life is a highway
So today on e-mail I was talking to my usual co-conspirators about Waycest with rape fantasy, because, I don't know, I think it was actually X-Men: First Class's fault. Whatever.
Here are three snippets of various scenarios on that theme.
(one)
Gerard says I need it and Mikey's stomach churns, because he'll do anything for Gerard, give anything, but this is the closest he's ever come to saying no, this is too much, this is over my line.
I don't know, he says, and I'm not sure, and Let me think. Gerard stares at him wide- and wet-eyed and wanting, needing, and Mikey has to step back and turn away, because when Gerard needs, he needs, a desperate gaping black hole of please that Mikey sometimes wonders if he was shaped and trained to help since the day he was born.
He goes away and closes his eyes, curls in on himself and makes himself go still enough to think. He thinks in impulse and instinct and emotion instead of words, flashes of Gerard's face and his own response. Gerard on his knees, begging, the pale flesh of his face red and streaked with tears. Gerard at his brother's mercy. Trusting Mikey completely.
Mikey's breath catches and stutters and hurts in his chest, and heat coils tight in the pit of his stomach.
When he goes back to Gerard he says yes, okay and Gerard pulls him into his arms, holds him pressed close flesh to flesh, whispers in his ear couldn't be anyone but you and their hearts beat in time.
(two)
Mikey wants bad things, and so he goes out looking for them in questionable clubs while wearing tight jeans. He drinks it all and he smokes it all and he takes all of the pills, every pill, hand them over and let them slide down his throat sweet and slow. Or he'll snort it, if that's your pleasure. Line it all up and give give give, because maybe if he makes all the bad choices it'll sweat the bad desires out through his skin.
He explains it all to Gerard one three AM night when he's fucked up beyond belief and almost got what he wanted, mostly, sort of, some guy built like a bodybuilder in the backseat of an SUV. Gerard's frowning and Mikey wants to chase that look off his face, so he's too honest, fucked up beyond belief is just fucked up to tell these kinds of truths.
"Wanting rough sex isn't bad," Gerard says carefully, and if Mikey were more sober he might not even notice how Gerard's hands are curled in fists at his sides. "But you need to be careful."
"I don't want to be careful. I want to be wild."
"Then you need to be with someone you trust not to go too far."
"And who do I know who I can trust like that? Besides you, I mean."
Silence comes down hard and all that's left is listening to each other breathe.
(three)
"They're characters," Gerard has said a hundred times, "not us." That makes it easier. Mikey's been slipping in and out of characters his whole life, deep in his head, depending on who's around and what they need him to be.
The Killjoys are characters, not a band, not brothers, and so it's easy to push Gerard--Party Poison--back through the door, to catch his leg with a heel and yank it out from under him, to send him spilling on the floor and stand over him staring down. He's watching Poison's face and Poison can't see a thing, because Kobra's sunglasses never come off, never leave him.
"The fuck," Poison says, pushing himself up on his elbows, trying to gather his balance to get off the floor. "What the fuck are you--"
Kobra plants his foot on the center of Poison's chest. Heavy black boots--definitely his stage boots, Mikey thinks, under the Kobra layer, down in the middle of his head, he's going to get three pairs for the road, for sure--that leave dark rubber stains on Poison's t-shirt. Poison goes still and his head falls back against the floor, his eyes staring wide up at Kobra. For a minute Mikey sees Gerard in those eyes, before Gerard gets it and sinks back into his character, too, and they're just Killjoys, all alone in the storage room.
"The fuck," Poison says one more time, and yeah, that sounds right, that's not Gerard's voice at all anymore. "Get the fuck off me, you're sand-sick."
"I saw how you looked at him," Kobra says, and confusion flickers through Poison--Gerard--Poison's eyes until he gets it. Oh. Him. The only him that matters. "Korse held a gun to your throat and you weren't scared at all. Fucking loved it. You're a sick fuck."
Gerard got off on playing with ray guns with Grant, too, but that isn't sick, that's fucking awesome. Poison's desires, though. Those are fucking dirty. Mikey isn't jealous. Kobra is, and he presses his foot down harder, imagining he can feel Poison's heartbeat through the sole of his boot.
"What are you going to do about it?" Poison sneers.
Kobra smiles.
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Here are three snippets of various scenarios on that theme.
(one)
Gerard says I need it and Mikey's stomach churns, because he'll do anything for Gerard, give anything, but this is the closest he's ever come to saying no, this is too much, this is over my line.
I don't know, he says, and I'm not sure, and Let me think. Gerard stares at him wide- and wet-eyed and wanting, needing, and Mikey has to step back and turn away, because when Gerard needs, he needs, a desperate gaping black hole of please that Mikey sometimes wonders if he was shaped and trained to help since the day he was born.
He goes away and closes his eyes, curls in on himself and makes himself go still enough to think. He thinks in impulse and instinct and emotion instead of words, flashes of Gerard's face and his own response. Gerard on his knees, begging, the pale flesh of his face red and streaked with tears. Gerard at his brother's mercy. Trusting Mikey completely.
Mikey's breath catches and stutters and hurts in his chest, and heat coils tight in the pit of his stomach.
When he goes back to Gerard he says yes, okay and Gerard pulls him into his arms, holds him pressed close flesh to flesh, whispers in his ear couldn't be anyone but you and their hearts beat in time.
(two)
Mikey wants bad things, and so he goes out looking for them in questionable clubs while wearing tight jeans. He drinks it all and he smokes it all and he takes all of the pills, every pill, hand them over and let them slide down his throat sweet and slow. Or he'll snort it, if that's your pleasure. Line it all up and give give give, because maybe if he makes all the bad choices it'll sweat the bad desires out through his skin.
He explains it all to Gerard one three AM night when he's fucked up beyond belief and almost got what he wanted, mostly, sort of, some guy built like a bodybuilder in the backseat of an SUV. Gerard's frowning and Mikey wants to chase that look off his face, so he's too honest, fucked up beyond belief is just fucked up to tell these kinds of truths.
"Wanting rough sex isn't bad," Gerard says carefully, and if Mikey were more sober he might not even notice how Gerard's hands are curled in fists at his sides. "But you need to be careful."
"I don't want to be careful. I want to be wild."
"Then you need to be with someone you trust not to go too far."
"And who do I know who I can trust like that? Besides you, I mean."
Silence comes down hard and all that's left is listening to each other breathe.
(three)
"They're characters," Gerard has said a hundred times, "not us." That makes it easier. Mikey's been slipping in and out of characters his whole life, deep in his head, depending on who's around and what they need him to be.
The Killjoys are characters, not a band, not brothers, and so it's easy to push Gerard--Party Poison--back through the door, to catch his leg with a heel and yank it out from under him, to send him spilling on the floor and stand over him staring down. He's watching Poison's face and Poison can't see a thing, because Kobra's sunglasses never come off, never leave him.
"The fuck," Poison says, pushing himself up on his elbows, trying to gather his balance to get off the floor. "What the fuck are you--"
Kobra plants his foot on the center of Poison's chest. Heavy black boots--definitely his stage boots, Mikey thinks, under the Kobra layer, down in the middle of his head, he's going to get three pairs for the road, for sure--that leave dark rubber stains on Poison's t-shirt. Poison goes still and his head falls back against the floor, his eyes staring wide up at Kobra. For a minute Mikey sees Gerard in those eyes, before Gerard gets it and sinks back into his character, too, and they're just Killjoys, all alone in the storage room.
"The fuck," Poison says one more time, and yeah, that sounds right, that's not Gerard's voice at all anymore. "Get the fuck off me, you're sand-sick."
"I saw how you looked at him," Kobra says, and confusion flickers through Poison--Gerard--Poison's eyes until he gets it. Oh. Him. The only him that matters. "Korse held a gun to your throat and you weren't scared at all. Fucking loved it. You're a sick fuck."
Gerard got off on playing with ray guns with Grant, too, but that isn't sick, that's fucking awesome. Poison's desires, though. Those are fucking dirty. Mikey isn't jealous. Kobra is, and he presses his foot down harder, imagining he can feel Poison's heartbeat through the sole of his boot.
"What are you going to do about it?" Poison sneers.
Kobra smiles.
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comments. Comment there or here, as you like!