly now, riding him just like he told me to.

“Mmmm…uh…mmph…” I make a lot of noise when I’m getting fucked.

Bert holds his hands steady on my hips and he’s panting and pushing his mouth into mine, moaning back against my lips. “Uhnng…that’s it…uhg…”

It’s a combination of his approval and his noises, and I can hardly take it anymore.
I grind my ass down as hard as I can, moving so he’s hitting my spot so hard again, and I’m rolling my hips against his body.

I’m tensed up and trembling, just sort of licking and whimpering helplessly against his teeth, digging my fingers into his shoulders, because I’m that fucking close that I can’t do anything else. “I can’t…I’mgonna…Bert…uhhn…baby…”

He pushes his hips up into me so he’s fucking me even deeper and he’s sucking on my tongue ring, his fingers massaging these hard circles against my hips. “Cum for me baby and I’ll cum in you…”

I moan even louder against his warm mouth, forcing my hips up and down harder in his lap. My arms are straining and my thighs are tensed, shuddering against him and squeezing my muscles around his dick. I lean forward so I can grind my own erection against his stomach a little as I cum, crying out his name and licking at his tongue messily.

He pulls me down on him hard by my hips, his body trembling beneath mine as he cums inside of him, his hands rubbing up my sides, against my ribs, pulling me closer. He presses kisses all over my face, and when he talks, it’s a breathless whisper.

“Mmm…fuck…Jepha, I love you so much…”

I just shiver and lay against him so our chests touch, licking his cheeks. “I love you too…”

RP

2005-04-06T19:05:50Z

contact a mod on (aim) burningjepha or (aim) mattxisxbleeding for further details

letters of past, so distant and wrinkled.

2005-03-24T03:45:40Z

Just say,
say you will, follow me.
(follow me)
Invite me to your memory.
Just sing,
sing again, for me.
(for me)
That long forgotten song.

I'm gonna go ahead and make this official.

I am quitting writing for a while.

This is just so everyone knows it. Don't both heckling me for updates or begging me to change my mind. I do not question my talents as a writer, rather, I no longer feel the desire to write.

I'm sorry to anyone upset by this choice, but it is my own, and made in accordance to my life style right now.

I'll pick it back up when I'm ready to.

Thank you to everyone who read my writing and supported me these past four years, from the ff.net days to now. I understand that I personally played a huge role in getting MEST slash recognised, and I am still regarded as a notorious member of the slash writing communities. For the fame and recognition and love, I am very grateful.

Thank you for every single review I ever received. I can't properly express how much those few lines from someone who cared meant to me.

For a while, this journal and my fans was one of the few reasons to get up in the morning.

I don't love it any less now, nor do I appreciate you any less. I just feel that I need some time. I don't think it's healthy to rely on kind words from strangers just to keep from slitting your wrists.

So. In short. Thank you so much to everyone. Thank you to the bands that will never read this. Thank you to the kids that did read this. Thank you for telling me I had talent when I didn't believe it. Thank you for the support and love and recognition.

Just thanks.

-caetlynn

Let me be all the words, echo in comoft.
Let me feel the words, that you'd unsay.
Let me be all the words, echo in comfort.
comfort, comfort, comfort.
Let me feel the words, that you'd unsay.
unsay, unsay, unsay.

mareep needs an ipod.

2005-03-08T21:16:24Z

I want a free ipod. Fill this out so I can get one. It's really important. C'mon kids. You know you want to give me a free ipod. I don't ask for much!

CLICK HERE NOW IF YOU LOVE ME AT ALL.

Used Like Motel Beds.

2005-03-08T06:23:10Z

Title: Used Like Motel Beds, part one

Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own, never happened, permission less.

Rating/pairing: R. Matt/Jeremiah.

FYI: I felt like posting. I can't call it chapters because it doesn't break? I don't think that made sense. But it's parts. Jeremiah is a slut and Matt isn't just another client. Strange twists. Angst and fluff. Read it. Review it. Love it. Direct orders.

Dedication: My home. He shouldn't have yelled. You are brilliant. I should've come back. I should've listened. I should've talked. I should've fallen asleep on you. I should've breathed. I should've licked you and nuzzled and made it okay. We'll be better tomorrow. I shouldn't push you into breaking things when you're hurt. And I should apologise to your face until you believe me. Like lions. Not just fairies. Okay, houston?

In my mind there is no doubt
That you’ve been in and out
Of many different backseats
Many times before

***
He lights a cigarette, his wide shoulders pressed up against the cold brick siding of a building downtown, shrugging his trench coat up around his neck. Holding the thin cylinder pursed between lips chapped from the cold air, he rubs his palms together, letting the friction warm his numb skin. He shifts his weight, scuffing the peeling toe of his sneaker against the worn cement, lifting his gaze to the smoky night sky beyond the cone of streetlamp light.

The warm orange glow makes his features gaunt, his longish black bangs dripping down over his defined cheekbones. He shifts again, catching his cigarette between two lean fingers, blowing a couple lungfuls of menthol tinged smoke into the icy air.

It smells like exhaust fumes and burnt charcoal, the latter a wives tale hint at snow, and the sudden drop of temperature makes him believe it. The clouds are moving in the sky, low and pink tinged, the moon filtering in and out of view with a wide ring of light echoing around the centered orb.

He straightens off the brick, taking a shuffled step forward on the sidewalk, his foot swaying at the last moment to avoid a crack in the cement.

don’t step on a crack or you’ll break your mother’s back…

He walks like a model on a runway strip, one Converse All-star tennis shoe in front of the other until the faded white toes are stuck out over the empty gutter. A cool night breeze makes his bangs slide over the left side of his face and ruffles a few signs printed on typing paper stapled to the telephone pole next to him.

He winces, stepping closer to the pole to rest his shoulder against the oily wood, his legs smarting and sore beneath him. He doesn’t bother to stifle his yawn, letting his jaw drop down and shoulders rise with the effort, his hip sticking out.

The circles under his Saint Bernard brown eyes are more predominant now that he’s standing directly beneath the orange light, his skin taking on a more slippery glow. Each breath is coming out silver whether or not he’s exhaling nicotine and most of his body has lost its feeling from standing out in the cold.

“God,” he says out loud as he spots a car turning down the street. “God, god, god…please,” he straightens up, quickly brushing his free hand through his dishevelled hair in an effort to make himself look more appealing. He takes a last drag of his half smoked cigarette before dropping the rest to the sidewalk, quickly stubbing it out with his toe.

The car slows while his heart rate quickens, his breath becoming shallower. Sidling up against the curb, the car is black and shining warmly in the streetlight, his reflection showing briefly in the passenger side window before it starts to lower.

The driver leans over so that eye contact can be made, the man’s arm already reaching towards the passenger door’s handle on the inside of the car.

He can feel the heat from the automobile flowing from the open window, instantly warming his cheeks. He steps up against the curb, bending over and laying his forearms crossed against the top of the door.

“Need directions?” he asks coyly, the lazy, friendly smile on his lips coaxing a knowing smirk from the driver, who’s fingers flirt over the inside door handle.

“Yeah, you know where the closest motel is?” there’s a soft click as the driver unlocks the door.

He steps back a pace, hooking his fingers under the handle and pulling the door back on its hinges, letting out a slight breath of awe at the incredible wave of heat that pours out of the car over his frozen body. “Sure do.”

The driver straightens, adjusting the seatbelt over his chest and making a loose gesture with his hand to indicate the other should get in. He does so quickly, sliding into the slick, comfortable passenger seat, his sore muscles practically moaning in relief. He shuts the door after him lightly, watching the driver’s hand float over the control switch on his own door, the automatic window sliding shut again.

“I’m Matt,” the driver says, as if he wants to get complimentary over with as quickly as possible.

“Jere,” the other says softly, like he might be embarrassed of his own name. He glances at the driver in the shadowed car for a moment, considering correcting the faux pas. He doesn’t think a swapping of names is appropriate in this situation, but he advises himself against it.

Matt pauses for a second, both of his hands curled around the top of the steering wheel. He stares at his knuckles, his teeth clicking against his lip ring. He seems nervous for a moment, glancing next to him at the person he’s just allowed in his car, catching the subtle shaking.

He doesn’t say anything, reaching one hand out to the heat control and cranking it up before returning his fingers to their clutch over the wheel, his shoulders pressing against the cushioned back of his seat.

Jere blinks for a moment, the hot air spilling into his lap from the vent. His skin is tingling now, the shivering not yet subsiding. He opens his mouth to say thank you, but the words feel stuck. He’s not sure why it’s suddenly awkward, but the air is thick between the two, and he swallows at the pressure in his throat.

“Jeremiah.”

Jere looks up fast, his eyes narrowing on the half hidden face of the driver. “What?”

“Your name,” Matt says, sounding cold and mechanical, moving his hand to the gear shift and moving it into reverse, “Is Jeremiah.”

Jere bites down on his lip, studying the driver in the sparse lighting as he shifts to see behind him, his one hand touching the side of Jere’s seat.

“Yeah…”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Do I know you?”

Matt shifts gears again, putting the car into drive smoothly. “How much is this going to cost me?”

Jere shakes his head to clear it, trying to put himself back into a business mood. “It, you know, it depends on what you want.”

“This is really strange for me…”

“Why?”

Matt shakes his head and Jere hushes himself instantly, lowering his head slightly. His legs are aching dully now but his skin is warming up and he’s grateful of that. Jere glances out his window, watching the empty city streets flash by in orange and blues and blacks, Matt stopping at a few relatively empty intersections. Jere glances at the digital clock in the dashboard, seeing that it’s past four in the morning.

Matt pulls the car into the parking lot of a Motel 6, quickly switching off the car and pulling the keys from the ignition. He reaches one hand up to pull the rear view mirror down, brushing his fingertips through his hair and wiping off his mouth, checking his reflection carefully.

“Okay, you stay right here, Mr. Rangel,” he says once he’s done, opening his door and getting out of the car.

Jere stiffens all over, turning his head quickly, his mouth opened, but Matt shuts the door in his face. He blinks, watching Matt walk towards the glass front doors of the motel into the main lobby.

He keeps one eye on Matt, talking to the woman at the front desk and getting out his wallet. Jere doesn’t know how Matt could be familiar with his last name. He has half a mind to get out of the car and leave- his fingers even float over the door handle- but he’s cold and tired and he really wants to sleep in a bed and take a shower. He really needs the money and he knows it’s too late at night to try and get picked up by someone else.

He’s still weighing the options when Matt returns to the car, tapping on Jere’s window with two fingers, his car keys held against his palm and jingling. Jere moves fast, unlatching his seatbelt and opening the door. Matt is already walking away, going back into the building, and Jere follows quickly, his hips swaying slightly with his prolific, one foot in front of the other routine. No matter how lethargic he feels, Jere knows the key to success in this business is to act anything but...

mareepa @ 2005-02-24T17:54:00

2005-02-24T23:00:24Z

CHAOS THEORY

New RP. Check is out. If you know someone who likes RPing, make them check it out. I think you should all check it out. I'm doing my pimping, goddamnit. So please. Clicky the link and join. Please? Spread the word? Spread the love? Yeah. Okay.

CHAOS THEORY

My Tongue Will Taste Of...

2005-02-24T19:20:39Z

Title: My Tongue Will Taste Of Gin…

Disclaimer: Don’t know, don’t own, never happened, permission less

Rating/Pairing: So NC-17 it's not even funny. Pete Wentz/Adam Lazzara Taking Back Sunday/Fall Out Boy cross over

FYI: You guys know TBS and FOB were touring together? Well, yeah. Basically smut and stuff. Here we go! Ps; I know it’s really long and it’s not mest, but I swear to god it’s worth it. I’m not that proud of too many of my slashes, but I really like this one. Don’t forget to press that comment button once you’re done.

Dedication: Laura! _oneeighteven! Yeah! Because she’s going to marry Pete and what not. And because I <34 her…mmm, yeah, we haven’t talked much as of late, but still. I promised I’d do you a Pete slash ages back. All though it frightens me because he used to be a livejournal lurker, but maybe he’s not anymore.

***

Later, despite your sobriety, (you were obstinately ascetic in the face of alcohol and drugs, despite these things being constantly within your grasp), you could only vaguely remember the conversation and actions that led up to it, maybe the first few words that staggered off his tongue. He seemed drunk and he’d leaned against you heavily while manoeuvring his ass towards the couch in the back room of the coliseum you had performed at that night.

“Are you drunk too?” he’d asked, smiling at you with dishwater bangs falling in sweaty clumps over his eyes to his jaw, and you had been amused, arching eyebrows and giving him a genuine grin back.

“Straight-edged, Adam,” you’d reminded him, pressing your palms against the hard, bony ridges of his shoulders, pushing him back on the sofa.

He’d swerved, unsteady for a moment, his fingers grasping out and landing awkwardly on your hip for leverage.

“That’s not in my vocabulary,” he’d said, frowning slightly and letting his knees bend until he was sitting on the sofa with one arm stuck between his body and the back of the couch, the other stretched out, his hand still clutching at your side uncertainly.

“That’s because you’re drunk,” you nodded efficiently, sinking down with him, your leg catching beneath you, his knees touching you. You dealt with drunk people in the same manner as you would a four year old, but this attitude felt strange when Adam was the recipient. He was someone you respected in many ways, most predominantly intellectually, and you weren’t sure if he deserved the rudimentary treatment.

Then again, you reminded yourself of his childish drunk antics, so maybe this attitude was more appropriate then you had first perceived. You were idly turning this argument over in your head, as you had nothing else to think about at the moment, besides his warm skin against yours.

“Only a bit,” he pouted at you, shaking loose pieces of hair back and gliding his hand further back on your hip, tugging slightly. You watched the muscles in his forearm flex and leaned a little closer to him, still feeling the pull.

You weren’t sure where he was attempting to direct you, but it didn’t entirely make you uncomfortable- more so confused. You let out a faint laugh, moving your fingers around the offending wrist and pushing it back to his body.

“What are you trying to do?” You asked, narrowing your eyes at him. He stuck his lip out further, twisting his hand and lacing his fingers through yours.

“I’m lonely,” he said, and you thought about this while he pressed his palm against yours, his eyes on the look of your intertwined fingers. His were longer and paler, and he stretched his leg out over your lap, shifting his weight a bit. “Just c’mere,” he coaxed, pulling your hand and his against his chest.

He held your wrist so your palm was flush against his sternum and the smooth fabric of his tight fitting shirt. You could feel his heart thudding softly beneath his ribs and you frowned, lifting your gaze to meet his, watching his eyes flutter shut.

“Adam…” you said. You’re tone wasn’t quiet warning or confused, but something in between, and he was guiding your hand down his chest, over his stomach to his belt buckle. You thought to jerk back here, but the relaxed expression on his face made you hesitate.

Instead, you laughed again lightly, in a slightly higher pitch then prior, shooting a nervous look towards the shut door of the small back room.

“Adam, what are you doing?”

He arched his back, shifting his hips a little so he was half lying out on the sofa, his head back, neck long. “Just…just…c’mere, Pete,” his voice was lower now, and you did not over look the sexual under tone.

“I’m not into this,” you said, pulling your hand away from him forcefully, scooting away further down the couch, arms folding protectively across your chest.

You felt Adam’s eyes on you, and his own hand had replaced yours on his belt buckle. He was rubbing softly, letting his fingers dip lower, closer to his crotch. You blinked, a brief wonder of how his hands would feel against you running through your mind before you shook the thought away, ignoring the tightening muscles in your abdomen.

His breathing was more stilted now, his leg stretching out again so his ankle was centred in your lap. You picked up a softened moan from him, and you desperately wanted to look at him again, but you stared stubbornly at the chipped wall across from you.

“That’s not what I heard,” Adam sighed out, and you were sure he said this only so you would look at him. You weren’t falling for it.

“I don’t know who you’ve been listening to,” you spit the words, concentrating on the distinct sound of a zipper being tugged open and the clink of a belt buckle falling loose. You told yourself to jump up fast and bolt from this situation, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do that.

Adam was your friend and you knew he wouldn’t force you into anything.

“Tony,” he murmured, and your ears were straining, picking up not only the soft rustle of his fingers over fabric, but the sound of footsteps hurrying past the door.

The name stuck in your mind, bringing a quickening of your breath and heart beat. You might’ve repeated the name as for corroboration, but that seemed overly redundant to you, something that you detested. You had heard him clearly, and when you looked at him in the low, seventy watt lighting, he was watching you with the faintest smirk, eyes half lidded.

“What is that supposed to mean?” You narrowed your gaze, taking care to focus on only his face, his shoulder moving slightly with the movement of his hand against his lower body.

“What do you think it means?”

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking you.”

“It means Tony says you’re into it.”

You looked down at your lap, frustrated. You had given into the Lovato charm, but you didn’t want to admit that. Another brief flash, this one of the bleached blonde singer of Mest breathing beer breath in your face as he spoke in a fast, home town accent, trying to convince you that it wasn’t bad and you’d like it.

You’d been uncomfortable as you sat on a hotel bed with his thin body fitted between your knees, tattooed fingers working open your tight jeans.

“Tony, I don’t know-“ you’d started, automatically lifting your hips up as he pulled your pants off over your ass and thighs, grinning as he realised you weren’t lying when you casually mentioned that you never wore underwear.

“Tony has been known to stretch the truth,” you told Adam, keeping your voice casual.

“Really?” Adam sounded distracted, and his foot pressed down in your lap while he lifted his hips up, the shuffling sounds telling you he was removing his jeans. “He said you’ve got a nice mouth.”

Your ears burned and you bit your lip, wondering why you had screwed around with Tony when you were well aware of his inability to keep anything under wraps.

Jeremiah Rangel had even approached you the next morning, tearing himself away from his precious Matt and their little world of perfection just to tell you, “I don’t even want to know what you were thinking last night, but consider yourself as out as you can be.”

You’d grimaced, not just because you didn’t want anyone to know of your sexual escapade, but because you didn’t want Jeremiah in particular to hear about it. This wasn’t because you didn’t like him- you liked him a lot. In fact, that was why you didn’t want him to know.

“A nice mouth, huh?” You said, wondering if he was purposely moving his foot in your lap, or just squirming involuntarily.

“Mmmhmm…said it was a great blow job.”

You blush and his foot rubs against your crotch, your eyes falling shut. “Yeah? Did he mention it was a mistake?”

“Hmm…nah, not that… What do you blame it on?”

“What do you mean?” you cautiously leaned your weight against the back of the sofa, worrying your lip with your upper teeth as Adam continued caressing you through your jeans. You were letting him because it seemed to be keeping him content for the moment…~~and maybe you were a little lonely too~~.

“I always say I was drunk,” Adam explained.

Your brow furrowed momentarily, jaw loosening slightly, your lips just managing to stay closed. “I don’t really…have casual sex. It’s part of the edge thing.”

“Edge thing?” Adam sounded amused at this and you found yourself blushing, flexing your fingers against the grimy couch cushion.

“Yeah, that edge thing,” you snapped, turning your head to shoot him a glare. You felt your eyes widen, gaze narrowing by instinct right on his lap, because his hand was moving over…himself, and you were stuck just looking at…him.

All of him.

Like certain parts you should never be looking at.

You blushed furiously, noting his eyes watching yours, a lazy smirk resting on his lips. Your cheeks burned and you swallowed painfully, turning your attention to the heavy door of the room.

“Mmm…why do you do it, Pete?” Adam practically moaned and you thought to echo the breathy sound when his heel pressed against your crotch.

You could feel the heat starting behind your temples and your shirt felt itchy and heavy against your back from sweat. You blinked and swallowed, trying to steady your thoughts.

“Why do I what? Take care of my body? I don’t know, it seems like a smart move.”

Adam made a sound part growl and part annoyance, but you didn’t dare look at him again. “Take care of your body? That’s such…just, bullshit. It really is. You know, oxygen is corrosive. You could walk out of this building and a plane could drop on your head.”

“What’s your point?” You asked tersely, working your jaw in the exact same way his foot moved in your lap.

“You could die anytime. From the moment you’re born, your body is falling apart. You’re fucking made to die. Anything could kill you. Drugs, alcohol. It’s fun. It’s something to try.”

“It’s a quicker way to die.”

“Compared to what? If you knew right now that you were going to die before you reached thirty, say, by a car accident, knock on wood, would you still be edge?”

“Yes. I’d want to live my time as healthy as possible. I wouldn’t want to spend my night in a gutter incoherent and then wake up with some std ridden slut at four in the afternoon with an aching hangover.”

“Why does everything have to be extreme with you? Do you think I do that? Wake up with std ridden sluts at four in the afternoon?”

“No, but I’ve seen you sleep all day. I’ve heard you complain about your hangovers. I’ve watched you throw up all over yourself and giggle about it. I’ve seen you reduced to the mentality of a four year old and attempt to fly. I’ve watched you pass out. I’ve carried you back to your hotel because you couldn’t walk.”

He shifted, sitting up and pulling his legs with him. You’d pissed him off now, or offended him greatly, but you hardly cared. He was the one challenging your morals and beliefs- he deserved everything you’d said.

“Did you ever read this book…hmm, what’s it called? Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, I’m pretty sure. Anyway, there’s this one part where they’re talking about dolphins and how they were smarter then people.”

You looked at Adam again confused, carefully keeping your eyes on his face as his pants were still open.

“No, I don’t think I…”

“See, humans have always thought they were smarter then dolphins because of all our inventions and achievements while dolphins just flopped around and played in the water.”

“Okay, well…yeah…”

Adam grinned wolfishly, shifting onto his knees and crawling closer, grasping the hem of your shirt and putting his face by your ear.

“But the dolphins Pete, they always thought they were smarter for this…exact…same…reason.”

“Adam, I didn’t…” you mumbled, sounding like you were pleading with him, his hot breath fluid against your neck. Your head tilted to the side automatically, giving him more skin to breathe over.

“You did Pete. You’re trying to say I’m stupid for getting drunk or high or having sex. Aren’t you?”

“Not…not you’re stupid, I don’t think that, I just believe-“you squirmed, his teeth brushing against the soft skin of your neck, his body pressing against yours. You felt his fingers clutch the fabric of your shirt tighter and you hissed, your body arching.

“I believe that sex feels really fucking good. I believe that my IQ is high enough that I can smoke a couple blunts and not end up a retard. I believe that I never want to be old and miserable in bed anyway. I believe that I want to do everything and feel everything that this plane of existence has to offer, and it’s all my choice whether I like it or not, not someone else’s. I believe hangovers are the price you pay for a really good time.” His voice was low, growling right against your ear. He was slowly pulling your shirt up your chest and you wriggled again, digging your fingers harder against the couch cushion.

“Adam…please…you…you can have a really good time without getting drunk. And what’s fun about throwing up all over yourself and…and passing out and…” You leaned up, looking at him desperately, letting him remove your shirt and throw it aside.

He bit down lightly below your ear and your whole body tensed, a shudder running beneath your skin. Your breath caught thickly in your throat, your half formed hard on pressed against the inside of your jeans. It was uncomfortable and hot and your body begged for touch and release.

“Once again Pete…the extremes with you. What’s wrong with getting buzzed? Giggling with your friends over a really lame ass movie? It’s funny just feeling your body for what it is…something you never really had control of in the first place.”

You tried to pull away from him, his hot voice tumbling down your spine, making your breath quicken and muscles tense. “I have full control over my body.” You said, forcing your voice steady.

Adam licked your neck, his tongue so warm and thick you shivered in pleasure, your eyes almost falling shut again. Instead, you managed to keep them half lidded, watching him in disappointment. Your fingers flexed, wanting to tangle themselves through his messy hair and force his mouth down against your throat again, but you refrained.

“You do?” Adam looked at you incredulously, his eyes narrowed beneath the overhang of his bangs.

You nodded and swallowed hard, wanting his attention off of you. The intensity of it was making you hotter and harder and you weren’t sure how much longer you could take this.

He sat back, ridding himself of his shirt. You tried to meet his eyes again, confused, feeling him press against you.

“Adam!” you gasped, shocked and annoyed by the forwardness and the shoving.

He felt heavy against you, pale fingers grasping onto your bare shoulders, his chest and stomach warm against yours. Your knee closest to the back of the couch bent up, his hip against the inside of your thigh and you squeezed your eyes shut as you felt his erection brush against you quad.

“Adam…” your tone had changed dramatically, suddenly appreciative of the touch you were receiving and warm for more.

He purred back, attaching his mouth to your neck, his tongue something thick and hot against the skin below your ear, sloppy and wet from his inebriation. Fingers teased across your collarbones to your left nipple, working the metal ring through the bud.

Your jaw fell on its hinge and your brow creased, hips lifting slightly, his erection sliding against you once more. You sank back down again, your hand cautiously coming to rest against his side. He pinched your nipple and your fingers dug into his hip tighter, your back arching again involuntarily.

His tongue lapped up to your earlobe, biting down on the piercing and working it with his mouth the same way his fingers worked your nipple.

Your hips were pushing up against his weight almost steadily, slow, fluid movements that had your thigh muscles tightening and stomach filling with warmth. You kept your eyes closed, a light grunt falling from your parted lips as you rubbed up against him gently, letting the heat and pleasure of it stiffen your whole body gradually.

“So you’re consciously humping me?” Adam teased, breathing lighting upon the fresh wet mark on your neck.

You felt your hips jerk up harder at his words, your teeth gritting slightly. “Fuck you,” you mumbled distractedly.

“You’d like it,” he said, and you blinked your eyes open, focusing on the cheap textured ceiling, wondering if this was the right time to tell him that you hated people who felt the need to state the obvious.

You bit your lip and threw your head back again as he slid down lower, his lips wet and dragging over your shoulder and collarbones, down to your nipple, replacing his fingers with his tongue, and moving his digits down to your pelvic bone.

Your legs moved further apart automatically, one of his hands touching the outside of your thigh, rubbing up and down, firm but slow. You held your breath to keep the sounds locked in, closing your eyes again and gritting your teeth.

His hand moved up your thigh again, this time sliding the tips of his fingers along your tattoo, his movements slow and ghostly. You felt the trembles up your spine, the sweat trickling down from your temples. His tongue was curving against one of your nipple rings, sucking and playing with the metal, making your chest feel hot all through. You raised your hand, meaning only to lightly touch the back of his head for leverage, but your fingers fisted themselves through his longish hair, pressing his face down harder.

Deft fingertips opened up your belt buckle with a soft metallic sound, the zipper sliding down without a catch, unlike your breath. You squeaked, forgetting to breathe for a moment as the broad part of his tongue slipped over your piercing again.

Your back arched again, your calloused fingertips brushing his hair back, thumb sliding momentarily against his damp forehead. You moved your other hand against his shoulder, finding the skin warm, the muscles flexing as he moved his arms to remove your jeans.

His palm touched the underside of your erection while his other hand tossed your clothing aside, and your eyes shot open, your chest jerking beneath his mouth, his teeth lightly scraping against your hard nipple, lips pulling in a smile against your skin.

“Moan for me, Pete,” he said, his breath cold against the freshly wetted skin.

You made a light, puppy dog sort of whimper, his fingers wrapping tighter around you and stroking. You couldn’t help but squirm and push up against his fist just a little, tugging at his hair. You growled softly as he played with your slit with his thumb, hating him for the teasing, hating the feeling of being so turned on you’d agree to anything as long as you got off.

This was exactly why you didn’t drink- you realised how help less you already were, and you wanted to keep the little control that you did have.

You pushed his head down further and he complied, dragging his tongue down to your naval and shoving your legs even further apart. With your thighs this spread, you couldn’t help but feel sluttish- he was getting a full view of everything and you closed your eyes again, trying not to think about that.

Instead, you focused on his mouth, working down from your naval, following what would be your happy trail if you didn’t shave it. You felt his long fingers wrap around the base of your erection, rubbing up and down the length but shying away from the sensitive head, his tongue lavishing up your inner thigh.

You felt the damp muscle dragging so close to your balls and your hips strained up, desperate for contact. His other hand slid beneath you, his fingers grabbing your ass, and your thighs splayed further apart.

“Oh, god…” You touched the back of his neck as his mouth moved around your erection, the warm, wet insides of his mouth sucking in and his palm wet with saliva wrapped around the little not past his lips, forming a tight vacuum around your dick. He forced his face down in your lap, quickly deep throating you, and you were so caught up in the orgasmic feeling, you could ignore his fingers touching you between your ass cheeks. He held still for a moment, your balls pressed up against his chin, his spit dribbling down to keep everything wet. You could feel his soft pallet and his tongue wriggle a bit so the broad part of it was massaging that sensitive area just behind the head of your cock.

The only thing that mattered was his tight mouth, his lips pulled over his teeth so that everything you felt was soft, wet, and hot. Your thighs trembled slightly, the muscles of your stomach and lower back tensing and your teeth grit down so hard you felt the ache all through your jaw and neck.

He pulled back fully for a moment, working spit up in his mouth, thumbing your slit while his other fingers tended to the underside, his hand so wet and wrapped about your erection that you wanted to fuck it. You looked down for a moment to watch him suck on his own fingers, his cheeks hollowed and lips pouted, thoroughly wetting them before moving them down to your balls again, your stomach twitching in pleasure.

You liked having your balls played with, and you might’ve asked him to put them in his mouth if you weren’t so turned on you couldn’t talk.

He leant down again, holding your cock firmly in one hand, moving his whole tongue up the underside of your dick. You felt his lips tighten around the head again, his tongue swirling around it before brushing over the tip a few times, bringing on small convulsions from your body.

It felt so good already, your balls tightening and one of his hands touching them gently, the other moving down your cock with his mouth. His head was bobbing now, his tongue and lower lip pressing hard against the underside, and you couldn’t tell by feel that he even had teeth.

You moaned, thrashing your head back and forth and tightened your fingers through his dishwater hair, your hips trembling as you tried to keep them down; you didn’t want to choke him by fucking him in the face.

His tongue rose up, rubbing against the overly sensitive underside of your cock, right as he pushed a long finger into your ass. Your hips jerked up in surprise, your dick hitting the back of the throat, but he took it easily, moving his finger inside of you. Your muscles tightened around him inadvertently, his wet mouth and secured hand dragging up and down your erection, all slowly and firmly.

You were trembling and he pulled his finger out of you, pressing back in with two and pushing them in deep. You squirmed slightly, moaning again in weak protest, not sure how you felt about the pressure. You squirmed back on his fingers, trying to find a comfortable position, bending your legs up slightly.

He brushed up against something that made your vision flash and your cheeks flush with heat, and you let out a wordless cry, pressing back down on his fingers harder.

“There?” he pulled his mouth back and you were prepared to cry out in objection, but his fingers brushed up against that spot inside of you again, and you forgot how to speak.

Your head nodded rapidly, your cheeks burning. You were partially sitting up, rocking slightly on his fingers, and he angled one arm around your hips, sitting himself back on his knees between your thighs. He pulled you up a little higher, and you grasped onto his shoulder with one hand, putting your weight on your knees too. Your other hand went behind you, bracing yourself against the armrest, his hand beneath you and fingers inside of you.

“Remember…” Adam paused to swallow, tightening his arm around your waist and leaning his body up against yours. “Remember that time we rode that mechanical bull?”

You nodded, biting your lip, your nose rubbing against his with the movement of your head. Adam pressed his fingers deeper and you shuddered, your back arching up and your own fingers digging harder into his bicep.

Adam grinned almost mischievously, his lips brushing against your chin, the stubble on his jaw scratching against yours. “Ride my fingers like that.”

You blinked at him slightly unsure, cautiously arching your back up, gasping when he moved his fingers against you. His free hand grasped your hip, his eyes on your face, and you let your hips move, forcing yourself down on his fingers.

You shuddered, closing your eyes and leaning your head to the side, letting out a breathy moan, moving your body a little more fluidly. Adam kept his hand fairly steady, thrusting his fingers only slightly, letting you do most of the work, bringing your ass down harder, hips rocking.

Your stomach tightened, the muscles in your arms and legs feeling rigid, your body hot and winded. Your cries were soft but constant, brow furrowed in concentration. Adam nuzzled your throat, holding your one hip steady, your body shaking slightly.

“Oh…” you moaned, moving your hips harder, trying to make his fingers hit that spot, breathing harder and rocking faster.

Adam moved his mouth to your ear, keeping his voice soft. “You’re about to cum all over yourself just because I’m letting you ride my fingers.”

let.

He was letting you ride his fingers and your body was responding urgently, your hips rolling, grinding your ass down on each backward thrust to make him hit your prostate. He was letting you ride his fingers and you were grateful and submissive, willing to give him anything his asked for, just because he was doing you the mercy of pushing his fingers right into your spot.

He was getting you right there on the edge, right there where you wanted to be so badly, your muscles could hardly hold back. Each one was tensed and aching, so much strain and build up, you knew you were about to give in soon.

You whimpered, wanting to open your eyes but not having the ability. All you could do was tighten your muscles around his digits, moving your hips so his fingers slid in and out of your body.

Adam nuzzled below your ear again, licking the skin once. “It can be even better…let me fuck you.”

You didn’t even think about it. You just nodded rapidly , moving your legs from beneath you, lying back again. Your shoulders hit the couch cushion, your legs opening wide again. Adam leaned over you, keeping his fingers up your ass, his free hand pushing one of your thighs back.

Your raised your feet up in the air, his hips fitting between your thighs, pulling his fingers from you. You let out a growl in protest and Adam grinned at you, his face hovering above yours, his hair falling against your cheeks.

You leaned your head back, hearing Adam spit into his own hand and the slick sound of his hand running over his erection, wetting himself. You lifted your legs higher, leaning them over his shoulders as he pressed the tip of his cock at your opening.

You squirmed slightly as he started to push in, your eyes squeezing shut, letting out a loud gasp. You dug your nails into the couch cushion, arching your back up deeply against him. He braced his hands against your shoulders, pushing all the way inside of you, shifting his weight slightly.

Once he was fully in, you let your legs lower, wrapping them around his waist. He rested his weight down, his chest pressing against yours, his breath ghosting across your lips.

“Adam…” you blinked up at him, his forehead almost touching yours, his hips still.

“Yeah?”

“I’ve never…”

“I know,” he looked sympathetic momentarily, drawing back slightly and you let out a light cry in response to the movement. “You have no idea what you’re missing.”

You shivered briefly, your tongue moving to form a retort, but Adam’s body thrust forward and your whole body slid up, your eyes almost crossing.

“Holy shit!” you yelped instead of some witty rejoinder, your face and chest flushing with heat and painful pleasure.

Adam had his face tensed up, chin tilted upwards while he bit on his lip, grasping your thighs with his lean hand. His hips had begun a piston motion on their own accord, a steady, mechanic pace that kept constant massage against the sensitive spots inside of you.

You moaned and thrashed slightly, wriggling with obvious ecstasy, wanting to get fucked harder. You squirmed and arched your spine, pushing back against his thrusts by lifting your body against his, still not quite satisfied. You wanted him as deep inside you as he could be. You wanted to feel all of him in you, and you pushed against him, bending your legs.

He straightened, looking at you through his tumbled hair with narrowed eyes. “What did…” he trailed off at the predatory look you fixed on him, his hands raising to press his palms flush against either of your pierced nipples.

He released a slight gasp of air as you kept pushing against him, trying to land him on his back. You straddled his lap quickly, grasping his cock beneath you. He’d softened slightly without the hot tightness of your ass, but your hand cured that quickly. You rubbed him a bit and teased his slit, making the muscles of his tummy ruffle beneath a sheen of sweat slicked pale skin.

You spit in your hand to relubricate him before you steadied his cock one handed, sitting back on it. Your body jerked, your face almost blissful, sitting down fully with the backs of your thighs against his lap.

You held your hands against his chest for leverage, starting to move your body against his, his eyebrows furrowing and jaw dropping.

“Uhhhhn, yes, ride me…” Adam clutched onto the couch cushions, his knuckles turning white, the bones in his shoulders twisting and flexing beneath his skin. He squirmed against you, his hips bucking up beneath your weight uncontrollably.

“Mmm, like I rode the bull,” you meant this half teasingly but your tone took on something breathy and desperate.

You were breathy though, and you were desperate too- in desperate need to be fucked.

“Harder then you rode the bull…” Adam gulped, his hands rubbing your thighs deeply, “Fuck me hard.”

You sped up at his words, throwing your weight down on him and leaning up alternately, his erection buried up your ass. You moaned loudly and constant again, clutching at his shoulders, then his chest, his sides, his biceps, his hair. Your fingers thrust through his bangs and tugged, the sweat sliding down your back and chest.

You couldn’t hold yourself back much longer. You heard the couch squeaking faintly beneath you, sliding against the floor from your rough motions, but you weren’t about to stop. You were right there on the edge and there was no way anyone could’ve made you stop. You had to feel release.

You wanted to fucking cum, all over Adam’s shivering, sweaty body.

You bit down on the inside of your cheek, tossing your head back to get your bangs out of yours eyes, shifting your hips slightly and hissing air between your teeth. “Rightthererightthererightthererightthererightthererightthererightthere…”

You weren’t sure if you meant his cock was exactly where you wanted it to be, deep and pushing against your spot, or if you meant you were about to cum.

You felt Adam’s hand move up to grasp your erection and the muscles in your stomach gave a small spasm, your teeth gritting down. It felt like too much, him palming the underside of your dick while he fucked you, and you felt that tightening and fluttering through out your chest and thighs.

“Oooooh, Adam…” you sounded like you were pleading with him, moving your ass down against his cock so hard it hurt you, but you had to feel it. You were aching to feel it. You wanted to feel penetrated all the way up your spine and through your shoulder blades.

“Cum on me,” Adam demanded, taking control of the situation again. His free hand touched your balls and they were tight and raised up painfully. You hissed, sweat stinging your eyes and your knees spreading further apart on either side of his withering body.

You trembled, your mouth going dry and an almost painful shiver sliding across your shoulders and down the sides of your neck. Your fingers stiffened against his stomach and your back went rigid, a low, keening sort of sound rumbling up from the bottom of your larynx.

“Uhhhhnnnnn, Adam…” you swallowed stiffly, dropping your head forward as warmth and pleasure soaked into every crevice of your body. “Fuck my ass…”

His hips were pushing up against your weight, so every time you sat back, he arched up, bringing him incredibly deep.

Your body shivered a last time and your knees gave out, landing you right on his erection, shoved as far up your ass as he could go. Your muscles trembled, your shoulders lifting up with the strain and panted moans dripped from your mouth helplessly. You felt Adam’s hand all over your dick again, and softer on your balls, pumping and working the fluid out onto his tight stomach and you whimpered and arched, wanting him to milk you dry.

You tightened your muscles on his cock, rotating your hips a little over him, shivering and disoriented from your orgasm. “Cum in me…” you whimpered, not able to open your eyes as your body finished off, your muscles going weak again.

You felt Adam strain up against you one last time, his teeth gritting and his throat vibrating with a final, hoarse moan. You grinded your ass down, flexing your muscles to make sure he came as deep in you as possible, grinding your own teeth and falling forward, your face hovering over Adam’s. You felt his hand on the back of your head, fingers fisted through your hair, forcing your mouth against his and you kissed him, heavily and heated. You let your tongue slide against him, pulling yourself off his cock and rearranging yourself to lay flush against his warm body, his chest pushing against yours as he breathed.

You licked at the insides of his mouth, noting the soft, subtle taste of him and maybe jolly ranchers or some other hard candy. You paused for a moment, lifting your head just enough to look at him.

“Fuck,” Adam sighed, sliding his arm around your wet backside, his hand brushing across your sore ass. “I love you straight edged kids.”

You couldn’t taste any alcohol on him at all.

fin.

The Lord Is My Shepard: Chapter Two

2005-02-23T15:49:17Z

Title: The Lord Is My Shepard

Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own, never happened, permission less.

Rating/pairing: R (kind of graphic images, though not sexual ones yet.) Davey/Jade.

FYI: Just for the people waiting around, I've got Jade in the next chapter. This is more introduction and stuff. But the people I had read this really enjoyed it. So you know. I like reviews.

Dedication: malyssaaa and atheistbrat, and I believe you guys know why? <34.

Chapter One

____________________________

“He’s in mourning, dear, these things take time…he lost his father,” Davey recognises the voice belonging to his neighbour, an elderly woman that his mother has become close with over the past few months since his father’s death.

“He’s become reclusive,” Davey’s mother pauses, as if musing over her own words. “It’s morbid,” she says lightly, while Davey lowers himself on the stairs, his eyes trained on the glass panels flanking the front door.

The voices float down the foyer from the kitchen, and he imagines them sitting at the breakfast table, huddled over their cups of hot coffee, his mother causing a continuous clink with her spoon as she stirs her drink.

“All teenagers go through a reclusive stage. It’s nothing to be worried about.”

Davey draws his knees up, straining his ears to catch the conversation, his arms resting across his thighs. He keeps his head down, feeling his cheeks flush as his heart beat increases. He isn’t sure if he is angry or not, but he isn’t pleased to be the topic of their conversation.

“Davey’s always worried me,” the younger woman says softly, meaning this to be kept in confidence. “He’s so sensitive, not like the other boys. I don’t even think he has friends anymore. I don’t think he even wants them, he’s such a loner. It’s not healthy, is it?”

Davey bites down on the inside of his cheek, knowing this was not something he was meant to hear. Rain is pattering against the roof and the street outside, and Davey rests his shoulder against the wall, staring out the thin windows by the front door. The lawn is muddy and slightly over grown, while the house feels cold and grey.

“You need a change, I think. The three of you. When my husband died, I moved here,” the older woman pauses, her chair legs scraping the linoleum as she rearranges herself. “You got that job offering.”

“It’s so far away, we’d…” she trails off briefly, trying to collect her thoughts. “It’s a long way from home.”

Davey huddles on the stairs, listening to the voices drifting from down the hall, his molars digging deeper against the soft inside of his cheek. The house around him is polished wood and smoothed down corners, the furniture dappled in shadows from the rain smeared windows. The hardwood floors are slick slabs of ice beneath introverted footsteps and around every darkened corner is Davey’s father, crouched and waiting to grab him.

Davey can smell the musky graveyard and his father’s cologne. He imagines slimy hands wrapping around his arms, the skin slipping off the bones in wet chunks to reveal coagulated lumps of blood and flexing tendons, worms and insects squirming and tunnelling through the embalmed flesh.

Davey can see the collapsed cartilage of his father’s face, one eye missing while the other looks deflated like a dead fish’s. He thinks of the tattered, damp clothing rotting off in large sections to reveal the messily stitched up chest, originally cut to insert the embalming tubes, the skin strange shades of green and blue and milky whites. He thinks of the hair hanging off at an odd angle with part of the scalp still attached like a haphazard wig.

He can hear his father’s voice in his ear, the tone gravel and dirt, “This is the after life. This is what we all become. We just rot. We’re just a big pile of steaming, dying, organic matter, and we all rot, we rot, we rot in our little coffins of wood and earth, we rot and wait and our fingernails keep right on growing.”

Davey keeps imagining this, or having nightmares about it, or hallucinating it. It’s haunting his every move within the walls of his house. Every detail is clear and concise to the point where the only reason he knows it hasn’t happened is because there’s no such thing as zombies.

He’s not stupid or anything. He’s not quite delusional. He’s guilt ridden and obsessed with the death of his father, blaming himself or the house. He blames his weak eyes and awkward tongue. He blames every clammy surface in his house from the smooth bathroom tile to the soft fabric of his bed sheets.

He can feel his father breathing down his neck, clumps of dirt and loosened insects dropping to the wooden stairs, his tongue and cheeks thick and vibrating with maggots.

Davey’s waiting for it to happen. He’s waiting for his father to jump out of his closet or fall from the attic atop him or slip from the pantry when the door is pulled ajar. Davey feels haunted and pinned. He’s afraid to leave the house, in case his father comes for Mikey instead.

Davey’s not sure if he’s protecting his younger brother or if he wants to be the one who goes.

Davey wants to ask his father what the dead are waiting for.

“…you should look into it. You can’t spend the rest of your life blaming yourself for what happened, dear. You’ve got two beautiful boys to worry about,” the older woman speaks gently, as if cooing a small animal or a startled horse.

Davey’s heart is thudding harder then ever. He’s sure someone is standing behind him on the stairs, but he can’t bring himself to look. His palms are getting damp with sweat, his eyes clenched shut. He focuses on his mother’s voice, something that sounds distant and far away, but it’s the most stable thing he’s got.

“I know. I think I will. It’s…hard to live here.”

“Of course it is, dear.”

Davey is breathing as lightly as possible. He feels pinpricks running up his spine, his arms trembling loosely.

What are you waiting for?

God to come.

Davey shakes his head hard. That isn’t an answer. There is no god.

What are you waiting for?

He never comes…

What are you waiting for?

So we just wait and wait and wait and wait and wait…

WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?

Our entire lives we wait. Our entire deaths we wait.

Davey can feel the headache starting behind his temples. He clutches at his knees harder for leverage, his breath quickening, ribs catching against his collarbones. There’s a shrill cry from upstairs while his body starts shaking, almost convulsing.

WHAT. ARE. YOU. WAITING. FOR?

“That’s Mikey. He must’ve just woken up from his nap. Excuse me,” Davey’s mother stands up from the kitchen table lightly, padding down the hall into the foyer. She pauses in front of the staircase, looking at her older son curled into near fetal position on one of the last stairs. “Davey…”

You. Forever. Always. Until the day you die, I’ll be waiting for you.

Davey gives a dry sob, staring up into his mother’s face with a distant look in his dark eyes. She thinks for a moment that he’s not really seeing her at all, but he throws his arms around her neck.

Her own arms go around his shoulders, her knees clapping against one of the stairs, her son’s body radiating warmth and ragged breaths. She runs her hand through his hair and down his back before touching the back of his head again, pressing his flushed cheek against her chest.

“I-I-I d-d-don’t…I’m-I’m s-s-orry,” Davey laments, his mouth and nose making a wet spot against her shirt front. She smells sweet, like cream and rose petals, Davey’s arms staying hooked around her neck. Her skin is warm, but smooth and soft, her hair falling in Davey’s eyes.

“Sweetie…sweetheart, it’s okay…I promise, it will get better,” she pets her son’s bangs back soothingly, rearranging herself on the stairs, her guest temporarily forgotten.

Davey holds his breath, hiccoughing slightly with the effort to regain control of himself. His mother’s skin stays on her bones firmly, her heart beat filling his ear with a low bass thud.

“What’s’matter, Davey?” Mikey asks from the stair landing, looking down on the scene with sleepy eyes, small with a tiredness and hunger about him that is never subdued by naps or food, no matter the amount.

His mother beckons to her son with one hand, keeping the other secured around her eldest. Mikey toddles down the steps slightly off balance still from just waking up, sitting himself down on the stair next to Davey.

“Don’t cry,” the smaller boy lisps, moving his arm around his brother, letting his mother embrace him as well.

Davey’s body shudders, not at the contact but in his desperation to follow Mikey’s request. He doesn’t stop to think that this is his first break down since his father’s death. The moment seems more monumental in his mind for a less morbid reason.

It’s the first time he’s allowed himself to be touched by anyone since the funeral.

Chapter two.

2005-02-22T15:56:41Z

Title: High School Journals

Disclaimer: Don’t know, don’t own, never happened, permission less.

Rating/pairing: Jere/Matt, whoever else I want. PG 13.

FYI: Tony’s POV. Still just introducing characters here. Yep. Mm.

Chapter One

----

“I’m home!” I announce loudly, slamming the back door after me. It’s warmer then it’s been lately, but that doesn’t mean much. It’s like in the lower forties out side, and I kick my shoes off by the door, squirming out of my jacket.

“Shut up, no one cares!” My brother is cranky because he’s got bronchitis. He gets it practically every year around this time, so my opinion is that he should be used to it, but apparently he’s not.

I head for the cupboard, getting out a mug and switching on the hot tap. “Where’s Dad?” I call. I’m not sure where Steve’s lurking, because I didn’t really pay attention to where his voice was coming from. I just know he’s somewhere, so I’m not talking to myself.

“At work, stupid. That’s what he does.”

I fill the mug half way with hot water before turning the tap off again, moving to the pantry to get out the box of instant hot chocolate. “Well I thought he might be off. It’s Sunday, isn’t it?”

When I turn back around, Steve’s in the kitchen, standing in the entrance way looking pitiful. He’s got a blanket around his shoulders, still in his pyjamas, his dark hair haphazard.

He coughs into his hand, his shoulders raking forward, and I raise the cardboard box in my hand, shaking it. “Want some?”

He nods slightly, his cheeks flushed, heaving up another cough. “Fuck, I can hardly talk. It’s Monday.”

“Damn, Monday? I missed the Simpsons…”

“Oh, poor you.”

“What, you’re the only one allowed to get any sympathy?” I go to empty a pack of hot chocolate into the mug, getting out a spoon to stir the concoction.

“I’m dying,” he says placidly, rubbing his forehead.

“You missed Scott fucking…pummelling Jere into the ground, dude, it was rad.”

“…the sheer mechanics of it are mind boggling. Oh, the fun I miss while lying on the couch watching shitty soaps and other day time trash TV, high on Nyquil.”

“It was great! We thought he was dead. Jere, I mean, not Scott. Like it happened, and Nick and I were like, fuck, do we just run? Cos twenty five to life for being accomplices or something. You know?”

“…you know what, I think I’m better off with my cough syrup addiction; some how it seems like a more plausible move then hanging out with complete retards.” Steve shuffles to the kitchen table, carefully sitting down, acting like every bone in his body is working against him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Gee, I don’t know, was my comment too subtle for you? I thought it was pretty evident that I was calling you retarded; excuse me for being vague. I would hate to be misinterpreted.”

I nod my head, getting out another mug and leaning over the sink to fill it with hot water. “You’re forgiven!”

“Well, thank god, my life is now complete and I can go ahead and hack up my lungs. With your forgiveness, I can leave this world in peace knowing I have finished all business and aspirations.”

“It’s good to see you optimistic again!” I say, finishing up the second mug of hot chocolate and bringing both to the table. I sit down across from him, handing him one of the cups.

“Thanks,” he nodded slightly, moving his fingers around the warmed mug carefully, the blanket drooping around his thin shoulders. “So, besides participating in a botch murder attempt, what else did you fuck up today?”

“Well, Nick and I got really stoned-“

“There’s a shocker,” he rolls his eyes, taking a sip. “You guys are all about being spontaneous, right?”

“Are you being sarcastic?”

“Me? My dear baby brother, why would I ever be sarcastic? What have you done to deserve such cruel, heartless treatment? I would never be sarcastic with you!”

“Okay, stop being a dick and listen to my story, it’ll be really enlightening and stuff, you’ll love it.”

“Enlightened like Buddhism or sex?”

“Stop talking. Why do you talk so much? Jeez, I hope you go into another coughing fit just so you won’t interrupt me.”

“Okay, now that really was cruel and heartless. Cough cough, hack hack, I’m sick here, you have to be nice.”

“You’re the one calling me mean names!”

“Well! Not directly! And anyway, I fucking apologised, did I not?”

“Okay. So we’re really stoned, and there’s this dead squirrel, and Nick gets a stick-“

“Where’d the squirrel come from?”

“Is this a deep, philosophical question about the meaning of life?”

Steve looks at me like I’m crazy. “No…No, I mean, where did this squirrel come from?”

“Oh…I thought you meant like, in the whole scheme of things. Okay, this is just some random squirrel rotting in a gutter.”

“Oh. That’s disgusting.”

“I know. So anyway. Nick gets a stick and pokes it. And it’s fucking frozen stiff, you know? Cos it’s cold. So he picks it up-“

“The squirrel?”

“No, the ladder.”

“What ladder!?”

“Fuck, he picks up the dead squirrel Steve, what else would he be picking up! You call me retarded…”

“You’re the one that started talking about a ladder!”

“Because you’re looking stupid like, the squirrel!? Damn…okay, so he picks up the squirrel, and it’s stiff as a bored, and it’s not just Riga-mortis, it’s…you know, frozen stiff. So we were like, how do we defrost this squirrel?”

“Why did you want to defrost it?”

“There’s two answers for that. One, we were high. Two, we decided we couldn’t bury it stiff.”

“But the ground’s frozen, how would you burry it?”

“We figured that out pretty fast, so instead, we stuck it in someone’s mailbox. But we tried to defrost it with our lighters.”

“…you roasted a squirrel?”

“Well, no, we singed its fur a bit and it smelled awful, and the tail part went…POOF! And like, blew up in my face, and I got really frustrated, so I threw the damn thing up a tree.”

“Why did you…How’d you get it down?”

“It didn’t get caught on anything. Anyway, I wasn’t trying to disrespect the dead, I was trying to return the body to the grieving family to bury. Then Nick threw it on his roof and I had to go get it. He was just being mean though, I was being cool. You know, to the squirrel’s family.”

“Thank god Jere didn’t really die- his body would end up a flag pool or something with his clothes burned off, soaked in beer and piss.”

“Finally, we stuck it in a mailbox because it was really starting to defrost with all that handling and it was getting squishy and I had squirrel goo on me.”

“Tony…how was that enlightening?”

“I don’t know, it wasn’t really, I just wanted to share my adventures with you. How was your morning?”

“You know, I can’t compete with your morning, so I won’t even try. I’m a cop out.”

“Again. I forgive you.”

He nods and has more of a distant look on his face, looking down into the contents of his mug with his fingers wrapped tightly around the outside. It’s silent for a few moments, not exactly uncomfortable, but critical.

“Um…I got a call,” he basically blurts it out, not lifting his eyes at all.

“Telemarketers? You know what Dad said about that…he doesn’t care if Tom Mabe is your hero, if you keep fucking with those people, he’s gonna hit the-“

“No, no, it wasn’t…telemarketers…that would’ve been fun. It was Kimmy actually and…we’ve got a small problem…” it’s like he has to force every word out, which isn’t exactly his style. He’s nothing short of a loud mouth, and he’s well known for his wit and his rapping.

“What kind of small problem?”

“The kind that gets bigger and cost lots of money.”

“I don’t understand. I thought you were with Leslie.”

“I am. And I know she said not to talk to her? But she called? And I answered because I didn’t have the caller ID phone, I had the other portable one? And I was on this great cough syrup buzz and it was totally blown.”

“Okay…so what’s the problem?”

“She’s pregnant.”

I swallow and sort of shift in my seat, because I can’t think up anything to say to a bomb like that. “Okay…and…”

“And she says I’m the only one she ever slept with.”

“Oh.”

“And she doesn’t believe in abortion.”

“What about adoption?”

“She was adopted, so I don’t think she’d go for that. It’s one of those…adoption things, you know? Like…she says she could never put her own…child…through that.”

“Oh, but she could have a kid at seventeen when she’s got no money or father for it and-“

“I’m the father.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.”

“So you’re going to…dump Leslie and get with her and do a family? Because I don’t think that-“

“I didn’t say that. I didn’t…I just said that I was the father, and I can make money, that’s not an issue.”

“You don’t make that much money legally though.”

“I know that, but I’d…do anything to support…my kid, you know? And it’s…I don’t know. I don’t know, I’m too tired and sick to deal with this right now.”

“Well…how far along is she?”

“Like. Three months, I think she said. Some where around there.”

“Why didn’t she tell you sooner?”

“It wouldn’t’ve changed anything.”

I sigh. “I know that, but it would’ve been some kind of common courtesy.”

He shrugs almost mildly, like it doesn’t matter, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “I was trying to remember when it was, you know? Like which time did we screw up, and I can’t remember…never using protection, and I can’t remember ever noticing a broken condom, and I can’t figure out…what to do next. Like I know there’s a million things I need to be doing, but I can’t think of any. Like…idle, or something. Like I’m wasting valuable time.”

“Stevie…you just found out and you’re sick. You’re not wasting time.”

He nods and sits back, coughing for a moment. “I’ve gotta tell Dad and Leslie. That’s first. And then…I think I’m still going to petition for abortion, but I don’t know when the limit is.”

“What limit?”

“For how far along you can be and they’ll still do it.”

“Okay. I think it’s about three months unless it’s dangerous to the mother to have a baby or something like that. Look, we’ll figure something out.”

“It’s not like my whole life is going to be ruined. I don’t have that much going for me right now, anyway. And…Dad had me when he was still in high school, and he doesn’t have that bad of a life. He’s got a house and a job and kids and…well, you get the idea.”

“I never looked at you and saw you as the kind of guy to want anything to do with the American dream.”

“It just hasn’t sunk in yet. It’s a lot to take.”

“You’re…good with kids.”

He looks up finally and smiles slightly, with the blue eyes and tousled hair. “Thanks.”

I shrug and smile back a bit for comfort reasons. “Anytime.”

He coughs again and nods, moving his hands to the edge of the table, scooting back his chair. “So come play Halo with me.”

“I’ll be in there in a minute,” I tell him, standing up when he does and reaching for his half drank hot chocolate. “Gotta wash these first.”

“Okay…and, look, hey, don’t tell anyone about this. Not anyone. I will when…I’m ready to, you know?”

“Okay,” I straighten myself up, watching him rearrange the blanket around his shoulders, looking withered and tired, shuffling back into the living room.

I just stand there for a moment, holding both mugs against my chest, half staring off into space. I can’t think of anything to think right now. My mind’s gone blank.

This is probably really bad. Steve’s right. It’s a lot to take in.

High School Journals

2005-02-16T00:45:36Z

Title: High School Journals

Disclaimer: don't know, don't own, never happened, permission less.

Rating/pairing: R, Matt/Jere and who ever else I want.

FYI: Matt's POV. High school. Long and chaptered. Much like Kid Stuff. Just not. Read and review. I CRAVE REVIEWS. REEEEEVIIIIIIIEWS! Yep.

Hi Gil. I saw your boobs.

***

“If anything,” Mike says, flopped across an entire corner of the couch, “It makes Anne a lesbian. For all intent and purpose, he’s a girl.” Part of this sprawled positioning is due to a sport related injury- a pulled muscle he acquired the day before yesterday when he skimped out on his regular morning warm up before jogging.

I laugh at his comment concerning Davey Havok, who is currently gracing our TV screen in the video for Girls Not Grey, but my sister, who’s going through a dark artist faze, only stares stonily at the TV screen for a moment.

“He’s got balls. He was talking about someone grabbing them in that interview with that really abrasive, homo guy, that guy with the hat and the bushy hair and the…I don’t know, I think he wears plaid,” she says, sort of cocking her head down in my direction, as if I could prompt words.

I’m sitting in front of the couch, my back leaned up against the front of it, with my sister to my left in one corner, and my brother on the opposite side.

“Uh, that guy who interviewed Fat Mike? And he didn’t want to do the ‘do do do’ shit? It starts with an ‘n’, his name…that guy?” I ask.

“Yeah, that guy. He interviewed just Davey and Jade. And Jade was just standing there with his arms crossed looking like a body guard, really pissy and whatever. And the annoying guy was like, I don’t know, reading something from a message board, and something else happened, and he was like, how could we protect Danny’s balls?”

I laugh again, recalling the whole interview, nodding my head slightly. “And Jade was like, well, maybe we could protect Darby’s balls with some kind of belt?”

“Which one’s Jade?” Mike asks, shifting slightly behind me. I have a feeling he’s reaching for the remote because AFI isn’t really his bag. I don’t think he’s digging this music, but I can’t stop him from my position on the ground.

“Jade is the guitarist. He’s the one…that the rabbit, I don’t know, disappeared into his crotch in the beginning.” I say as a way to distract Mike, and I’m sure his attention is back on the screen.

“His crotch eats rabbits?” Mike sounds concerned while Anne and I stifle giggles.

“Mmhmm. Didn’t he go to college or something, got some kind of degree in psychology? God, Davey is sexy no matter what. His androgyny makes him that much hotter.”

“He did get some kind of degree. He wasn’t the original guitarist either.” I say, sort of off-handed, because I know Mike’s got the latter end of her comment covered.

“If you think androgyny is hot, that makes you a lesbian.”

She lets out a cold, forceful laugh. “No, lesbians like girls. Even if he doesn’t look like a boy, he doesn’t look like a girl. His jaw is too pronounced.”

“What kind of job can you get with a degree in psychology?” I wonder allowed, stretching my legs out in front of me. I can feel the pins and needles sliding beneath my skin and I sigh. I hate it when my legs fall asleep.

Mike snorts. “You can teach it.”

“That’s it?”

“Basically.”

“Ew, Mike, turn it, I hate this band.” Anne cries, and I feel her behind me, leaning over to snatch the remote from Mike’s hands.

“No! And it’s not a band anyway, it’s a rap group, jeez.”

“Well I hate rap, turn it.”

“Well I had to sit through that whiny gay guy hitting ungodly notes, you can deal with Chingy.”

“Matt, say something!”

“This isn’t a democracy, you guys can’t vote. I got the remote, I got power over what we watch.”

I don’t like getting involved in arguments with my older siblings, so I don’t bother. I just stand up with the coffee table as support, carefully balancing, my legs smarting.

“If this is an autocracy, then Matt and I are going to over throw you because this song is awful and that guy should get shot or something. Where are you going?” Anne stops yelling at Mike long enough to address me, sounding utterly annoyed.

“To get a soda. I’m thirsty.”

“But what about this atrocity on our TV?” She demands.

“Uh, well. I’ll be right back. And then we can uh…you know. Have a big fight over it,” I mumble, not really concerned with my incoherency. I walk with stiff legs around the sofa, heading for the kitchen. I need a drink and some crackers, and probably need to relieve my bladder as well.

“Matty, wait,” Mike leans back, grabbing my elbow as I pass behind the sofa, handing me his hot pack thing off his leg. “Throw that in the microwave for a couple seconds?”

“Sure thing,” I say, tucking it under my arm as I walk in to the kitchen. It’s still winter technically, but my brother is planning on trying out for track in the spring. He works hard at it too; whenever the streets aren’t too icy, he’s out there jogging or running or walking. He pulled a muscle in his thigh the day before yesterday, so even though it’s a bright, warm Sunday, he’s stuck inside with me and Anne watching music videos.

I pad barefoot across the cool linoleum in the kitchen, popping open the microwave door and sticking the pack in, quickly setting the timer and pushing start before walking towards the sink.

I get out a glass and press it against the lever on the door of the fridge to fill it half way with ice, glancing out the window over the sink to check on my dog. She’s an Australian Shepard named Tiffy, and with her shaggy coat, she does pretty well with the cold Blue Island weather. She’s been out all morning, chained up in the backyard.

We have to chain her now because she can jump the fence.

The phone rings so I set my glass down on the countertop, crossing the kitchen floor to pick up the receiver.

“Matt, answer the phone!” I hear my brother say, and I just kind of roll my eyes.

“Hello?”

“Matt there?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“Sorry, you sound like your brother.”

“Why does everyone say that?”

“Maybe because it’s true.”

“Yeah, but you should be able to tell the difference.”

“Dude, your mom can’t even tell the difference.”

“She can look-wise; she just likes to call me Mike. So anyway, what’s up?” I shift, leaning my back up against the counter to get more comfortable, staring off blankly across the shiny kitchen floor.

“Well Scott and I had a snow ball fight.”

“With what, there’s like. No fucking snow.”

“There’s still a little, in my backyard and stuff. Not really any more. It was more about the tackling, I suppose.”

“If Scott Sarkan tackled you into the frozen ground, I can’t believe you’re still breathing.”

“He completely body slammed me. I hit the ground so hard, and I just kind of layed there thinking I was dead.”

“But you weren’t!”

“No, I wasn’t!” he laughs, that deep, throaty laugh and I grin, shifting the receiver against my ear, holding it between my shoulder and jaw.

“Did you get him back?” I ask, walking back across the kitchen, attending to my unfinished drink. The phone cord was purposely made to stretch the length of the kitchen, so my mom could talk on it while cooking and stuff. She practically lives in the kitchen; her cushioned seat at the breakfast table is moulded into the shape of her ass.

“Only kinda. Tony and Nick were there, and Nick did. Got him back for pile driving my poor, skinny body. Even though Tony went off on this long tangent thing about how I was like, not that skinny. He said something about spring chickens. I think he was high.”

“Uh, yeah, that’s because he’s always high.” I hold the fridge open with one shoulder, pulling out the Coca-Cola bottle from behind the milk carton and leftovers.

“I never notice that kind of thing. I can’t even recognise the smell. Oh, dude, we like. Okay, it was me, Merril, Scott, and Steve. And we were walking down the hallway of Scott’s apartment complex, and I go, dude, that smells bad. And Steve’s just like. That’s pot. And I’m like. Someone’s smoking pot? And they’re like. Where were you raised? Cos I was all, I don’t even know, amazed that someone was smoking pot in their apartment. Cos I was thinking, I don’t know, that someone would smell it and go call the cops?”

“Locked up in your room, you poor, innocent bastard. You’re sheltered like whoa. It’s not your fault. And Steve’s a dealer anyway.”

“Apparently, private school fucks you up for life.”

“All school fucks you up for life,” I say, carefully unscrewing the top from the bottle and pouring some coke into my glass, pausing as the foam rises to the lid. “That’s what school does.”

I hear him yawn on the other end. “I’m so tired, god. My parents wouldn’t let me sleep last night, they were like. I don’t even know, being gay. They were like, well, I have to do this test next week to qualify for this thing, and they were making me study until like three in the morning, quizzing me and shit. I finally was like, I don’t give a shit Mom, I’m going to bed.”

“If you don’t sleep, how’re you gonna do good on a test?”

“I don’t know, a case of Red Bull. Everyone thinks I fucking love math and shit, but you know what, I hate it with such a passion. I don’t know why numbers have to make sense to me of all people.”

“On the bright side, at least your good at something…”

“Pssh, it does me no good. I just get over worked and everyone over estimates me because they hear I can work math fast,” he sighs and stifles another yawn. “Anyway…Are you going to come by today?”

“When?”

“I don’t know, whenever. I have to nurse my wounds and go to the store for that aforementioned Red Bull, and then I’ve got some school work to get through. But then, I’m free. Hey, you wanna spend the night?”

“My parents aren’t home and I’d probably have to ask. They’re pissed off at me.”

“Why?”

“Because Anne is an aspiring artist that gets invited to all these high class art shows and Mike is an all star athlete, and I’m just Matt. Apparently, 2 out of 3 isn’t high enough for them.”

“You’ve got plenty of talent, Matt.”

“Oh yeah, like what?”

“Your cartoons are witty and well drawn.”

“Oh please, cartoons. Anyone can draw cartoons.”

“…I can’t.”

“It’s okay Jere, I’m not trying to be an ass. I’m just saying what my dad says. Anything that I’m good at isn’t important to him.”

“Don’t worry about it. Dads are like that. Parents are like that. At least you do what you want, I mean. Yeah, whatever. When they get home, just ask and call me back, alright?”

“Yeah, okay,” I nod my head slightly, even though he can’t see me. I take a sip of my drink, looking back out across the yard, at my dog digging holes because she’s so bored. “Either way, you wanna hang out at the park? My dog needs to be runned and worn out and I know you’re the man for the job.”

“Just because I love wrestling and running and frolicking about with dogs…you take advantage of me.” I can hear his smile and it makes me grin, swishing soda around in my mouth so it fizzes between my teeth.

“So I’ll meet you at four?”

“I’ll bring Denver so we can entertain their obvious physical attraction.”

“Didn’t Tiffy bite him?”

“Yes she did, but he pines for her, Matt. He pines. He’s staring at me right now…I think because I’m eating a sandwich. Sit, Den. Sit….siiiiit…oh, fuck it, here you go.”

“You spoil your dog, Jeremiah.”

“I know, I know. Look, I gotta go, my mother just walked in and she’s staring at me like I did something wrong. She’s motioning. I think she forgot I don’t know sign language…she also forgot I can’t read lips.”

“I’m gonna let you go before you get grounded.”

“Okay man. See you at four.”

“Yeah.”

“Later.”

“…Jere, wait.”

“What?”

“I…never mind. Later.” I bite down on my lip to shut myself up, taking another long sip of my drink.

“What were you gonna- well, okay. Bye.” His phone clicks and I refill my drink before putting the coke bottle away and going to hang up the phone again.

“What’s taking you so long?” Mike calls from the living room, turned around and leaning against the back of the couch to see me. The phone is hung right by the entrance into the kitchen and I roll my eyes at him.

“I was taking a call, man, hold your fucking horses.”

“Hurry up, you’re missing Lost Prophets. Look, it’s Lee Gaze! And Ian! And, what’s that guys name, Stewart or something!” Anne squeals. This is how she naturally is, really happy and giggly, but as soon as our parents or anyone else is within ear shot, it’s all about cynicism and death.

I grab my drink from the counter and get a box of teddy grahams from the cabinet before retrieving Mike’s pack from the microwave, going back into the living room.

“Yeah, because I needed some masturbation material and Lee Gaze is it,” I say, setting my things down on the coffee table and throwing Mike’s pack into his lap.

“Thanks,” he says, leaning to see around me.

“How come you like calling me a dike, but you never call him a faggot?” Anne asks Mike and he just shrugs.

“Because Matt’s cooler then you, I don’t know, bull dike.”

“Shut up!”

“Is it that time of the month again?”

“Not all my feelings are dictated by my bleeding cunt, you know.”

“And on that note!” I say loudly, because the image of any girl on her period makes most guys physically ill. The fact that she’s my sister is really just icing on the cake. I scramble for the bathroom down the hall, because I still have to piss, just catching Mike’s comment.

“That was the nastiest, most graphic image all morning. I am now celibate. Thank you.”

I'm still alive. Sort of.

2005-02-15T22:18:49Z

Title:The Lord Is My Shepard

Disclaimer: Don’t know, don’t own, never happened, permission less. Also would like to add that this is entirely fictional and I don’t know that much about AFI. So this isn’t a history on them. It’s a fictional homoerotic story.

Rating/pairing: (ratings are assigned to individual chapters) PG 13. Davey/Jade.

Chapter: one.

FYI: Some people are actually into very long chaptered stories that gradually lead up to sex. Some people also enjoy high school stories that don't focus on the band itself too much. Some people like strange, impassioned, expirmental writing. Some people like my writing. If you agreed with at least two out of four, give this a read. And if you don't like it, don't read the other chapters. Just move on and forget this ever happened. yay!

Dedication: malyssaaa, I told you anything Davey related gets dedicated to you. That’s just the way it is. As I know nothing about Davey at all, I use your personality as a default for him. I swear, as I’m writing this, I keep asking myself, what would Malyssa do?

Alsoooooo…neonbandages, for making me write that two and a half pages to that part that I really didn’t want to write. And thanks for not catching Davey’s hair on fire? And thanks for keeping me company when my best friend abandons me. And for taking me with you for hot chocolate and skate sharpening! Trains and strawberries, I figure you’d appreciate that.

_____________________________________________

Davey Marchand doesn’t have his camera with him, but he remembers hearing from someone that it was illegal to film crows anyway. The rest of the conversation doesn’t fall within his recollection, but he’s retained that bit, if only because it was so bizarre.

His skin feels like it’s sticking to his bones because the air is so heavy and dripping with humidity. He’s trying to keep the toes of his shoes from sinking too deep into the wet soil beneath him. His palms are slick but cold and the atmosphere is strangely buzzing, the leaves on the distant trees turning over to signify a coming storm.

He can feel the electricity in the air but his body remains uncharged.

In movies, they use doves and paint them black. It’s okay to paint a bird. It’s not okay to film crows.

It’s okay if someone dies. It’s not okay if your father dies.

It’s okay to be upset. It’s not okay to cry.

Davey Marchand doesn’t have his camera dangling from a string off his neck, but if he did, he’d be smashing it into the damp earth right about now.

He corrects himself as soon as the thought shifts through his conscious. He’d run across the wet grass to the parking lot and demolish the damn thing. It would be an excuse to leave the funeral party. He’s feeling locked in between his solemn faced mother and his sniffling baby brother.

Mikey probably doesn’t know what’s going on, since he’s a toddler and doesn’t have much conception of death, but he knows when he’s tired and hungry. The younger boy shifts in his metal chair, his short legs sticking straight out in front of him, stifling a yawn and leaning his head against Davey’s rigid shoulder.

The sudden weight feels warm while the rest of Davey’s body remains clammy and chilled, his breath coming out silver from dry lips.

Davey doesn’t feel like taking comfort in much of anything besides the black winged birds circling the bleak sky. The clouds are low and thick, the air heavy and wet in Davey’s lungs. He keeps his chin tilted upwards, his shoes pressing down against the spongy ground. He keeps his body still and centred, afraid to move or make a noise.

The preacher’s voice is touching his ears, but Davey’s not letting himself absorb any of the words.

The birds are perched on one of the stone steeples almost silhouetted against the darkening sky, their beaks pruning through their feathers. A cold breeze is licking the back of Davey’s neck and he can feel his jaw tremble slightly, his teeth threatening to start chattering.

The graveyard is wide and endless, the small funeral party pathetic and huddling and hurrying to complete itself. There’s thunder in the distance and the downpour is eminent. This is called ominous and Davey half remembers there was a time when he’d be scared right now. Was it last week or forty minutes ago or years ago?

That’s irrelevant to him.

He would be praying right now for deliverance. Protection. He could do a seven second Hail Mary. He should feel his heart jack-hammering against the inside of his ribcage, but he doesn’t feel anything.

If he wasn’t focusing on staying still, he’d be checking his pulse.

If he still believed in anything, he’d be bowing his head instead of looking up defiantly.

If he was still waiting for miracles, he’d be hanging off the preacher’s words.

Davey remembers in fifth grade, when an older boy bloodied his nose and told him Santa Clause wasn’t real. Davey remembers being heart broken. He remembers entering through the back door of his house as quietly as possible, stealing into the bathroom to silently nurse his wounds. He’d never mentioned the incident to anyone. His parents had still continued the Santa Clause tradition and he never said anything to deter them from it. They enjoyed the pantomime. He let them. It comforted them and gave them a reason to be giving and joyous.

He would let them have it.

When the preacher tells them to bow their heads, Davey does so, but slowly. He thinks this will be his last prayer. He admonishes himself for needing the closure at all.

With his head down and his sticky palms pressed together, Davey keeps his eyes open and his gaze tilted upward, the lid of the coffin catching in the bottom field of his vision. He was scared before that he might cry, but now he feels safe and in control of himself.

He draws syrupy air into his lungs, as if he needs oxygen to power his silent words. ”Fuck. You.” Davey isn’t surprised when his muscles tighten on their own accord, his body preparing itself for an omnipotent rebuke. When nothing comes, Davey finds himself looking towards the birds again and the stone steeple. The graveyard stretches out endlessly with grey markers and a few freshly loosened leaves scattering the grounds.

He listens to his own cold breathing, his shoulders trembling slightly.

If he ever needed more proof that God is bullshit, he just got it.

It’s not a broken heart. It’s not disappointment. It’s something deeper, but more hollowed, like under ground sewage tunnels.

He suddenly feels isolated. Hope is something blind. However joyous or uplifting it can be, it’s nothing but a state of mind. It’s nothing tangible. It never will be. It’s an abstract idea and hardly exists outside of the word.

It’s a lie people use to wake up each morning.

Davey has no hope and along with that, he suddenly has no safety net. There’s nothing to fall back on. There is no bright destiny to look forward to; there’s only what he creates. He looks down at his hands, flexing his fingers against his kneecaps.

There is nothing there but being proactive. There’s nothing more then this.

Davey glances around him, at the people dressed in black pressing down on all sides in their metal fold up chairs and the clouds pushing down low in the sky. Right now, for all intent and purpose, this is the only plain of existents there is.

There’s no god. There’s no hope. There’s no destiny. There’s no eternity, no possibility, no faith, no certainty, there’s nothing at all outside of Davey’s own person.

Before, Davey would call it self obsessed. Before, he would’ve called it self indulgence. Now, he accepts it as reality while the whole religion philosophy is just glorified fantasy.

He would give anything for the latter to be true.

He would give anything for Santa Clause to be real.

He would give anything for his father to come home.

That’s just not the way it is.

At the end of the sermon, Davey stands up stiffly with his mother, catching his brother’s sticky little hand in his larger one. He feels the weight on his chest fall away as he stoops to the ground, the damp, homely smell of the earth filling up his nasal cavities. The fingers of his free hand dig into the mound of freshly dug dirt, his eyes focusing on his movements.

He’s following his mother’s lead, avoiding looking into her face. He can look at the coffin now, lowered into the bleak hole, but he’s not sure if he can handle her hollowed eyes.

The handful of dirt is dripping from between his clutched fingers, some stuck beneath his nails. He feels his mother looking at him, but he keeps his gaze on the smooth wood of the coffin, his fingers flexing slightly, feeling the gritty texture against his skin.

The graveyard is silent as his mother tosses her own handful of dirt onto the coffin, the sound coming off heavy and echoed, like rain hitting drainpipes. Davey makes his arm move in one loose, fluid movement, his fingers relaxing at the last second, the dirt cascading down through the air, falling on the grave.

One of the crows squawks from its perch on the church steeple, the hair on the back of Davey’s neck standing up, his arm stuck out in front of him with his hand spread out wide. He’s frozen again, feeling all the judgemental eyes of the funeral party boring into him, seeing his blasphemy.

He shifts, his shoes sinking into the ground and his bangs ruffling across his forehead from another cold breeze.

“That’s it,” his mother says, and Davey nods his head, embarrassed by everyone around him- by their faith and stupidity.

He won’t say anything.

The only comfort his mother has right now is that his father is in a better place and Davey will spare her the truth.

He stares down into the grave, holding his brother’s hand and letting his mother lean her weight against the other side of his body.

His father is not in some utopian after life, lounging on the lap of a magnificent god. His father is lying dead right in that grave, the embalming fluid delaying his body’s decay. His father has not gone to a better place. His father has gone six feet under ground.

Davey doesn’t mention it, but his mother said it best. He looks into the grave a last time, feeling listless and exhausted.

That, right there, the deep hole and polished coffin, that’s it.

mareepa @ 2005-01-27T13:23:00

2005-01-27T18:23:08Z

http://gallery.neosynthesis.net/albums.php

mareepa @ 2004-11-27T12:39:00

2004-11-27T19:20:49Z

What's the last thing you wrote?
I wrote a really long RP letter. Matt to Jeph. It's long and strange.

Is it any good?
I like writing stuff as Matt for the sinned, as his character is cool and the way he writes is very open and coarse. It's exactly the way your thoughts come to you, random but exact. There's no guess work or sitting on the fence. Very up front. I like it. So sure?

What's the first thing you ever wrote that you still have?
That I still have? Um. Second grade, I wrote a book for the writing contest thing and drew all the pictures and stuff. It was about a cat and a dog who were friends when no one wanted them to be? I think it was about differences and how we should all get along.

Was it any good?
I won the contest, got prize money, and got to visit this author at UNCG with the other kids from different schools who had one.

Write poetry?
All the time. It's the only thing I really write by hand any more. Here, I wrote this on a napkin at breakfast this morning:

My words burn like the cheapest
of liquor
but not the weakest
I'm quicker
On my feet this
staying and talking
sucks when
I could be out the door walking
away
But you know I'll stay
I'd never go anywhere
not today
(it'll change)
We'll stick this out
I'm all about
second chances
You say you can't and
I can't stand it
I'm crashing back on my heels
Into the arms of whoever's there
and since I just knocked the salt shaker
with my left elbow
I gotta assume
it's the devil
...or you.

Angsty poetry?
Not like, whoa is me, I slit my wrists. But troublesome, maybe, yes.

Favourite genre of writing?
Is erotica a genre?

Most fun character you ever wrote?
Jeremiah from Six Minutes probably. I also enjoyed Tony from Make Me Strong. I also liked Steve from Make Me Strong.

Most annoying character you ever wrote?
You know what, I hated Jeremiah from Kid Stuff.

Best plot you ever wrote?
My plots pretty much suck. I don't even know if I have a plot by the time I'm half way done. I just hope for the best. Substantial has a good plot, if I ever finish it, and I really like writing The Stacks.

Coolest plot twist you ever wrote?
I can say that in Broken Down Emotions, I keep people guessing, but it's not really a twist. Probably Letter.

How often do you get writer's block?
I don't get writer's block as much as I lose the empathy to actually sit down and write out what I'm thinking.

How do you fix it?
Coffee, cigarettes, and RP.

Write fan fiction?
Yes. Band.

Do you type or write by hand?
I really hate writing stories by hand. But sometimes, I'll write out a really rough idea of what I want, and add side notes while I think about it, and then I type it up and add everything. Most of the time it ends up being like:

Matt walks in. "Hey Jere."

Jere says hi.

My side notes would include things like, the kitchen blinds were open, Matt's feet stick to the kitchen tile, Jeremiah looks distraught, flipping through bills, Matt goes to the fridge.

Matt wanders into the kitchen, his bare feet sticking to the shining tile floor. He assumes Jere must've recently moped. Making a beeline to the fridge for a beer, he shoots a glance towards his bandmate, the afternoon sun making Jeremiah's hair look brown and his face overly angled.

There's a crease in the guitarist's brow, his shoulders hunched with his elbows propped up on the polished surface of the kitchen table, a sheet of typing paper between his fingers.

Matt leans his hip against the fridge foor, searching the insides for something appealing, the low watt bulb flickering shadows over what's left of last night's dinner. "Hey man. What'cha doing?"

Matt addesses Jeremiah nonchalantly, and the frown on the other's face deepens, his dark eyes flicking momentarily to Matt's head ducking down to reach into the fridge.

"Nothing really..." he mumbles, sounding either distracted or elusive, or a mixture of the two.

Do you save everything you write?
It's all on my computer or one of my disks. I can't stand deleting things. I don't post everything though, but I have it.

Do you ever go back to an old idea long after you abandoned it?
yeah, totally. If I don't know what to do with something, I'll put it on the shelf and think about it a bit idly until something comes.

What's your favourite thing that you've written?
When i revised Masqurading. I really like that story.

What's everyone else's favourite thing that you've written?
Probably Kid Stuff, because it was long and chaptered and Matt/Jere. I'd say Broken Down Emotions is second. I don't know if it's close or not.

Do you even show people your work?
My friends ask me for my porn writing a lot? I post.

Who's your favourite constructive critic?
I always take critism very personally, so I tend to ignore them. As all they ever do is say, you spelled this wrong, you have typos, on and on. And I'm like. Hi. Fuck you. I do have my favourite reviewers though. But. Yeah.

Do you have a web site for your writing?
Spearbriteny/benjiatechris hosts me. So does Taz for NSOS. I have a fandomination page and this is my writing journal.

Did you ever write a novel?
Nah, not really.

Have you ever written fantasy, sci-fi, or horror?
I've written fantasy and horror.

Ever written romance or teen angsty drama?
yep.

What's your favourite setting for your characters?
Hm, high school? Most of my stories start off with a conversation of sorts, that lets you know what's going on.

What's one genre you've never written, and probably never will?
Hm. I'll try anything.

How many writing projects are you working on right now, grasshopper?
Sha...hm. I'm not sure. In my head, I have about six different plots. I'd say. Fourteen.

Things in my brain:
Ewww. Okay. Writing wise? It's mostly RP. I'm focused on malyssaaa.

And I'm revising Matt/Jeph letter. Because. It needs it.

Other then that, personal family issues. Serious problems. there will be scarring. And blood. And tears.

And my dad has five more years to live.

Do you want to write for a living?
I do. It's like the only real talent I have.

Have you ever written something for a magazine or newspaper?
Sure have.

Have you ever won an award for your writing?
yep. nothing very interesting. like state wide. maybe one or two bigger contests.

Ever written something in script or play format?
Sadly, yes. I hate it though. I can write dialouge pretty well though, so people ask me for help sometimes.

What are your five favourite words?
bone, warm, apotheosize, snarl, blood. I have a lot of favourite words though.

Do you ever parody?
I've written two MSTs, and my first Mest fanfic ever was a parody. It was on fanfiction.net. No I will not post it. Ever.

What's your favourite thing to parody?
Probably mest and myself.

Do you actually like that thing, or are you spitefully making fun of it?
I actually like it. It's all in good fun. I'm not that spiteful, I don't think. Well. Sometimes, maybe.

Do you ever write based on yourself?
I try not to. I think I get enough of my real life from living it. I can't remember a time I ever wrote based on me, and I don't think i would like that very much.

Wait, I did when it was between KB and I. But that's different.

What character that you've written most resembles yourself?
Sadly, Jesse Lacey in US History. Most of my characters start off as just me typing, and then they become someone else. I don't usually let them stay as me.

Where do you get ideas for your other characters?
I set a few guidelines as I write. Like I'll decide that Jeremiah doesn't like to cuss. From there on out, I add other things that he does or does not do, all from that one idea. That develops into someone really distinct very quickly. I mostly just write, whatever I feel like. They form themselves, honestly.

Do you ever write based on your dreams?
Yes, occasionally.

Do you favor happy endings, sad endings, or cliff-hangers?
Happy endings. But I probably do more sad and am better at it.

Have you ever written based on a work of art that you've seen?
Um...maybe inspired, let it fester, then come back to it and don't remember that the picture was my muse.

Are you concerned with spelling and grammar as you write?
Yes, sadly. If that red squiggly line shows up, I have to correct it. Syntax always bothers me. Right now, I'm not using spell check and yes, it bothers me, but we all make mistakes.

Ever write something entirely in chatspeak (how r u)?
When KB and I wrote Email, we used some netspeak. Mostly, the way I'm typing now is how I IM. Actually, this keyboard is fucked up, so I make more mistakes on it. I use both hands and don't look at the bored and everything. I do say lmao and omg though.

Entirely in 1337?
I did once with Haleh. We were screwing around. She's the master at it though, I suck at it. Because I have no practice using it.

Was that question completely appalling and un-writer like?
No. Just because I'm a "writer" doesn't mean I'm not allowed to use 1337. \|/3|)\|)

Does music help you write?
oh, yeah, totally. I need music playing to write.

Do you have a weblog or livejournal?
_mareep, mareepa

Are people surprised and confused when they find out you write well?
They seem to be. They read something and they look at me weird and are like, Wow, this ...this is really good. I'm serious. This. Wow. You're good.

Like they're trying to convince me...? Maybe they really think I suck. Meh.

Quote something you've written.

We were drunk off cola and rum when Matt first told me everything, laying out on the hood of his El Camino, passing a cigarette and the thermos back and forth between us. He’d sat up, his Vans against the front fender, head down and looking at the gravel. I’d sat up too, looking up into the night sky and the ominous silhouette of a couple high tension towers. We could see a few stars and the dusty rose hue of the city lights off in the far distance, towards the west.

I could see his face pretty well, with the high beams on, creating an odd cone of light around us that shifted out across the cut rock and hit the high chain link fence about twenty yards off. The blackness was eminent on either side, something deep and all powerful, and the shadow of our legs was sprayed unevenly across the dust, puddles absorbing light in bright, silver pools.

[...]

that was fun. I need to call my mom. I'm hungry and need food. yeah.

Um. shortness, I know. Ew.

2004-11-24T14:56:47Z

Title: How May I Hurt You?

Disclaimer:Don't know, don't own, never happened, permission less.

Rating/pairing:Currently R, Matt/Jeremiah.

FYI:This will be a short chaptered fic. And most of it was written at five am in a motel room while listening to Straylight Run and drinking coffee. Surprisingly cheerful considerinf the circumstances. Run of the mill fic.

Dedication:howtotellalie suggested posting in matt_loves_jere? Pfft. I don't even know who you are, but I'm posting.

***

“Stop playing with it,” Jere says, and he’s looking at me really accusingly.

“I’m not playing with it,” I snap, gingerly using my tongue and upper teeth to roll the metal hoop through the centre of my lip, “I’m testing it.”

Jere looks at me incredulously, leaning his hip against the counter. “You fucking moron. What’s there to test?”

“That it doesn’t…hasn’t…I don’t know, hasn’t gotten stuck in one place! That it fucking moves, what’s it to you, anyway?”

Jere rolls his eyes, still staring at me. “You’re the dumbest fucker in the world, know that?”

I laugh, only because every one knows it’s funny when your best friend makes fun of you. Actually, that’s like, your best friend’s job or something, to keep your ego in check.

“Why’s that?” I ask, still snickering to myself. I’m at the table, alternating between pushing the hoop through my lip and pressing my cold, unopened beer can against the sore ness.

“Jesus, your lip is going to rot off-“

“My tongue isn’t that dirty.”

“Your mouth is dirty! You’re not supposed to be playing with-“

“My tongue has the same germs on it as my inner lip!”

“You keep touching it with your fingers!”

“I do not!”

“Yes you do, you- There! You just did!”

“I’m putting the can on it, ‘cos it’s sore!”

“God!” He rolls his eyes again and stamps his foot, and it’s so fucking priceless. How gay can you look? And he’s really throwing a temper tantrum over me touching my new piercing.

“You’re just jealous ‘cos you can’t touch it!”

“Yeah, Matt, that’s it…” he shakes his head, and he’s pulling a sandwich baggie out of a little cardboard box he’d pulled out of one of the kitchen drawers. He’s mumbling to himself, too low for me to hear, going to the freezer and pulling out an ice tray.

“Stop bitching to yourself, bitch,” I say, resting the can on the table and going back to sliding the tip of my tongue against the metal on the inside of my lip. I press kind of hard and I almost like the pain. It’s dull and throbbing when I put pressure on it, and I can feel that it’s a bit swollen.

I hear Jeremiah crack the ice tray back and forth in his hands to loosen the frozen cubes, picking some out and dropping them into the bag.

“I’m not bitching to myself…” he mumbles it, shoving the ice tray back into the freezer before picking the baggie back up from the counter. He walks over to the table, swinging the bag around in his hands a few times to close it before taking a seat next to me.

“Just because you’re too pussy to get any kind of piercing,” I sneer, and he doesn’t say anything, he just leans over and presses the bag of ice against my mouth. I think he does it partly just to shut me up.

I lift my hand and replace his with my own, holding the ice against my lip, raising my eyebrows at him. He takes the can in front of me and pops it open, leaning back and taking a sip.

“Well?” I say around the ice bag.

“Well what?” He blinks at me, taking another sip of my beer.

“You’re too pussy to get your own piercing.”

“You’re just trying to challenge me into shoving an eight gauge hoop through the centre of my nose,” he scoffs, and I steal my drink back before he can take another sip.

“Kinda. I just don’t think you can handle the pain, you’re a pussy.”

He rolls his eyes. “Hardly. I just don’t want something stuck through my face.”

I move the ice from my mouth long enough to take a sip of my drink, and Jere takes the can from me once more. I don’t protest this time, just press the bag against my lip again.

“Why don’t you get something lower?” I suggest, and he makes a “pssh” sort of sound.

“Yeah right, like what?”

“Nipples, navel, dick,” I shrug. “Mark Hoppus did that. The nipple thing.”

“I don’t want my nipples pierced, Matt. If I wore a tight shirt, it’d look weird. It looks weird on other people. It bothers me.”

I laugh because weird shit like that always bother Jeremiah. “What about naval?”

Jere shakes his head, pulling his cigarettes out of his pocket and shakes his lighter loose from the package. “That, my friend, is just plain gay. There are some peircings guys just shouldn’t have.”

I roll my eyes at the comment. “God forbid either one of us look gay, right?”

He looks at me while cupping his hands over the flame of his lighter, cigarette dangling from his lips, shoulders hunched. “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

I’m shaking my head, annoyed. “It means you’re one to talk about looking gay.”

“What?” He leans back in the chair again, blowing smoke into the air, expression critical.

“All the times we’ve made out and shit-“

“There’s a difference between lonely and gay, Matt.”

For some reason, that stung really bad and I change the subject back quickly. “What about your dick?”

He makes a shocked face, instantly bringing his knees up and grabbing his crotch protectively. “Are you fucking psycho!?”

I shake my head no, placing the ice on the table top. “You’re too pussy to do it?”

“There’s a huge fucking difference between getting your lip pierced and getting your cock pierced!”

“But if you did, you’d prove that you can handle it ten fold, right? And I got my nose pierced, that’s fucking…bone like shit. And who’s that kid, Mikey or some shit, who got his hand pierced? There’s stuff more painful.”

“It’s cartilage, not bone, and penises are sacred.”

“Fuck, whatever. You think my mouth is so dirty, and you stuck your dick in-“

“Shut up!”

“What, you did!”

“Can we not talk about that?!”

I glare at him, picking the ice bag up and slamming it against my mouth a lot harder then I meant to, but I cover up how much it fucking hurt. “Whatever. You’re a pussy. About everything.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t think I would go through with it?”

“Getting your dick pierced? No way.”

“Yeah I could, if I wanted it done, I could do it.”

“No you couldn’t.”

“Stop daring me.”

“Do it.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“Fine.”

“What?”

“I said fine.”

“I heard you…” I blink at him and he blinks back, finally breaking the sudden staring contest to take another drag. I shift the bag against my lip and raise my eyebrow at him.

“What?”

“You’re going to do it?”

“Yes! As soon as I finish this cigarette, we’ll go.”

“You’re pulling my leg.”

“No, I’m serious. You don’t think I have the guts to get a piercing, we’ll go do it.”

“Hah, I win.”

“No, my friend, if I get this done, you lose.”

“True, but you’ll get into the parlour and freak out.”

“Nope,” he grins, looking way too calm and cocky, (excuse the pun), to be really considering what we’re talking about.

“You’re going to get a needle stuck through your sacred penis?”

He takes another drag, eyes slipping shut, savouring the nicotine rush. “Yep.”

“Pssh, you’ll freak.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“Yes we will,” I smirk and he just flips me off.

**

this doesn't have anything to do with anything, but someone needs to join as Bert at pandemonium_rp, because. Jephbert. Is. Um. Hot. That's all. More people need to join period.

***

mareepa @ 2004-11-19T20:53:00

2004-11-20T02:00:55Z

Oh! Hey! Everyone! Look at my journal background picture! That's my backyard! The house in the distance is mine. Haha. I just thought I'd share. And that's Adam Lazzara. Some people hate him, but hey. He's not lying in their backyard.

that's all.

I have two stories that i need to hurry up and post too.

I suck and need motivation. Does anyone even read my writing anymore?

>

mareepa @ 2004-10-26T04:13:00

2004-10-26T08:16:15Z

Title: Substantial (Family Guy)

Disclaimer: Don’t know, don’t own, never happened, permission less.

Rating/Paring: Matt/Jeremiah right now R for language.

FYI: Normally, I would never post something not finished. This isn’t even a finished chapter. But I wanted you all to know that I’m working on stuff. I swear. Even with out my computer. Anyway. Matt and Jeremiah have a kid and… well…yeah, please read it and tell me if I should continue or not. Thanks.

Dedication: maddenluvlovato For being. Rad. And. I'm sorry this is something lame to dedicate. BUT HEY. YOU RULE. As does John. Jeremiah <3'z John. The end.

When it comes to the mail, who ever gets home first is supposed to grab it from the mailbox on their way up the drive way. If one of us has our son in the car, this task involves letting him climb over our lap and lean out the car window, grab the metal box and manoeuvre it around until he can flip it open, kneeing you right in the crotch a good forty times and bashing you in the face with one elbow and knocking on the windshield wipers with the other, until he can retrieve the actual mail.

This is all after we have to drive around the circle at the dead end of our street until you’re car sick, this is all after a fifteen minute drive home from soccer or piano practice and listening to none stop jabber about every single inane detail about his day, this is all after he’s wiped his muddy high tops off half on the seat and the rest all over the floor matt, this is all after he’s spilled your Pepsi all over the gear shift, and this is all after he’s been playing with the automatic window opener and door lock until you’ve had to cut it off.

Oh, I love my kid. But it’s this kind of shit after a horrible day at the nine to five office that makes you feel really sorry for your own parents.

“I guess Pops already got it,” Mark says, pushing his upper body back into the car and he’s got one knee crushing right against the muscle in my thigh and the other one dug against my crotch so hard that my eyes cross and I can’t even say anything for a moment. That or move. Mostly because, for most people, if someone knees you in the crotch, your first reaction is to smack the shit out of them, and it’s these kinds of first reactions you’ve got to wean out of your system as a parent.

“That’s nice,” I gasp, and Mark slides back awkwardly into the passenger seat again.

“My seat’s wet,” he says.

“You spilled soda in it.”

“But it’s wet,” he repeats himself, like he always does when he doesn’t get the answer he wants.

Me, I’m not in the mood to fish around for a good response, so I just say blandly, “But we’re home now. You can walk up the driveway if it’s bothering you so much.”

“Why are you mad at me?” he whines it, and it’s the kind of whining that you can only deal with when you’re well rested, not at the tail end of your day when you’re already aggravated with everything.

“I’m not mad at you,” I whine back, being even more obnoxious and mocking him with a face. This isn’t even me being playful at this point- this is just about me proving that I can be even more immature then him. This is just proving that I’m in charge and I always win. That’s just how things are. Deal.

He’s pouting now but I’ve got a migraine to deal with and dinner plans to think up.

I have to let him push the garage door opener, and Matt’s car is there, and there’s just this fast flash in my mind, this wonder, why didn’t he call me when he got home? Because that’s what he pretty much always does, calls me no later then ten minutes after he’s walked through the door.

This is maybe because he almost never gets home before I do and it’s kind of a head’s up, like an unspoken message to come straight home instead of messing around at an ice cream parlour or stopping by the phone place to pay the bill, or what ever other little errands I run in the after noon.

He calls me and that means we’ll actually get to spend some time together that evening, instead of him staggering in after eight and heading straight to the fridge for food before collapsing in front of the TV without a word to me or Mark.

And it’s strange to me that his car is here, meaning he’s here, but he didn’t call at all. It almost makes me want to whip out the cell phone and check out my missed call list, but it doesn’t quiet strike me as worth it right now.

Mark’s already out of the car now, slamming the door so hard my head sears and I look up and pray for strength to get me through the rest of the night. It’s Thursday, and I guess everyone’s a bit worn down by Thursday. It was a bitchy day in realty, and I hate my dad for forcing me into the business after Matt and I got Mark and we didn’t have any other options besides settling down and forming a secure household.

Which is lame, but fuck it, because shit happens, and most of the time, I’m happy with the decisions I’ve made to end up here. I hate to think of all the shit I’m missing, but at the same time, I know what I’d be missing if I didn’t decide to change for Matt and Mark. Even looking back on it all, it’s still hard to decide what I’d prefer. Not that I’d ever give up having Mark, I just mean maybe we could’ve worked something else out, stayed with the band deal and all that.

I think to myself though, I know for a fact, despite all the late nights wondering if this is really how I want to live out the rest of my life, if it ever came down to my kid or my rock star dreams, Mark would always win out… even though I’m not always as happy about that as I probably should be.

I get out of the car and close my door gently, dragging my feet every step to the door, forcing a limp arm to raise up and press the button for the garage door to shut.

It’s still rattling behind me when I step into the kitchen and shut the door softly behind me. It kind of occurs to me that Mark and Matt wouldn’t know that I’m inside yet when I hear them talking in the dinning room, and it makes me suddenly conscious of the noise I have the potential to make.

“What’s wrong?” Mark asks, and this makes me freeze because I know if I go in there, the conversation will stop altogether, and while I want to know what’s going on too, it’s more interesting to hear someone explain themselves to an eight year old then they will to you. Or maybe I’m just into eaves dropping. Either way.

“Nothing’s wrong, everything’s going to be fine, alright?” Matt says, and his voice sounds funny to me, even from here, thicker then normal and a little hoarse.

“But what happened?”

“Look, just go up to your room, alright? Where’s your dad?”

“I don’t know, mopping up soda. Am I in trouble?”

“No, you’re not in trouble.”

“Then why do I have to go to my room?”

“Because I said so,” Matt says, and this is one of those answers that I always hated hearing as a kid, but as an adult I’ve become addicted to using. Matt though, he tries to steer clear from it, says it’s both degrading and aggravating.

“But I wanna know what’s the matter-“

“Go to your room and we’ll tell you latter.”

We’ll tell you later? That sounds like a cue to me. By this point, my adrenaline is going, and my migraine along with my worries of making dinner have taken a back seat to my concerns for Matt.

I drop my keys off on the kitchen island and walk into the dining room, surveying the scene to assess the situation. There are many possibilities as to why Matt would be sitting at the dining table in the late afternoon darkness looking like he’s spent the last hour or so sobbing, but the first one that comes to my mind and really sticks is a death in the family.

I think my heart is in my throat, because even though Matt is a really affectionate person, there’s something about seeing him sitting there and squeezing Mark to near suffocation that makes me a bit apprehensive.

“Something wrong?” I ask, narrowing my eyes first at Matt and Mark and then at the mail opened on the polished table top. I think I expect Matt to jump at the sound of my voice, or maybe even let Mark go, but all he does is nod his head against Mark’s shoulder before pressing his face against the side of his son’s neck.

I blink and try a step closer. “Yeah? Well… can I know what it is?”

Matt nods again and this time he let’s Mark go and turns away, scooting back up to the table and resting his elbows against the top.

“Go to your room, Mark,” Matt says, bracing his chin against his hands.

“But I wanna hear-“

“Go!”

Mark looks absolutely crestfallen, but he heads off towards the living room anyway. Me, I don’t even move until I hear his footsteps dragging up the stairs as slowly as humanly possible.

I look to Matt and I expect him to say something, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t even look like he’s breathing right now, and I suddenly feel like maybe I’ve seriously fucked up and I don’t even know it yet. Or maybe someone died. Or got hurt and is in the hospital. Or something. There are a lot of possibilities, and now I’m actually scared to just ask flat out.

I’m even scared to come closer, but I know I have to, so I just take a deep breath and make my legs move. He’s at the head of the table so I sit down at the first place to his right, moving really careful and deliberate.

We sit still and silent for a full minute before I realize that I have no choice but to prompt him or we’ll be here all night.

“…so…?” I try, and Matt quickly runs his fingers through his hair before loudly dropping his arms to the table top. I’m suddenly aware of his breathing, harsh and sporadic, his eyes staring determinedly across the room. I tap my fingers against the table’s surface for a moment and he finally looks at me. Well, not at me exactly, more like at my nails making a steady click against the wood, and I get the hint to cut it out. “Is it that bad, Matt?”

He nods solemnly, his gaze drifting down to the mail scattered in front of him.

“Look, I really don’t want to sit here and play fifty questions, so if you could just regain the ability to talk, I think that’d really assist this situation,” I say, because nervousness always makes me bitchy.

He turns away from me quickly, looking out the window across the front lawn, and I feel like throwing my arms up and storming away, just to make him come after me. Obviously right now, I don’t have any of his attention on me, and this drives me nuts.

He pushes a typed letter towards me silently, without taking his eyes off the window. I glance down and try to read a few lines, but it’s all such big worded mumbo jumbo, I can’t really concentrate on it.

“What the hell is this?” I ask, scooping it part ways up from the table with one hand, scanning it to make sure it’s actually written in English. “Matt?” I look up to him again, and I reach for his arm to get his attention. He doesn’t resist, and his skin is sticky and cold where my fingers are wrapped around his wrist.

“Jeremiah… she’s gonna try to…take him from us. She has a case. She was underage when she signed, she didn’t have a guardian help…”

“What?”

“Mark’s mother.”

It’s instant hate and resentment. “What does she have to do with shit?” I snap, tensing up and Matt finally looks at me, his expression something of exhausted shock.

“She’s suing us to get him back.”

It takes a moment for this to sink in. We’ve had Mark since he was two. His mother was incompetent. Matt had to step in, since he’s the biological father. I stepped in because Matt and I were together. We changed our entire lives to make it work.

I’m sitting there, stunned silent, and it occurs to me sort of gradually, the statement isn’t going to sink in. Not at all. Not without me killing someone and throwing up.

“Wait, what? How?”

“If I don’t agree to her terms, she’s pressing charges against me.”

“Charges? For what?!”

He closes his eyes and lowers his head between his arms, massaging his temples with two fingers. “Calm down, okay? I don’t need you all pissed off and irrational.”

“Irrational?! Fuck that Matt, what the hell is going on? What charges?”

“She never pressed the charges for statutory rape. It never even came up. It was an agreement between us, back when she was gonna keep Mark by herself. As long as I was paying child support, I mean.”

Child support. I know for a fact that Mark never saw any of it. I’d seen the paper work myself. She was a coke head. She was a co-dependent for an alcoholic boyfriend. She was seventeen. She was a bitch and she hated me almost as much as I hated her.

My mind jerks back to me and her, outside of a bar, and me, being the bitchy ass hole, telling her that if she ever came near Matt again, I’d break her legs, shove them down her throat, and use them to puree her lungs and heart. I’d like to say I was drunk, but I’m pretty sure I was sober. I’d like to say I didn’t use the words ‘my man’, or ‘step off bitch,’ but I’m pretty sure I did that too, coming off as such a stereotypical gay guy, as such a complete psychopathic serial killer, my ears still burn with embarrassment even though it happened ages ago.

“She can’t get him back. He doesn’t even know who she is, and if he did, he wouldn’t want to be in the same city as her,” I mumble it, trying to make my heart slow down. I hate how adrenaline works, the way it makes my fingers tremble and my stomach knot up and my head rush.

“I know that,” Matt pulls his arm free from my loosened fingers, only to drop his hand over mine.

I let out a gush of air and flop back in my chair, gesturing with my free hand. “What exactly do you want me to say?” I ask him and he shrugs, glancing down at the other mail.

“That,” he nods towards the paper in front of me, “That’s from her attorney. Then I’ve got this shit from her, telling me what’s gonna happen if I don’t agree to it. This is such stupid bullshit-“

“Why now, of all times? When he doesn’t even know who she is, when he doesn’t…he doesn’t need her. He’s got two parents. He’s happy.”

“What do you me to say?” Matt shakes his head. “I’m just telling you what I’ve got in front of me.”

“Is she… what are the conditions? And is the floor open to compromise?”

“I doubt it. Don’t make jokes right now, I’m not in the mood to hear them,” he bites down on one of his lip rings and his shoulders slope up in a deep breath before easing back down.

And me, I’m really fucking offended. I jerk my hand from beneath his and cross my arms in front of my chest, “I’m not making jokes. I’m being serious. What the fuck?”

“I’m just warning you.”

“Fuck you.”

He rolls his eyes and pushes his seat back from the table, starting to stand up.

“Where are you going?” I snap and he shakes his head but doesn’t answer, pushing his seat back in place as he stands behind it. “What does she want, Matthew? Would you mind telling me that much? Don’t be a fucking bastard right now, I-“

“Don’t tell me how to act right now, Jeremiah,” he says, and he sneers my name like it tastes bad, but I don’t get it. I don’t get why he’s mad at me, of all people. I did not do anything.

Alright, so I got into so many fights with Mark’s mother, it’s not even amusing. She instigated just as much as I did. So we literally played tug-o-war with Matt, dislocating his shoulder. So I threw a drink in her face. So I slit her tires. So I was there when we came to take her son away from her. So I told her that if I had anything to do with it, she’d never see Mark again. So I told her that she was a horrible mother, a horrible person, and she didn’t deserve to have a son at all.

All of this was years ago. That doesn’t mean this is my fault.

She was the one that wouldn’t let Matt go- of course I had to pull him away from her. She was the one that got all in my face, calling me a cunt and saying I didn’t have the balls to do shit. She was the one who put fucking sand in my gas tank. She was the one who said Mark would never be my kid, would never love me like a parent, and she was the one who said that if he ended up a faggot because of me, she’d murder the both of us- Mark and me. As a justice to the world.

This was ages ago. I haven’t even seen her in something like five, six years. We haven’t resolved anything, we still despise each other, but this is an odd time for revenge. This can’t be over me, this is not my fault.

“I’m sorry Matt, just… what are her conditions?” I take a breath and try to act reasonable, try to think of the appropriate way to act right now.

“She wants to see him every weekend-”

“No way,” I say instantly, and Matt leans his weight against the back of the chair.

“I’m not done-“he starts, and I’m shaking my head hard in the negative.

“I don’t care, no way. He’s not spending every weekend at her nasty house, I-“

“She married some old rich guy, the house isn’t nasty, it’s-“

“Oh, so you’re on her side now?”

“No! I’m not on her side, I was just correcting-“

“And what do you know about her life? What, has she still been talking to you? Because that’s fucking bullshit and you know it-“

“She wrote it down, that’s all I’m saying! I’m not on her side-“

“Well you’re not on my side right now, what are we supposed to do, just go up there and tell him that he has to spend time with his estranged mother and-“

“Jeremiah-“

“No! This is not fair! He’s my kid more then he’s hers! I shouldn’t have to share him with that stupid bitch! He’s mine!”

“Why do you always do this, you always have to go off-“

“Why are you such a hypocrite?! Don’t fucking tell me how to act right now! I don’t want her in his life- she’s just going to hurt him, you know that, you know it just as well as I do, I can’t believe you’re even considering letting this happen-“

“What choice do I have right now Jeremiah? I don’t want to spend the next fifteen years of my life in jail for-“

“You should be calling our attorney, not considering letting her pull this shit, because you know what? I adopted him. I have custody of him. Under Illinois law, you can’t get your kid back once you’ve signed-“

“That’s what I’m telling you, Jere! She was underage when she signed-“

“No she wasn’t! She wasn’t! I adopted him when he was two! That makes her nineteen!” I’m breathing hard, half standing up with my stomach against the edge of the table, and I’m glaring at Matt, my voice breaking and he’s slumped down.

He’s standing there behind the chair with his weight on his taunt arms, his head down. “It’s twenty one…”

I sit back and stare at him like he’s an idiot. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“The law says, you’ve got to be at least twenty one, or have your legal guardian present at time of signing.”

“Well that’s bullshit. That’s not our fault that they…the adoption people, the custody fuckers, who ever, that’s not our fault that they fucked up.”

“But they did. And we’ve got to pay the price.”

“He was taken away from her. She lost her right to him,” I reason, wishing Matt would just agree with me and say this isn’t happening. Maybe some of it is starting to dawn on me, and the thought of Mark spending unsupervised time with that bitch is making me sick to my stomach.

She never wanted him. Never. She didn’t care about him. She neglected him and abused him, and social services took him away from her. They called up Matt and told him that if he didn’t step in for custody, Mark was going up for adoption.

This was about as spontaneous as it sounds. This was pretty sudden.

Matt, he wanted a kid. He really did, and I knew that when I got involved with him. We got together, and there was all this shit, all this fighting and yelling and wanting different things. We broke up for maybe a year, and that’s when he met her. I got with someone else, and I was fine with that until Matt came back to me.

But his old girlfriend wasn’t exactly ready to let go. Matt’s a much calmer person then I am, the kind of person who can deal with a lot of shit before he cracks. He could ignore that crazy bitch following him around, he could ignore her calling his phone and leaving about eighty messages, he could ignore her spamming his IM.

It was me who couldn’t.

Matt, he’d never really seen me fight with anyone. He pretty much just found it amusing, because I fought like a girl. I know I do. This isn’t exactly an insult though- how many people will actually take on a Hispanic woman?

Very few. Trust me.

Matt wanted a kid, and I knew that, but that didn’t mean I wanted one. When he found out his stalker ex was pregnant, he had some pretty mixed feelings about it. I think I tried to be sensitive about it, I mean I wanted to be, but it didn’t end up that way.

I told him I wasn’t being a parent to any kid, much less hers. We got into a huge knock down drag out fight that ended with me storming out and saying he could just go on back to her if he wanted some stupid mother fucking family thing.

I can’t think of an excuse for my actions, nothing besides I’m immature and I wanted things my way. I guess that’s true for a lot of people. Matt though, he really can be just as immature as me, only he’s more obstinate and passive aggressive.

Matt wouldn’t quit calling me and trying to corner me, not to apologize, but to tell me I was making a mistake and being stupid, and I couldn’t ask him to decide between me and his child. I’m calling it immature because of the way he went about it- calling over and over and over.

It was dumb and messy, in my opinion, but by thinking that, I guess I just prove my insensitivity and childishness.

The whole dilemma seemed to solve itself the day Mark was born and he was given his mother’s last name. She had full custody and all Matt got was his name printed on the father line of the birth certificate.

I was happy, anyway.

Matt was injured but did like he always did- bottled it up and pretended he was fine.

It was another perfect time for me to step in and prove that I really did care about him and what he wanted from life, but I was just happy because I’d gotten my way. I didn’t stop to think that Matt wanted to participate in his son’s life, and if the thought ever came to mind, I pushed it away because I was content with the way things were, and I didn’t want to even think about them changing.

I know it sounds cruel. It was. What can I say? I don’t like kids. I don’t like Mark’s mother. It was a bad combination, and even though I knew perfectly well that Matt was just pretending to accept the situation, I chose to ignore that just so I could pretend my life was exactly what I wanted.

Matt, he was just biding his time, going behind my back to check up on his son, keeping tabs and that kind of thing. I found out about it from one of our friends who mentioned it really casually, like it was perfectly normal for a parent to keep up with their kids’ lives, even if his boyfriend didn’t want him to.

When I actually thought about it, I realized it was, in fact, perfectly normal, and I had no grounds upon which to protest on, besides Matt doing things behind my back. Other then that, what could I possibly say? Matt had told me point blank that he wouldn’t choose between me and Mark, and I was stupid if I thought he actually had.

So I realized that I couldn’t live in my naive little ‘jeremiah-world’ forever, and typical of me, I blamed Matt for not bringing this to my attention sooner. I tend to blame everything on other people, perpetually looking for a scapegoat. I hate being wrong.

Over dinner one night, me and Matt in the living room of an apartment we were sharing at the time, I asked him just how was Mark exactly?

I wanted it to be a kind of shocking moment, I wanted him to sputter and choke on his beer, I wanted him to drop his pizza and sit up and gasp or something. I wanted to be rewarded for my ‘detective work’… even though all that had happened was people didn’t realize I was a little unobservant.

“He’s great. Talking a little, walking a lot,” Matt said, not even taking his eyes from the TV to look at me.

“Do you go over there and talk to his bitch of a mom?”

“Nope.”

“Then what do you do?”

“I go play with him at daycare.”

“They let you do that?”

“I pay for it, don’t I?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well I do.”

“Oh.” I felt stupid.

I'm trying to figure out what you're all about these days...

2004-10-26T05:16:07Z

So. I'm bored and depressed. Yeah. I totally take icon requests. Whatever you want me to do. Just wanted to throw that one out there. And here are some mest icons. Yeah. That's all. Comment, credit, what have you. thanks.

Oh, some might be too big for lj, but they work on gj. And I don't know if they look as good in exploer as they do in firefox.

...and with w3rds. which is uglier, but I liked the song. It inspired it. So what have you.

I do not take full credit for this icon. I don't know who's wrists those are. it's something from gj. meh. I just altered it with Matt. yeah. sorry.

that would be Steve Lovato. He's so ghetto it hurts.

Icons that are obviously not mest, but are band related.

Adam Lazzara.

Heh. Jade. yeah.

Chuck is the cutest. Besides David.

Matt Shelton of Letter kills.

...can't remember where that base come from. whatever.

...please kill the flashy ness of this icon and it'll look better. yeah. I think.

this icon makes me laugh, but my brother doesn't get it.

this one makes me dizzy...uh...yeah.

so does this one. those hands belong to adam. of tbs.

While I'm here, go join this RP. You get to be in a mental ward and you can be as crazy and dramatic as you want. Tons of fun, need more people, I get bored. Anyway. Yeah.

NOW I'm done.

Not convincing.

2004-10-23T19:59:33Z

Title: Not Convincing
Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own, never happened, permission less.
Rating/Pairing: PG, Matt/Jeremiah undertones.
FYI: 964 words. Super short. I was bored.

***
For some reason, right now, the only place I don’t want to look is the only direction my eyes will focus on.

Jeremiah.

His mouth is ajar, his longish black bangs falling over his deep, narrowed eyes. His arms are bony, draped over the sharp edges of his knees caps, his legs drawn up against his thin chest, and me, I’m waiting for him to say something stupid. Something Jere-like. Something that will make me want to slap him and hug him all at the same time.

“What a bitch,” he says dryly, and pauses like his statement holds multitudes of great, envy worthy wit, and deserves a respectable gasp of pure awe.

I’m not that gullible.

“No shit,” I stop too, but just long enough for my irritability to rub off. Dark brown eyes blink at me, overly hurt, his lower lip sticking out so far, he’s got to press his upper lip down against it. His face looks strange like that, elongated, and the shadows add to the comically stretched out affect.

“I left a message,” I say softly, and my voice has dropped both in tone and temperament. I’m defenceless and injured again, seeking refugee from a bleak, uncaring world, in my one true friend Jeremiah.

And he knows that, so there’s no reason for him to be acting catty.

“Well, what did you say?” Jere wonders aloud, leaning his shoulder blades back against the flat wooden headboard.

“I said… well, I said, Hey, it’s me… call me later. Bye,” I wince, just now realizing how lame I must sound on that answering machine. Just thinking about my voice caught forever sounding that stupid, it makes my chest hurt. “I’m a fucking loser. Do you have any Drain-X?”

“Oh, get over yourself,” his pale fingers are groping beside him for a pillow, trying to find some loose fabric to clutch. My arms are already raised by the time he swings the pillow towards me, and it offends only my forearms instead of my head as Jeremiah had intended.

“It’s not me, really. This is about him,” I’d been sitting on one of my legs, but now I lower it to the carpet, pressing my bare feet together, arms stretched out taunt behind me and bracing my weight against the mattress. My torso is angled away from Jere’s form now, my gaze on the closed blinds, sunlight cutting up each individual strip and making strange shadows across my legs and chest.

“You can avoid him, if that’s what you would prefer. Or you could try imposing a nice discussion on him when he least expects it. Being sporadic can work wonders,” Jere rolls his shoulders up in their sockets, his shadow striped face taking on a wistful expression, and I’m looking at him again with a slightly taken aback expression.

“That’s what you say,” I scoff and he rolls his eyes, shaking his hair back.

“And I’m in a caring, loving, relationship with someone, aren’t I?”

I smirk and keep looking at him, waiting for his stoicism to break, but his expression stays blank and serious. I roll my eyes at him this time, exaggerating the movement to emphasise how silly he looks when he does it to me.

“Remember that time I showed up at his school with sushi because he loves that shit so much?”

Jeremiah nods and leans back against the headboard again.

“And the time I went on that shopping splurge at Eckerd’s and gave him an industrial size box of detergent, a bag of tootsies roll pops, and a pack of batteries?”

“Double A’s,” Jere says, nodding.

“I’m just saying… this is not a discussion about me not being sporadic enough. It’s not like there was any… dumping involved. That’s why this isn’t fun.”

“Would it be fun if he had dumped you?”

”Well, then at least it would be a game of revenge…,” I pause and sigh, dropping back on the mattress with my arms folded behind my head, gazing up at the ceiling. “You know what… it’s not even… it’s not even that I don’t… have him anymore, exactly. It’s not… something that specific.”

I stop, and it’s almost for dramatic effect.

Jere isn’t impressed by it and nudges me with his foot, “Out with it, bitch face. What do you mean it’s not specific?”

“I’m not… I wanted an excuse to get away from him. I really did. And I miss him because I’m so… crazy possessive like that… but it’s more like… I know he loved me-“

“Loves,” Jeremiah corrects, and I twist my head to the side to shoot him a curios look, “You said ‘loved’, but it’s ‘loves’. It’s not past tense.”

I shrug and then reconsider the movement, replacing it with a vicious head shake. “That is really not the point either. He loved me and I… I just… I needed him because if the person that I really want to be with is with someone else, then I need to be with someone else,” I sit up on my elbows and look at Jere, the tiger stripes and bangs in his face, “Does that make sense in a weird, malicious way?”

He looks away, towards the window with its tightly closed blinds, his thin hand unhooking from around his knees and reaching out, falling lightly against my chest. “You know I love you. You’re my best friend. You’re… more then… I love you.”

I keep one arm beneath my head for support, but my other hand I pull free to rest over Jere’s, my breathing making our fingers stir together lightly.

“I know. I’m sorry.” I say, closing my eyes and tipping my head back.

....-_-"

2004-09-21T14:09:02Z

In regards to the Jere-icon agreement...why did only ONE person manage to follow the directions? liquidcoke is either a really good listener, or I suck at instructing.

Okay kids. Thank you so much for the icons. I really, really needed them and I have like...hundred of them now. At least. Literally.

I could follow those rumours about me and be a total bitch and be like...oh well, I guess only liquidcoke gets that story, (even though electricguitar probably gave me the most, but this wasn't a contest), but I would never do that because you guys didn't have to be nice and share.

Okay. So.

Icon people. I need you email. I need you jere/? pairing. If you're worried about people looking at you email and stalking you, private email me first at matt_fks_jere@yahoo.com, (because I don't care about stalkers... I already have a few.)

Okay, thanks.

Xxmareep.

Yeah, I'm pretty much trying to take up your friends page. :)

2004-09-20T14:31:43Z

I am in desperate need of some Jeremiah Rangel icons. I could be normal and drag my ass over to the lj community dedicated to taking mest icon requests, but where's the fun in that, right?

Instead, I'm going to ask YOU guys. Make me a large quantity of pretty Jere icons and you will be rewarded. How?

Allow me to explain. Right now, I can't make any icons on my own. I know, it's sad, you can cry for me tonight when you're lying lonely in your bed, staring at that same spot on your ceiling.

Since I can't make them, I have to get other people to. And…I really hate asking people for stuff and relying on them loving me enough to just do it. So. I'm asking you guys to help me and those who do will be rewarded with slash!

It's the best I can offer, and right now, with people saying they miss my writing and such, I say it's not that bad of a present, right? I hope you agree.

Anyway. All you have to do is leave a comment with the icons posted, along with your email and who you want Jeremiah to be having sex with in the story. Everyone that makes me icons will be emailed the story, and the most popular vote for pairing wins out, (ie, if three people say jere/tony, and four say jere/matt, you'll be receiving a jere/matt, regardless of your vote. I'm sorry, this is a democracy.)

This story will not be received by people who don't give me icons. The story will not be posted anywhere else. It's yours to do with what you may.

SO. I'm hoping this is a fair trade off and that I actually get some responses, because you do not even know how desperate I am for some Jere icons.

Thanks in advance to anyone willing to sacrifice time for me and such.

Later,

Xxmareep.

The Stacks.

2004-09-20T14:10:28Z

Title: The Stacks

Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own, never happened, permission less.

Rating/pairing: NC-17, Adam/Jesse (TBS/BN) (US History continuation.)

FYI: Obviously, this is very AU. I don't care though, it's more fun this way. Enjoy all the innuendoes to lyric quotes and a couple of movie quotes. Also, I have this serious problem with run on sentences, because I'm so terrified of writing with out enough attention to detail. L. 7,194 words. (that means it's hella fucking long kids.)

Jesse is a college student. He used to be close with Adam, but after a fall out two years ago, they haven't so much as talked. Jesse still resents what happened and Adam? Well…who knows what Adam thinks.

Dedication: To koshi_etoile, Koshi. Sorry I suck sometimes. It was like, WHOA, EEP! …(she never reads my writing anyway…says she refuses to be one of my minions.) :-p

***

My teeth, they’re gritted down so hard I’m giving myself a headache. I'm getting a ringing in my ears. I'm getting a trembling in my jaw and fingers. Adam, Mister Centre Of Attention Fuck Yes I am Better Then You, he’s flirting with the flag girls across the lawn. Adam, fingers around one of the poles to a bright red flag, talking to a pony-tailed sophomore chick. Adam, being so into her, I'm sure. Adam flirting.

It’s so pathetic.

He’s so transparent.

Adam doing this on purpose, flirting so obviously. Wanting to hurt me so obviously.

Try really hard not to consider the possibility that I'm not even on his mind. Refuse to accept the notion that maybe he doesn't even know he has my attention. I can mostly deny this because Adam loves attention; he'd never over look it from anyone, even me.

At least, that's the Adam I ~~know~~ knew.

Bite down hard on my apple, take aggression out on the fruit, and wonder if I look that fake when I try to chat up girls.

No. I couldn’t. He’s a better actor then me, hands down. Admitting this makes that chunk of apple ooze down my throat like a small rock, and my nails are digging into the hard red skin. Adam is better then me, I know this deep down, but I still haven't let it process correctly. Why start now, when it can't matter anymore?

Adam, across the campus, tosses one of the bright red and white flags into the warm September air and stands with his feet apart, head back, high lights in his hair, waiting for the pole to fall back in his arms neatly.

Of course it does. He’s Adam. Nothing bad ever happens to Adam.

Nothing bad ever happens to Adam Lazzara, except for me, but that’s a different story.

Me, sitting under this oak tree, pressing my shoulder blades up against the rough bark, I underhand-toss the remainder of lunch across the freshly cut grass and avert my gaze from him. Not before I watch the girls giggle and laugh.

Not before I watch him smile triumphantly, this light breeze fluttering his long bangs.

Not before I watch the ponytail girl throw her arms around him.

Not before I notice the way the sun falls across his pale cheeks and warms them up.

I shouldn’t be looking so closely, anyway.

Me, I blink, knees bent up and eyes back down on my spiral bound notebook, opened to a clean white page. The sun is filtering through the leaves over me, making dappled shadows on the paper and my arms, and my teeth are worrying my pen neurotically.

I have a paper due for my Rhetoric class, but that’s not until tomorrow.

My stomach, it feels churned up right now. It's that strange sensation like when you absolutely crave a certain kind of food, but you can't put your finger on what. I feel young again and I know I shouldn't. I want to feel bad right now, or I want to feel indifferent, but I feel warm.

I feel warm and I feel young, young like I haven’t felt since that night Adam called me a faggot for the first time. Maybe, I don’t know, but maybe losing your best friend contributes to ageing. Maybe betrayal makes you jaded.

Maybe I’ve been exhausted for two years and Adam could always wake me up. Maybe I've been cold for the past two years, and Adam could always warm me up. Maybe, for the past two whole fucking years, I've been alone, and Adam was always there for me.

It’s not his job anymore, I know that.

Even if it were, or was supposed to be, or could have been, I chose to ruin that. Just to get him back for thinking he could leave and ever be forgiven. Like how he chose to call me names, like how he chose to believe I even liked that girl, like how he chose to believe I was the one to start it, when it was he, he and his not trusting me.

Like how he chose to believe there wasn't anything beneath our friendship.

He did it- with a fabulous, dramatised, swing-around, Adam put his back to me first.

If it stings so much, why can’t I take my eyes off him?

I could eat lunch anywhere. I could sit beneath any tree, I could sit down on any bench or piece of ground, and I could write anything that I wanted to, but all the words that come to me, I’m squishing down before they get out of control.

I’m thinking, warm, moist skin, I’m thinking the wet feeling of a tongue against my neck, the heat spreading across my chest, hands tugging through my hair, black-dyed, longish bangs falling across my cheeks, him shaking his head above me, teasing me and suspending his head, his lips, just above mine, lithe body pinning me beneath him, and I just want to kiss him…

I’m thinking, Jesse Lacey, you suck.

No.

Really.

You suck.

Frowning and letting the pen dangle from my mouth like a long cigarette, I stick my fingers through my hair and tug up, pulling it into a straightened faux hawk, breath quickening, and turning the distinctive white toes of my shoes inward.

Annoyed, distracting myself with anything possible, a free hand goes down to rearrange my jean leg. I rub my scalp and press my knees up against my body, breathing in that warm smell of autumn, thinking about, oh, I don’t know, school three years ago maybe.

Maybe, three years ago this time.

Wondering, maybe, to myself, where would I have been?

Some where with Adam, that’s for sure.

Sometime, fall, three years ago, my mind flashes to a scene like a movie. Adam, skipping down the wide granite steps of the library, two thick books tucked under one long arm, his tattered messenger bag swinging off a bony shoulder.

"Jesse, I was thinking," he said, and I was leaning against the brick, waiting for him. It was a Saturday, and Adam spent those mornings at the downtown library, getting his homework done so he could sleep all day Sunday.

He told me, confidentially, that he enjoyed the dustiness and the stacks, that he liked roaming through them in the quiet, undisturbed air. He said it felt haunted and secrete. He said it felt warm and private. Adam would tell me that nothing was nicer then sitting in a desolate corner on a rickety wooden chair with mounds of school work and heavy books spread open on the chipped plywood table. He said he liked the eerie feeling of the books watching him from their shelves, books written by great, dead men and women, who had lived sad, shut in lives, and were probably wondering what a boy like Adam would want with their musty pages of hard to comprehend literacy.

This is just what Adam told me.

He told me not to tell anyone because he knew it sounded silly.

I never went into the library if I could avoid it. Hearing Adam talk about the books and the authors watching him had given me goose bumps, and I wouldn't learn how to even step foot into one until college came around and I had no choice.

"Jesse, I was thinking," Adam said, and he paused in front of me, swinging his bag up to work the novels into the confines. "We shouldn't be so ascetic, huh?"

I probably rolled my eyes. Adam had a way of speaking that kept you on your toes, a way that hinted he knew he was smarter then you and didn't mind proving it. It was a quality that demanded both respect and annoyance.

At one time, I had been bothered by it, because I wasn't stupid, but I didn't see any point in showing that. I had grown used to him, almost fond of his speech because it was fabulous, just like the rest of them, and you had to either love it or hate it.

"If you mean to say, we should go out and get drunk tonight, I'm all for it," I answered, and there was a shared smile between us, him letting the bag drop back to his hip, the hair falling in his face, the wide, natural grin on his face, brown eyes and maybe needing to shave.

"I don't mean it as something so specific, exactly, just that you're uptight," he said, shaking his bangs back and sticking his hands into the pocket of his jacket so that his bony elbows stuck out.

I remember taking my car keys out and jingling them urgently, ignoring him because I knew what he meant. Adam, at this point, was maybe four steps away from suggesting something open and defined between us, while I was still contemplating morality. "I've been waiting for you for half an hour and I'm starved. Let's just go."

Adam smirked and he didn't seem to be thinking about what he was doing. He leaned forward and his lips brushed up against my cheek, chapped and rough and clearly a sign of deeper affection from another boy. I remember being lost in the moment, not jumping back and glancing around wildly to make sure no one had seen, but smiling at him and holding my arm out. He didn't pause or say anything, just loosened one hand from his own jacket and hooked it around my sleeve, letting me guide the way down the sidewalk to the parking meter my car was by.

We were already having regular sex at that point. We were already spending more time with each other then with our families or teachers or other friends.

I'll go out on a limb and say, we were already in love at that point.

Maybe, sometimes, I think, I can forget the bad times. I can over look them just because the good times that we shared were some of the best times of my life. There were so many times when the only thing to look forward to was Adam being there. There were a lot of times when I wouldn't have tried if I hadn't known Adam would be the first one to see me fail, and I couldn't have that.

I can't have that.

Here, now, Adam will not know that I still care. He can't know.

Picking my gaze back up, my eyes scan the near distance to the flag girls who are sitting in the fresh grass, forming a circle, flags wrapped around the poles, laying in their laps. A brief, strange moment of panic ensues when I can't spot Adam, and I wonder if he'd left with out my noticing.

Then I find him, standing still, brown jacket and fitted, pre faded jeans, maybe no shoes or maybe sandals, back to me, but head glancing over his shoulder, right in my direction. His arms are crossed and I watch him turn, watch an unnamed expression fall across his features, and a cool autumn breeze blow the longer strands of his bangs across his face. He lifts one hand to knock the pieces back, pausing and offering me a measured wave before tucking his hand back beneath his arm.

I don't acknowledge him.

I just try to get the blush off my cheeks, reaching for my backpack and shoving my stuff into it before zipping it closed, fighting to get my legs beneath me, needing to be on my feet.

Adam, he smiles at me from across the way, and I only notice because I accidentally look at him again.

I have to get out of here.

***

The fifth floor of the campus library is huge and old, the shelves long and tall. It's easy to loose yourself among them. There's no librarian for miles, there's no anyone for weeks. There's only stacks and buzzing florescent lighting and thin office carpet and small white signs laminated to the sides of the shelves in the aisles, numbers and codes printed on them.

095674-095789

Occ. Ran.

Breathe in a deep breath and you can smell the sweat and blood of these writers. You can look around you and think you see someone ducking behind a stack just ahead of you, you can try to catch up, but you can never find the right turn.

This is being lost in the minds of others. This is being lost in intellect. This is whatever you want to call it, my fingers skimming across the worn down bindings of a hundred books as I cut between two shelves to reach another aisle. A kilometre to my left, there's a beige wall. A kilometre to my right, there's a beige wall with a water fountain. A kilometre in front of me, there's silence, books, spirits, and carpet, and of course, a beige wall.

I want to be lost like this forever.

I take a right, backpack straps cutting into my shoulders, chucks and pants legs shuffling softly against the orangeish carpet, breathing soft and relaxed. There're hours to walk and miles to think, and no one has to care or know.

Check my watch, wishing I had a digital, because I'm always mentally counting by fives on my analogue one. I take a left, back into the rows of books, squinting and counting the small dashes between the numbers on the white face of my watch.

And I hit something solid.

It's that kind of scare you get when someone knocks on your door late at night, or when the telephone rings when you don't expect it to, or when someone suddenly grabs you from behind when you're immersed in something else.

It's the real kind of fear, not any kind of delusion. Something was actually there, something tangible, you felt it, or you heard it, and your body reacted to it quicker then you could comprehend just what it was.

Pant, jump back, keep my eyes closed, and think that Adam was right, library stacks are haunted and the ghosts don't like you wandering about, snooping about their territory, and if my heart doesn't get out of my throat, I'm going to vomit.

"Damn it Adam," I say and lean a shoulder against a bookshelf, knowing that it's his fault I've got both an obsession with the stacks and a terrible fear of them.

"I'm sorry," he says.

Open my eyes, tensing up, glaring at him. It feels like an illusion, we're so close, and he looks so unreal. Fast, before I can think to stop myself, my palm goes out and I push him in the shoulder.

He stumbles back a pace, holding his place in a book with two fingers tucked between the closed bindings.

"Don't do that," I hiss, lowering my voice. The atmosphere requires whispering, even though the situation calls for yelling.

"You ran into me," he says pointedly, and I almost push him again, but I stop myself.

"Whatever," I mutter, and I'm pissed off because first he ruined my US History class, and then he ruined my lunch, and now he's going to ruin my library haunt.

Doesn't he know when to quit?

I move to walk around him, catching the movement of his hand, feeling his skin press up against my bare arm, and I'm glad that I tucked my jacket into my backpack.

"Jesse, wait," he says, and I want him to beg for me.

Roll my eyes, huff like I'm pissed off, (and I am), and look at him with a bored, irritated expression.

Adam, he bites his lip and keeps his fingers around my arm. "I… what are you doing…here?" His eyes are brown. His eyes are desperate. His eyes are hopeful. His eyes are on me.

My own lip curls and my arm shakes him off. "It's a free country, Adam," I cuss out his name and it feels good in my mouth, even if the tone's wrong.

He nods. "I…know that. You…never liked…libraries." He's talking strange, sounding a bit like that gasping kid on Malcolm In The Middle, and if we were still friends on any level, I'd tell him that.

"Don't tell me what I like and what I don't," I snarl the words, and I watch the hope in his eyes fade and twist and die, and part of me feels elated, part of me feels sick.

"I'm…just… okay," watch him swallow and lick his lips nervously, glancing about as if for help, but this place is more deserted then a desert island. More deserted then a church on Friday night. More deserted then me after the night in the parking lot and the cold weeks, months, years that followed. "I guess…I'll…see you around," he says, and he looks down so I can't see into his eyes anymore.

I jerk back and take a few steps away from him. "Not if I can help it," I sneer, and my immaturity is now through the roof while my stomach has fallen through the floor.

"Jesse…" he mumbles it, falters in all his movie star glory. "Jesse, I never…got…to…say that I was sorry. For everything that happened."

I have to think about this statement for longer then my tongue does. It reels off an answer of quick, harsh wit before I remember thinking up what to say, "I think it was blatantly clear you were sorry about the shit we engaged in behind closed doors that night in the parking lot."

Flash back to bad memories, the gas peddle under my foot, the air conditioner blasting across my legs and chest, radio playing some bad R&B, my finger on the automatic button to shut the window in Adam's screwed up face.

"FUCKING FAGGOT! YOU'RE A FUCKING FAGGOT!"

The blood in my cheeks and ears, the people staring through the windshield, my hands groping for anything, wipers clicking on, lights on the dashboard flashing, lights blinking, the cherry of my cigarette burning my thigh, the harsh panting because…

"I. Did. Not. Touch. Her."

Desperate, injured looks that flood in with innocent pain and pull out with the tide into full-fledged anger, calm and paced.

"No, Adam, I think you're the faggot here."

You want to play this game? Fine. Let's go.

Then it's the insane anger, the kind that makes someone punch your window so the safety glass cracks, the kind that makes you hit someone with your car, hard enough to knock them off balance and to let them know that you're in control more then them. Let them know that if this is a chess game, and if they've just called checkmate, then you're throwing the whole fucking board at the goddamn wall.

Now who wins?

Guess it depends on who owned the broken chessboard in the first place.

Come back to here, now, haunted stacks and anxiety, wishing I hadn't said that, wishing none of this ever happened. Wanting innocence back, wanting two years ago back, wanting, even, that night in the parking lot back so that things could've been different, wanting to change right now and grow up like I should have a long time ago.

Wanting, maybe, Adam back, even.

I watch Adam take a breath and measure the words that he speaks, like I wish I knew how to do before I let my phrases fly.

"I didn't mean that. That's the last thing I'm sorry for."

"Even if it's the last, it's still on the list, huh?" I spit it out and regret it instantly. This isn't even me talking. Or maybe it is, and I don't even know that I'm this bad of a person. I can't stop relishing in his pain and I can't stop sharing it either.

I've never seen Adam patient before. I've never seen him let anyone come before him. I've never, ever, seen Adam Lazzara let anyone have a dramatic moment that would take the spotlight from him.

"I regret it because it broke us apart," he says simply and I refuse to believe him.

"You didn't care."

"That's not true, I-"

"YOU NEVER FUCKING CARED!" The spit flies and the sound waves echo, the air shuddering around us. I feel like I've just committed some kind of horrible sin, and me, shoulders up and panting, I wait with only my chest kicking, wait for something to smite me.

The sudden sting on my cheek tells me that Adam slapped me, but I never caught the movement. I don't even react, I just keeping gasping for air, small trembles of pain lighting up the left side of my face and I can almost feel the hand shaped bruise forming.

"Don't you dare say that, Jesse Lacey," Adam hisses, and he's either a better actor then me, more melodramatic then me, or he really does care.

His lips are quivering, his fists shaking at his sides, his thin chest jerking raggedly beneath his tight fitting shirt. His eyes are lit up, his cheeks are flushed, and if he doesn't remember why he hates me now, it'll dawn on him soon enough.

"I just did," My teeth are gritted and my ears are ringing. "You can't just swagger up to me and apologise for the past and expect everything to go back to the way it was. You can't do that to me. You don't have it like that. You think you're so great, you're so perfect, and everything goes just the way you want it to; you wanted to hurt me, you wanted the sympathy, you wanted to be right, but you're wrong Adam, you were wrong the night you left me and I'd never take you back. Never."

He's watching me reproachfully, his arms crossing across his chest, squeezing like he's trying to make his heart slow down inside of his ribs.

I'm watching him hatefully, my shoulders hunched up, paused and straining my ears for any noise besides our breathing, which is so aligned, so perfect, I want him to hit me again to knock it off course.

Adam, he seems to be counting out the seconds before he speaks. "Will you please just listen to me for a moment? I'm just requesting two minutes of your time, you don't think you can allow me that much?"

Blow out a couple lungs full of stale air, annoyed, aggravated, "Sure, why not. I listened to all your lies for years before this, I can listen to a few more."

Watch him to see if this stung anything inside of him, like my cheek and insides are still stinging.

I can't even tell anymore.

"Jesse, you just aren't properly comprehending the situation..."

He's right. I don't and I never did. Me, I bite down on the inside of his cheek and don't bother letting him know that I agree, but maybe he can sense it.

"You never even knew how jealous I was of you," he continues, his eyes sliding over the bindings of books on the shelf opposite him, behind my head.

Blink and try to cover up the surprise and confusion. Me, I just decide to let him go on, watching his brown eyes flit about like he's watching some private movie that I can't see because I don't want to think about it anymore.

"You always had it so much easier then me," he's running with this, nervously tugging his sleeves over his thumbs. "And I just… I was aware that it wouldn't last between us, I knew you would move on and you didn't care like I did. I knew this would occur, but that night when it…finally happened, I resented it and I guess I just…refused to accept it and it…I went off."

Adam, he pauses and meets my eyes for a long moment.

"Bullshit," I mumble, not angry but something else, something a little more shocked.

He shakes his head, the fluorescent light giving his longish hair different dimensions of colour, his face sombre, eyes narrowed. "What would I gain from lying about it now?"

Me, I shake my head this time, because I don't have an answer. Huff again and cross my arms across my chest, rearranging my weight on one hip. "This is supposed to excuse everything you did to me?" I ask.

"Yes. No. I know it doesn't validate anything, that's not… there is no excuse for my behaviour, I'm just telling you, I did it all because I did care… so I'd appreciate it if you didn't accuse me of lying about my feelings for you because-"

"You did lie! You lied Adam, whether you loved me or hated me or whatever, you told me both! So what are you telling me?"

"I'm telling you, I despised you after I stumbled in on you frenching that girl!"

"I didn't! She kissed me! She was drunk! And you know what, we weren't even together, what does it matter?"

"You knew how I felt and you chose to treat that with disregard. You were still convinced that what we had was dissolute, and the whole time, I was ignorant enough to still be… struggling inanely to appease your sorry ass!"

Give his words a moment to sink in, knowing it's the truth but not quiet.

"You know what Adam?" I say, and I wait for him to prompt me, which he does, soft and averted gaze, pursing his lips, calming himself down again quickly.

Adam, he's always in control, until he starts spending too much time with me. It must be frustrating for him, on some level.

Me, I wait for him to look at me, wait for him to meet my gaze so that he can tell, this is the only honesty I feel like he deserves from me.

"What?" he repeats himself and stares at me, brown meeting blue counterparts, and I suck my lip into my mouth, glancing to my left and right briefly.

Beige, books, carpet, fluorescent lights, and quiet, intense tones, "You were wrong that night. You were wrong about just about everything. You only got one thing right."

Wait again for a prompt, wait for Adam to tell me he wants to hear this.

"And what was I correct about Jesse Lacey?" He bites his lip too, a sign that says he's paying attention to me. He even crosses his arms like me, thrusting a hip out, tilting his head a bit closer to one shoulder. Adam, he looks like he wants to say something more, something harsh, but he doesn't have his foot in his mouth like I do.

Look down and let my ears burn, let the bruise on my cheek ache and distract my ears from the words falling from my tongue to the carpet. "I am a faggot."

The silence that follows is even worse then that which followed my yelling from earlier. Me, I have to look up to make sure he's still there, still solid, that he's been here the whole time and isn't just some horrible ghost from the past.

Adam Lazzara, for the first time in his life, looks speechless.

"Yeah?" he manages.

A nod, an irritated sigh. "I didn't want her near me. You wouldn't listen."

His hand goes over his mouth like he's covering up a cough. "I wanted to but I couldn't."

Me, I shrug. What does it matter now? What do either of us gain even if Adam can finally see he miscalculated the entire situation worse then I did?

"Jesse, why did you…let me think other wise?" Adam, he says this, and I have to think about it for some reason, even though I've analysed the whole night so many times, I should have every answer for every action that I took.

Some things are too painful to explain.

"I didn't want to want you. And then you… to have you even accuse me, and to not believe me… you deserved it. That's why. Because you deserved it."

"You could've stopped it at any time, you could've prevented the dissension to begin with. You could've explained and none of this would've…it wouldn't have ended so horribly."

"Don't you dare-"

"I'm not berating you for your mistakes, I'm telling you… Jesse, if you had really given a flying fuck, you could've fixed it before it got out of hand. Maybe I didn't trust you as much as I thought I did, but in retrospect, the way you handled the situation afterward should portray just exactly why I didn't feel as though I could trust you."

Shake my head because he doesn't know how much I've blamed myself.

Maybe that's the problem. He never knew how much I blamed myself, resented myself, how much I envied him, how much I resented him, how much I…

How much I loved him.

He never knew what I was thinking anymore then I knew what he was thinking.

Hear him suck in air and I realise my eyes are closed. Me, I open them again and stare back at him, trying not to feel hurt or relieved or anything else. I want to feel nothing right now, why can't he understand that?

"You were always better then everyone, can't you realise that?" Adam, he asks me this, and his eyes are squinted, studying me. "You were an unreachable ass hole and you didn't waste your time with anyone. How could I trust you to stick around? You were apotheosised, and you were doing me a favour, just letting me be seen in public with you."

Swallow the lump in my throat and think, if he's lying, why aren't I offended by his words? I shouldn't be agreeing, silent or otherwise, but when it gets down to it… yes, as wrong and horrible as it is, yes I feel that way.

It's like when you're talented, you can't say you are because people will hate you, but face it. You're better then them.

It's like when you're sitting in class next to one of the LD kids, and you try to be sympathetic, but face it. You're smarter then them.

These are those thoughts and feelings that everyone has, but it's socially unacceptable to speak them aloud.

Yes, I do think I'm better then most people. Yes, I do think I'm smarter.

Sure, I could probably walk on water and of course I know which came first, the chicken or the egg.

"Well, you were bathed in the limelight, the actor, the owner of the stage, and god forbid anyone take the glory from you for more then ten minutes. You were above everyone too. The difference was, I didn't see people worth my time, and you didn't see people as being important enough for you to pretend to ignore," I tell him this and his lip quivers, his eyes casting over me, his head nodding slightly.

"Yeah…I guess," Adam, he says this like he's choked, grasping for words. "I suppose that's why we…would never have worked? It was always about the outshining? Even…even the…sex was a dare to see who would go further." He says the word sex like a third grader.

"At first, yes," I agree quietly, wishing we weren't so close together.

"At first?" he corroborates.

A nod, teeth gritted again, wondering how much time I can spend around Adam before my teeth develop problems from being pressed so hard together so often. "You knew that."

"But I never heard you say that. All the didactic speeches I performed for you sake, you continued to act as if it were a horrible sin."

"You should've known. You should've known I didn't… that I didn't want anyone else. That I didn't think that, really. You should've known because you know I don't even like people. You got us mixed up in all our conceited glory. You might've kissed a pretty girl just for the thrill of it, but that's not me."

"And I'm sorry. I've thought about if for years, Jesse, and I'm sorry. I would alter it if I could."

I don't want to hear this.

"I wanted you to stop and tell me that it was a mistake, that you needed me, I wanted you to say it first and you wouldn’t. You wanted me to say it first and I was…I was scared that you were…just playing with me like you played with everyone else. That’s the problem with fucking your best friend. You know how horrible they can be to other people, and it's just a matter of time before they hurt you too."

"You were different, Adam."

I don't want to say this.

"But I never knew that! Don't you understand? I never knew!"

"Drop the insecure act, I know you better then-"

"You made me insecure! You were the only one! It was always only you and you were too busy playing mind games and trying to find something tangible to realise that."

"You could've given me something to hold on to if you'd wanted."

"You could've trusted me."

"You could've trusted me." I hiss back, putting my face right up against his, feeling his breath against my face.

Me, I feel his hands on my cheeks again, but this time it's a caressing motion, and I feel his hips under my fingers, the bones hard and defined from the softness of his skin beneath the fabric. Press our lips together and it feels good and hurts so much all at once, my arms reaching around to the furthest parts of his waist, pulling the warmth of his thin body up against mine.

Feel his tongue push up against mine, feel his breath quickening and hitting my teeth, his long fingers pushing up the side of my face and through my hair, reaching around and pressing against the sensitive area at the nape of my neck. Me, I gasp through my nose and kiss him harder, licking and rubbing his mouth with my tongue, pressing my body to his with one hand bracing against the small of his back to keep him in place.

My other hand is up by his face, smoothing his hair back out of the way, fingers holding the pieces against the back of his head, feeling his hands press against my shoulder blades, my arms stuck between his, his tongue wet and heavy and real past my lips. Adam, his heart is pounding against mine with only our shirts and ribs as a diversion, his back arching up, rubbing our lower bodies together so this whimper escapes my throat. His shoulder blades are against the bookshelves and my foot nudges aside his messenger bag, lying on the carpet with his book from earlier on top of it.

His fingers slide the straps of my backpack down my arms, and they, my arms, straighten out behind me, helping him get it off. I hear my backpack hit the floor, my mouth sinking against Adam's, my hands returning to his sides and face. His hips, they're rubbing hard circles up against mine and I'm pressing back down against him, panting out, sucking on his tongue and letting my cheeks flush with heat, my head spinning.

Adam, his hands slide back down my spine again, feeling for my shirt hem, and I straighten up, lifting my arms and pulling away from him as he pulls the fabric over my head, dropping it over my backpack. His hands, they go down the whole length of either bare side, my skin shivering beneath his warm fingertips, my body desperate for contact.

He tugs me against him again by digging his fingers into the skin just above the tops of my jeans, rubbing up against me, and I can feel that bulge and the wetness of his tongue against my jaw and then my neck and then my ear and then my neck again. Me, I feel his teeth and I gasp out, pressing up hard against him, aching and wanting him.

I grope for his shirt, tugging it messily off him feeling with first my palms and then my own chest that his body is getting damp with sweat, and his heart is kicking, jeans riding low and skin incredibly white. Me, I press my face against the crook of his neck, breathing in a warm Adam-scent, sticking my tongue out to lick him, sucking on his skin, letting him moan out and squirm against me.

Adam, his skin feels soft beneath my fingertips and his hands feel good against my back and hips, my head lifting up and teeth nipping his chin and his lips before my tongue skinks into the depths of his mouth again, licking up his taste.

The moans and gasps between us are more constant now, small noises flowing in and out of us, from his mouth to mine, my mouth to his. Shudder and whimper, feel his hands move around between our bodies, deft fingers working my belt open, and then my pants, his lips desperate against mine.

Me, with my pants open, pushing up against him and breathing against him, panting for him, and him, Adam, with one hand, he grabs my wrist and moves my palm to his crotch. I can feel him through the denim and he cries out into my mouth, still holding my wrist, making my hand press harder against that bulge, making me rub him through the material.

Adam, he shoves his free hand down my pants, his fingers finding the base of my erection, my jaw straining against his, heat flushing over me in pleasure. Me, I'm moving my hand on my own now, touching him through too much clothing, moving my other hand down the smoothness of his chest to the tops of his jeans. Use both hands to unbutton and unzip them, slipping my hands up, around his waist to his ass, pushing his jeans over that curve, working them down his thighs, and when I arch forward again, I'm still surprised when I feel his skin to my skin.

Adam, his erection, is rubbing some where between my thigh and hip, his mouth and hand working my body, tongue gliding over my lips like his fingers glide over my dick, and my pants are slipping down closer and closer to the thin carpet beneath my chucks.

I've got one hand on his cock and one hand on his hip, sliding it around to his ass, rubbing both, and Adam, he hisses, looping one arm around my neck, fingers touching between my shoulders.

We're both sliding to the floor now, not just my pants, but me and Adam too, my bare knees touching carpet, Adam, his back against the book shelves and his legs up, some what around my waist.

One hand beneath him, I'm rubbing, feeling for his entrance but lacking the nerve to push in, blinking and drawing back from his warm mouth long enough to meet his heavy lidded gaze.

"Just take me, Jesse," he pants, and this is that begging for me that I wanted so badly before.

Me, I don't say anything but my hands can't stop feeling him.

"Fuck me right here on the floor, please. I want it, Jesse, I want it so bad, too," Adam, his eyes fall closed and his lips attach to my neck, and I'm staring over his shoulder at the tattered spines of all these books, sitting on my knees with Adam's body squirming in my lap.

And me, I think, "too", that would imply that I want to have sex with him right now. My body, parts of me, parts of my conscious too, it says yes. Screams yes.

But…

"I can't." The words sound strange and leave an almost bitter taste in my mouth, like flat coke, this film over my tongue and regret reeling through my head.

You shouldn't have done that.

But it's right

Adam, he stops still and looks at me with an expression that says, You have got to be kidding.

"Fuck, Adam, I can't do this," I say, pitch raising, volume raising, my body trying to raise, but Adam's weight keeping me down.

"Don't do this to me…please. I'm begging you not to do this," Adam puts both arms around my neck and now that he's not jerking me off, I'm even more secure in my decision.

"I don't want to do this," I snap and push him away. Stand myself up and pull my pants back in place, zipping them, adjusting the belt.

Adam, he's on the floor, breathing hard, staring up at me, eyes wet, lips swelling. "Jesse, are you psychotic?"

"No," Me, I tell him this while I pick my shirt up from the carpet, dragging it onto my body, feeling the fabric stick to my back from the sweat.

Adam, he draws his knees up and he looks young and alone. His arms fold over and his head goes down, his body rocking a little. "You're an ass hole," he mumbles, squeaks, barely audible, and his hair is all falling in his face so I can't see his expression at all.

"Yes," I agree, reaching for my backpack. "But I'm not a fucking ass hole."

I start walking and for some reason, part of me wants him to call something after me. I want him to call me something hateful, I mean. My ears are even straining to hear anything, but he says nothing else. I reach the elevator on the far right wall, pressing the button and waiting, smoothing my hair back in place and idly rubbing my cheek with one hand, worried about the bruise.

The elevator dings and the reflective metal doors slide open to reveal the empty confines, floored with the same orange office carpeting, and from some where in the stacks, there's the low choked sob of a boy I used to love so much, I'd hurt him before I'd let him go.

I'd hurt me, as long as it wasn't over.

Really over.

Me, I step into the elevator and press the button for the ground floor. I watch the top-level stacks disappear as the doors slide shut again, leaving me trapped in a cubical, equilibrium thrown off as it starts down the shaft, the cables creaking softly.

I press my shoulder blades up against the cool fake wood panelling, sliding down to my haunches, my elbows pressed against my knees and my forehead falling into the curves of my palms, my hands smelling like Adam.

Me, my body, it starts to shake, and my tongue is hurting in my jaw, my chest full and bound up, a low keening noise falling from my mouth and easing some of the pressure. The sobs that come are painful, my body twisting up into a corner, hands over my face, knees up, elevator dinging…

And me, I wonder, not even bothering to control myself, just letting the sound and tears and pain flow, I wonder why the wrong things always feels so good, when the right thing stings so bad.

***

US History Adam/Jesse.

2004-09-03T16:03:24Z

Title: US History, Miscalculated.
Disclaimer: Don’t know, don’t own, never happened, permission less.
Rating/pairing: Adam/Jesse, [Brand New/TAKING BACK SUNDAY] Heavy R, light NC-17, depending on what way you look at it.
FYI: This is a practice run. I don’t think there’ll be more to this one, but I have a multi chapter in the works… or this could be the beginning. I guess we’ll find out. Anyway. Adam. Jesse. Porn. Yes.

(I haven't posted or written in a really long time and I'm totally apprehensive about this because of the style... so... yeah, reviews for this one would be nice, I'm expirimenting and need feed back.)

***
When I signed up for US History, I thought I was doing little more then benefiting myself with an easy credit. Anyone that’s lived in the USA knows enough about its history from accumulated years of tossed together information from junior high teachers. I could’ve taken it in high school if I hadn’t already gotten enough history credits by taking History Of The Americans, which does not, in fact, have the same content as US History. I figured, hey, easy shit.

Nice, easy credit.

No harm done what so ever.

Wrong.

I should be alone in this class.

His legs, they’re crossed beneath the plywood desktop, his shoulder blades touching against the blue plastic back of his chair. His lower half is slid forward in the seat, one arm beneath the table, thin fingers touching his jean clad thigh. His pen is the colour of a road cone. His hair is that indefinite dishwater brown. His eyes are unremarkable.

I’m watching him, but I don’t want to. He’s ignoring me, but I know he wants to say something.

His hair, the vague brown catching warm high lights from the window, he shakes it in front of his face so I’m blocked from his peripheral vision.

This is that awkward, frustrating scene you hope to avoid. This is running into that back stabbing friend you dumped two or three light years ago. This is that nervous ache to say something and the dread that he’ll speak to you at all.

This is a million clever, planned out things to say rushing across your tongue, reined back with the apprehension that he might just out wit you.

But, mostly, this is me, tipping my head away from Adam Lazzara and wondering why all the western states are so… boxy. So planned. So perfect.

Adam Lazzara, I so never met him before this. I so don’t know who he is.

I’m scanning the lines in my text book, the font blurring together in that strange way things always blur when you’re staring at an invisible point. The letters, they become this incomprehensible back ground.

The over head is whirling, tonight’s assignment written in slanted, artful script, and Adam is ignoring me, being so obviously unobvious.

I’m scribbling down answers, trying to think of ways to stretch one sentence of information from the book into a four sentence answer, subconsciously leaned away from Adam on my right. He’s occupied with the same task as I am, only he executes it with that fabulous quality, like I always remember him doing.

Adam with his lime light.

Adam with his out shinning.

Adam with his bovine eyes and straggly hair and gangling build.

Adam thinking he’s so great, but he can burn in hell.

Adam, preoccupied with the same task as me, ignoring me, but that doesn’t mean that his annoyed sigh isn’t aimed in my direction.

I clear my throat and rearrange my feet, bracing the distinctive white toes against the green tile floor and glaring at the over head. With my chin up, glaring, I can see him clearly out of the corner of my eye, and he stops writing, scooting back in his seat and straightening.

His free hand keeps tapping his thigh, his head shakes his hair back for the umpteenth time in fifteen minutes; he’s squirming around worse then me, and taking in an uncomfortable breath.

These nervous tics.

I’m affecting him, whether he’ll acknowledge it or not. I’m gloating, watching the overhead flicker, watching him, Adam, next to me, slowly turning his head and looking at me directly for the first time since he sat down.

He’s silent for a really long time, totally still, his hand, beneath his desk, stilled. His chest stilled. His squirming.

His eyebrows drop further down his face then usual, furrowing at me like maybe he doesn’t recognize me for a moment, but I don’t buy that. His expression lifts back up, the buzzing fluorescent lighting catching his pupils, and puckers his lips.

He’s cat calling. I mean, he’s trying to get my attention by making noises that you would use to call a cat. Or some kind of other small animal. Some kind of animal that you wouldn’t want to frighten away.

He’s cooing at me.

I don’t want to even acknowledge him, but when someone offends you like that, you’ve got to at least give them one of those you are a fucking idiot. I hope you die. looks. Even if they don’t deserve it.

Adam, he doesn’t deserve anything from me. Much less my time. Much less my attention. Much less full on eye contact.

But here I am, giving it to him.

My expression, I hope it’s freezing cold. I hope it’s raging hot.

He smirks like, whatever it is, it’s inviting. But him, Adam, he’s a masochist.

Who knows what he’s thinking. Who would want to know.

He smiles, and my emotions, they aren’t somber like I wanted them to be. I always prayed, if I ever met up with him again, I prayed it’d be empty. I wanted it to not matter.

I don’t want him to work me up. I don’t want to feel anything.

Fucking bastard.

“Jesse,” he says, like it’s a sentence. He says it like this word, my name, it means everything. He says it like by saying it, he’s just proven why he’s so much better then me.

He’s telling me that he can be the bigger person.

He’s telling me that he can be cool and collected.

He can be over me.

Adam, he’s such a bull shitter.

Because there was this one time with him in the parking lot at some book store, him grabbing at my car door and screaming that he hated me. Him screaming and saying, me, I was the faggot, not him. Saying I tricked him. Saying I wanted him.

Saying, screaming in this public parking lot, that he never really wanted me at all.

There was the Drama Queen trying to put his wiry fist through my window when I pressed the automatic button to roll it up in his face. There was Adam throwing everything I’d ever given to him or left at his house, throwing it into my front lawn while it was raining.

There was Adam with the hate notes, shoved in my locker through the vent and the paper worn thin from being erased and re written, him trying to find all the right words to hurt me. There was Adam letting the air out of my tires, there was Adam hurling an empty forty at me from across the room, Adam in my face and cutting his voice up while he yelled with everything he had.

There was Adam, before this, there was Adam wrapping bony arms around my shoulders, drunk, chin against my shoulder, mumbling something probably dirty in my ear that I don’t have the heart to remember.

Empathy.

I mean, I don’t have the empathy to remember.

“Jesse?” Adam, next to me at his desk, calling my name like he’s at the far end of a tunnel, and I don’t have the ~~heart~~ empathy to give him a real response.

Not because it hurts too much, of course, but because the bastard doesn’t deserve it.

Prying my gaze away from him feels good in a tragic way. I feel like I have the upper hand for a moment. I feel like I’m winning.

This is all about winning.

It always has been. Always.

Me, growling back at him, but keeping it calm, keeping it indifferent, telling him that he was the one getting fucked in the ass. He was the one that liked to be fingered. He was the one that was begging to suck my dick all the time.

Sorry princess, but you’re the faggot here.

Me, telling him this in a parking lot.

At the book store.

A public parking lot.

Adam, next to me at his desk, he touches me. His arm snakes across the aisle, his sleeves tucked around his thumb, and the pads of his fingers brush my elbow, faux fur soft.

There was Adam, pausing between hard bites and furious tongue battling to cup my face in both hands and stare up into my eyes, pause with that perfect fabulous mentality, and just watch me for a moment. The movie star focused on someone else. The movie star stepping out of the spot light to properly see his audience for the first time in ages.

There was Adam, sultry and sluttish, wriggling his hips, working his mouth against any bit of exposed skin, tongue sliding past his lips to touch me, fingers sliding past my naval to touch me.

Adam breathing above me, chest kicking like a rabbit, erection pressing against my skin all sticky and in rhythm with my body pushing up against him and casting back, over and over.

Adam, licking my jaw, the heat rushing over me, trembles sliding down my spine and making my skin sweat, Adam taking my tongue into his mouth and guiding my wet, sucked-on-fingers into his body, hovering over mine.

Adam speeding up his breathing and sitting up, leaning his ass down on my arm, taking my fingers inside of him and bracing himself for me. Him, letting me defile him, moaning with his fingers clutching onto me, searching blindly for leverage, shaking his hair from his eyes. Tipping his head way back so his throat looks bumpy and defined in the sparse light of my room.

Adam, his muscles twitching, forcing himself down on my curved fingers over and over, sweet, drama queen Adam begging to be fucked. Heterosexual Adam.

What a joke.

And there was me, too. Me, hard and really wanting him, wanting that. Wanting to be anything that he wanted me to be. Wanting to fuck him up his ass, wanting to find his prostate some where in his ribbed, soft insides. Wanting to make him cum, on me if that was necessary.

Me caring what he thought.

Me wanting to please him.

Me wanting him.

“Jesse?” Adam says again, and his fingers, they’re on my bare skin again. His attention, it’s on me again. The room, this painful space of beige walls and green tile, it’s buzzing into a painful little spotlighted portion of just me and Adam.

There was Adam gasping and moaning, slamming his ass down into my lap over and over, spreading his legs out wider, sitting on his knees, making sure I was as deep inside of him as possible.

There was me, jaw strained down, lower back muscles forcing my body to thrust up into him, whimpering out as his muscles squeeze and rub me in all those right ways.

There was us, the two of us together and in love, oblivious of the future, of the fall out and the pain and the hate and the resentment. There was us and our innocence. There was gentle curiosity and no green eyes.

There we were, genuine.

Then there was Adam pouring salt in my wounds because he wanted me as hurt as him. Then there was me letting time make me forget.

And there’s us, here, in this classroom, the bitterness rejuvenated.

But it’s me, just me alone, twisting my arm away from him and rubbing at the spot, like maybe he’s left some germ on me that I don’t want to catch.

It’s me alone again.

It’s my fault.

And I’m so sorry that I’m hurting you, Adam, but what can I do?

I can’t be wrong. Not me.

My teeth, they’re gritted, my pen scribbling furiously in my spiral bound notebook again, my eyes locked on the text book.

“Don’t. Touch. Me,” I say.

Adam, he draws his arm back silently.

He won’t try to reach me again. I know him too well for that.

He pulls back and preoccupies himself with the same boring work, writing with his same day-glo orange pen. He’s unobvious again, but this time, it’s genuine. He’s not a drama queen anymore. He’s not going to over react anymore.

He’s changed.

He’s better.

I gasp in this cool, steady breath, rubbing the back of my neck with one hand, closing my eyes gently.

The resentment and games, the manipulation. He got over it.

There’s just me.