identity/hot chocolate and fireworks
Title: identity/hot chocolate and fireworks
Author: goodbyesheesha
Fandom(s): Brand New, The Smiths
Pairing(s): Jesse/Jesse, Moz/Marr, Jesse/Marr
Rating: R?
Summary: Now, what isn't normal is that Jesse Lacey is wanking off, and while he does this, he is damn well convinced he is Morrissey.
Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. All real names, places and events are used in a fictitious manner.
Notes: This is so, so far from my best work. I'm really unhappy with it, but whatever. This is what happens when I try to write for both my fandoms; I apologize.
Double title idea shamelessly stolen from ijustwishiwere, who probably stole it from someone else to begin with. Art is all about theft.
Jesse Lacey is wanking off. He's pretty happy about this. Of course, it doesn't compare to the real thing, which would no doubt make him even happier, but he'll take what he can get.
At this point, what he has is a photo of The Smiths, torn out of some magazine or other, and pinned to his wall. It's black and white, as is standard for The Smiths, with Morrissey standing at the forefront looking forlorn, also standard, and the other band members hiding back, giving an appearance almost intimidating and angry and angsty in a way that doesn't really work.
What Jesse loves most about The Smiths, he thinks, is how easy it is to identify with them, especially Morrissey. Morrissey's lyrics strike a chord with Jesse-- the mess of emotions and hormones that he is. It's fairly normal.
Now, what isn't normal is that Jesse Lacey is wanking off, and while he does this, he is damn well convinced he is Morrissey.
The sky grey walls of Jesse's room lighten to a blank, dirty white, and the far wall shifts inward, closing in on Jesse and making the room shrink. Windows reshape and distort, disappear, appear and reappear. The light follows.
Thin, cold sheets find themselves smoother and more dense; they are warm beneath Jesse.
The photo on Jesse's wall, the one of The Smiths, still stares back. It's just Marr now, but that is hardly noticeable; it's like lucid dreaming, with those subtle changes you never notice. Johnny moves forward, and pulls himself out of the photograph in an almost cartoon fashion. A photo of James Dean is left behind.
And Jesse is no more.
Morrissey is laying back on his bed, with his soft, warm sheets and Johnny is moving toward him purposefully. No words are exchanged, but that's fine, because Johnny's eyes are crisp and speak in light, direct tones. They tell of lust, mostly. While Morrissey is busy gazing longingly into these eyes Johnny is propping himself up over Morrissey, straddling him. His movements are flawless and fluid.
Everything is going too quickly for Morrissey. It's all action and lust, and it just isn't round or full. Morrissey doesn't want Johnny's body; Morrissey wants Johnny. Kissing Johnny is like hot chocolate, and being kissed by him is fireworks. Love is probably a word that could come into play here.
Nothing has to be said, and Johnny understands. All it takes is eye contact, and years worth of trust and Johnny slows down to the point that it's almost frustrating for Morrissey. His hands are around Morrissey's waist, feeling for the muscles beneath his clothing. He watches Morrissey, but avoids kissing him, opting instead for just staring.
Then the hot chocolate and fireworks begin, slow and smooth and amorous. It's not the fair, the way it seems to ignite Morrissey all at once physically-- the erratic beating within his chest plus the swirling in his stomach plus the tingling and sputtering of every single nerve ending-- but still leaves him the same emotionally.
Johnny is tugging at Morrissey's pants, trying to undo them; it's kind of clumsy and kind of frantic, but far from overwhelming. They make it to Morrissey's knees and then Johnny stops the kiss. Johnny gives a concerned, questioning glance, and Morrissey's wondering if he really is that awkward. He secretly hopes so.
The shock of Johnny's cool hand on his cock makes Morrissey shudder. Johnny smirks at this reaction. He keeps his hand still for a moment, letting it warm up and letting Morrissey grow used to the sensation. After some time, Morrissey closes his eyes; his breathing is erratic and ragged. This is the cue Johnny needs, and he starts moving his hand.
Something is wrong about it at first: the friction is off, and everything is too sharp-- but it's not as if Morrissey notices. Then, aided by precum serving as lubrication, it smoothes out and Johnny speeds up. Morrissey would swear his eyes are rolling back in his head.
Screams drift in from the next room, and Jesse is closing his eyes tightly and moving his hand faster, in an attempt to ignore them. He can hear his mother charging up the stairs, ready to reprimand his sisters; he can't quite identify which ones it is. Not that he wants to.
He's too busy picturing Johnny's face: the look of pure concentration. It's like it's so important to him to make sure Morrissey is content and incoherent.
It doesn't take long for Morrissey, because Johnny is so beautiful and so determined, and okay, Jesse is only seventeen. Morrissey's back is arched off the bed, and his neck is digging into the pillow at a brutally awful angle, but that's all fine, because he's releasing all over Johnny's hand and Johnny just looks so amused by it all.
The rooms spins again, and when Jesse opens his eyes he's alone with his cold, dirty sheets.
More Notes:
I finished the damned thing! You have no idea how I struggled, kids. No idea. It's so rushed at the end, but I don't care because it's finished. I expect reviews on this shit, because I'm so bloody sick of spending days writing something only to have one person comment. Okay? Okay.
Author: goodbyesheesha
Fandom(s): Brand New, The Smiths
Pairing(s): Jesse/Jesse, Moz/Marr, Jesse/Marr
Rating: R?
Summary: Now, what isn't normal is that Jesse Lacey is wanking off, and while he does this, he is damn well convinced he is Morrissey.
Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. All real names, places and events are used in a fictitious manner.
Notes: This is so, so far from my best work. I'm really unhappy with it, but whatever. This is what happens when I try to write for both my fandoms; I apologize.
Double title idea shamelessly stolen from ijustwishiwere, who probably stole it from someone else to begin with. Art is all about theft.
Jesse Lacey is wanking off. He's pretty happy about this. Of course, it doesn't compare to the real thing, which would no doubt make him even happier, but he'll take what he can get.
At this point, what he has is a photo of The Smiths, torn out of some magazine or other, and pinned to his wall. It's black and white, as is standard for The Smiths, with Morrissey standing at the forefront looking forlorn, also standard, and the other band members hiding back, giving an appearance almost intimidating and angry and angsty in a way that doesn't really work.
What Jesse loves most about The Smiths, he thinks, is how easy it is to identify with them, especially Morrissey. Morrissey's lyrics strike a chord with Jesse-- the mess of emotions and hormones that he is. It's fairly normal.
Now, what isn't normal is that Jesse Lacey is wanking off, and while he does this, he is damn well convinced he is Morrissey.
The sky grey walls of Jesse's room lighten to a blank, dirty white, and the far wall shifts inward, closing in on Jesse and making the room shrink. Windows reshape and distort, disappear, appear and reappear. The light follows.
Thin, cold sheets find themselves smoother and more dense; they are warm beneath Jesse.
The photo on Jesse's wall, the one of The Smiths, still stares back. It's just Marr now, but that is hardly noticeable; it's like lucid dreaming, with those subtle changes you never notice. Johnny moves forward, and pulls himself out of the photograph in an almost cartoon fashion. A photo of James Dean is left behind.
And Jesse is no more.
Morrissey is laying back on his bed, with his soft, warm sheets and Johnny is moving toward him purposefully. No words are exchanged, but that's fine, because Johnny's eyes are crisp and speak in light, direct tones. They tell of lust, mostly. While Morrissey is busy gazing longingly into these eyes Johnny is propping himself up over Morrissey, straddling him. His movements are flawless and fluid.
Everything is going too quickly for Morrissey. It's all action and lust, and it just isn't round or full. Morrissey doesn't want Johnny's body; Morrissey wants Johnny. Kissing Johnny is like hot chocolate, and being kissed by him is fireworks. Love is probably a word that could come into play here.
Nothing has to be said, and Johnny understands. All it takes is eye contact, and years worth of trust and Johnny slows down to the point that it's almost frustrating for Morrissey. His hands are around Morrissey's waist, feeling for the muscles beneath his clothing. He watches Morrissey, but avoids kissing him, opting instead for just staring.
Then the hot chocolate and fireworks begin, slow and smooth and amorous. It's not the fair, the way it seems to ignite Morrissey all at once physically-- the erratic beating within his chest plus the swirling in his stomach plus the tingling and sputtering of every single nerve ending-- but still leaves him the same emotionally.
Johnny is tugging at Morrissey's pants, trying to undo them; it's kind of clumsy and kind of frantic, but far from overwhelming. They make it to Morrissey's knees and then Johnny stops the kiss. Johnny gives a concerned, questioning glance, and Morrissey's wondering if he really is that awkward. He secretly hopes so.
The shock of Johnny's cool hand on his cock makes Morrissey shudder. Johnny smirks at this reaction. He keeps his hand still for a moment, letting it warm up and letting Morrissey grow used to the sensation. After some time, Morrissey closes his eyes; his breathing is erratic and ragged. This is the cue Johnny needs, and he starts moving his hand.
Something is wrong about it at first: the friction is off, and everything is too sharp-- but it's not as if Morrissey notices. Then, aided by precum serving as lubrication, it smoothes out and Johnny speeds up. Morrissey would swear his eyes are rolling back in his head.
Screams drift in from the next room, and Jesse is closing his eyes tightly and moving his hand faster, in an attempt to ignore them. He can hear his mother charging up the stairs, ready to reprimand his sisters; he can't quite identify which ones it is. Not that he wants to.
He's too busy picturing Johnny's face: the look of pure concentration. It's like it's so important to him to make sure Morrissey is content and incoherent.
It doesn't take long for Morrissey, because Johnny is so beautiful and so determined, and okay, Jesse is only seventeen. Morrissey's back is arched off the bed, and his neck is digging into the pillow at a brutally awful angle, but that's all fine, because he's releasing all over Johnny's hand and Johnny just looks so amused by it all.
The rooms spins again, and when Jesse opens his eyes he's alone with his cold, dirty sheets.
More Notes:
I finished the damned thing! You have no idea how I struggled, kids. No idea. It's so rushed at the end, but I don't care because it's finished. I expect reviews on this shit, because I'm so bloody sick of spending days writing something only to have one person comment. Okay? Okay.