FIC: "L.A. Song (Pretty As A Picture)" - 1/1, PG13, original
Title: L.A. Song (Pretty As A Picture)
Fandom: original
Rating: PG13
Summary: A guy. A girl. A life.
Disclaimer: Recognizable song lyrics are property of Christian Kane and do not belong to me. Everything else is mine and no authorization is given for reposting or reproducing this in any form without my consent.
Notes: Written for picfor1000 - my photo. Song lyrics by Christian Kane and were not included in the final word count.
Pretty girl on every corner
Sunshine turns the sky to gold
In the summer, he likes to go to Venice. There's no real reason, other than he likes to hang out there and watch the girls with their bronzed skin and their tiny bathing suits. The girls, each a beauty in her own right, don't have a care in the world beyond the sun and sand and tanning oil. There's an ocean there - of water, sand, and nubile young bodies - and he can't help but wonder what it'd be like to be the guy with them. It's something he does as he walks. He wonders, and he walks, and the wondering turns into imagining birthed by the sea of flesh spread out in front of him. Each one dances through his head, clad in naught by their skin, and they worship him. Naked bodies rub against him, twisting and writhing, and they make love to him, each one opening for him, slick and wet and tight, and he can't get enough of their heat. Can't get enough of their need and lust. It's always the cry of a gull, or the shout of a child running by, that brings him back to reality and turns his feet towards home.
Warm warm, it's always warm here
I can't take the cold
Sometimes she wonders what it would be like to live somewhere else. No place exotic, though. Just some place with seasons. She thinks she'd like the fall, with the air crisp and clean, and the scent of burning leaves filling her nostrils. But winter, she tells herself, always follows fall. And she's never been much of a snow bunny. To be honest, even winter here is sometimes too cold for her, and she's in southern California. Where the sun is always shining, and it's always warm. Yeah, right. Tell that to those who had to deal with the ice and freak snow flurries a few years back. Tell that to the old people shuffling along the street, wrapped in heavy coats and scarves as the night wind whips off the Pacific, cold enough to cut through a person. No, she definitely doesn't want to live some place where there's snow. But the occasional change of season would be nice. Something different to wake up to every day. She thinks that would be nice, and she wonders how long it is until her next vacation and if her savings will pay for a plane ticket. Then the baby starts to cry.
Streets littered with diamonds
Everyone's glistening
Beverly Hills is full of tourists, the young and hot, and the rich and not so hot. He hates it - the shops with their over-priced merchandise, the traffic jam that is Wilshire Blvd. on a good day, everything the city stands for. Most of all, he hates that he has to be there every day, working a dreary job that he doesn't like at a tiny desk with a speck of window over it for a ridiculous salary. Someone once told him that you could live in L.A. on thirty grand a year. They lied. He knows, because he's forced to live on not much more than that and they just barely scrape by some months. It wasn't so bad before the baby. They could cut corners on groceries and electricity, but not any longer. So he has to stretch each paycheck and stick to a budget. In a good month, they can afford a matinee on the Promenade. It's no wonder he daydreams as he sits at his desk, staring out the window that doesn't really have a view. It's alright, though, because he doesn't need a view to picture Venice and the beautiful girls he'll never have.
This whole world shines so brightly
I can't see a thing
She got her first job at fifteen, bagging groceries at Ralph's. At sixteen, she got a raise and moved up to cashier. Every penny went in the bank. She saved it all, rarely dipping into the growing fund for movies and magazines. Like every other sixteen-year-old girl, she devoured Hollywood articles and dreamed of being famous. With her looks and her body, she'd go far. She didn't doubt that. The day after she turned eighteen, she closed her bank account, packed her few belongings, and hit the 5 out of San Ysidro. She was going to Hollywood to make it big, and she had the whole world at her feet. She got a tiny room and a job at another Ralph's, making just enough to pay the bills, and days were spent knocking on doors and auditioning. She was going to be someone big. Two years later, she'd done a soft-core porn flick and got herself knocked up. It took her two days to decide to move in with the guy. Sure, her plans are on hold, but that's alright. She's gonna give it another try now that the baby's been born. After all, Hollywood loves a hard luck story.
She's pretty as a picture
She is like a golden dream
It's the end of another day, and he sits at his desk, trying to come up with yet another excuse not to go right home. It's not that he doesn't love her. He does. But he didn't exactly plan to be a father before he was twenty-one. And he certainly didn't plan to have a wife who lived in a shiny, happy, Hollywood dream world. Not that he can fault her for dreaming. He has his own. She just wants to be famous. Him, well, he wants to fuck every girl he sees. In the end, he calls her, tells her there's a late meeting. She'll keep dinner warm. It's "bye" and "bye" and they hung up without mentioning the L word. Eventually, he has to go home, and it all too soon that he's at the bottom of the tacky orange stairs that lead to his front door. Their bulb is burnt out again; he reminds himself to call the landlord. Then she opens the door, and the baby's on her hip, light from the living room silhouetting her shape, and he can see her smile even though it's dark. He remembers why he fell in love with her.
Circles me with love and laughter
And I can't feel a thing
Fandom: original
Rating: PG13
Summary: A guy. A girl. A life.
Disclaimer: Recognizable song lyrics are property of Christian Kane and do not belong to me. Everything else is mine and no authorization is given for reposting or reproducing this in any form without my consent.
Notes: Written for picfor1000 - my photo. Song lyrics by Christian Kane and were not included in the final word count.
Pretty girl on every corner
Sunshine turns the sky to gold
In the summer, he likes to go to Venice. There's no real reason, other than he likes to hang out there and watch the girls with their bronzed skin and their tiny bathing suits. The girls, each a beauty in her own right, don't have a care in the world beyond the sun and sand and tanning oil. There's an ocean there - of water, sand, and nubile young bodies - and he can't help but wonder what it'd be like to be the guy with them. It's something he does as he walks. He wonders, and he walks, and the wondering turns into imagining birthed by the sea of flesh spread out in front of him. Each one dances through his head, clad in naught by their skin, and they worship him. Naked bodies rub against him, twisting and writhing, and they make love to him, each one opening for him, slick and wet and tight, and he can't get enough of their heat. Can't get enough of their need and lust. It's always the cry of a gull, or the shout of a child running by, that brings him back to reality and turns his feet towards home.
Warm warm, it's always warm here
I can't take the cold
Sometimes she wonders what it would be like to live somewhere else. No place exotic, though. Just some place with seasons. She thinks she'd like the fall, with the air crisp and clean, and the scent of burning leaves filling her nostrils. But winter, she tells herself, always follows fall. And she's never been much of a snow bunny. To be honest, even winter here is sometimes too cold for her, and she's in southern California. Where the sun is always shining, and it's always warm. Yeah, right. Tell that to those who had to deal with the ice and freak snow flurries a few years back. Tell that to the old people shuffling along the street, wrapped in heavy coats and scarves as the night wind whips off the Pacific, cold enough to cut through a person. No, she definitely doesn't want to live some place where there's snow. But the occasional change of season would be nice. Something different to wake up to every day. She thinks that would be nice, and she wonders how long it is until her next vacation and if her savings will pay for a plane ticket. Then the baby starts to cry.
Streets littered with diamonds
Everyone's glistening
Beverly Hills is full of tourists, the young and hot, and the rich and not so hot. He hates it - the shops with their over-priced merchandise, the traffic jam that is Wilshire Blvd. on a good day, everything the city stands for. Most of all, he hates that he has to be there every day, working a dreary job that he doesn't like at a tiny desk with a speck of window over it for a ridiculous salary. Someone once told him that you could live in L.A. on thirty grand a year. They lied. He knows, because he's forced to live on not much more than that and they just barely scrape by some months. It wasn't so bad before the baby. They could cut corners on groceries and electricity, but not any longer. So he has to stretch each paycheck and stick to a budget. In a good month, they can afford a matinee on the Promenade. It's no wonder he daydreams as he sits at his desk, staring out the window that doesn't really have a view. It's alright, though, because he doesn't need a view to picture Venice and the beautiful girls he'll never have.
This whole world shines so brightly
I can't see a thing
She got her first job at fifteen, bagging groceries at Ralph's. At sixteen, she got a raise and moved up to cashier. Every penny went in the bank. She saved it all, rarely dipping into the growing fund for movies and magazines. Like every other sixteen-year-old girl, she devoured Hollywood articles and dreamed of being famous. With her looks and her body, she'd go far. She didn't doubt that. The day after she turned eighteen, she closed her bank account, packed her few belongings, and hit the 5 out of San Ysidro. She was going to Hollywood to make it big, and she had the whole world at her feet. She got a tiny room and a job at another Ralph's, making just enough to pay the bills, and days were spent knocking on doors and auditioning. She was going to be someone big. Two years later, she'd done a soft-core porn flick and got herself knocked up. It took her two days to decide to move in with the guy. Sure, her plans are on hold, but that's alright. She's gonna give it another try now that the baby's been born. After all, Hollywood loves a hard luck story.
She's pretty as a picture
She is like a golden dream
It's the end of another day, and he sits at his desk, trying to come up with yet another excuse not to go right home. It's not that he doesn't love her. He does. But he didn't exactly plan to be a father before he was twenty-one. And he certainly didn't plan to have a wife who lived in a shiny, happy, Hollywood dream world. Not that he can fault her for dreaming. He has his own. She just wants to be famous. Him, well, he wants to fuck every girl he sees. In the end, he calls her, tells her there's a late meeting. She'll keep dinner warm. It's "bye" and "bye" and they hung up without mentioning the L word. Eventually, he has to go home, and it all too soon that he's at the bottom of the tacky orange stairs that lead to his front door. Their bulb is burnt out again; he reminds himself to call the landlord. Then she opens the door, and the baby's on her hip, light from the living room silhouetting her shape, and he can see her smile even though it's dark. He remembers why he fell in love with her.
Circles me with love and laughter
And I can't feel a thing