drabbles, part one
For
cold_clarity , who asked for Jon Walker and Brendon Urie as gay fanboys of Maxwell Demon, complete with drug-fuelled orgies and blood:
They're not fucking, not yet, though everyone else is and has been and Brendon's already covered in other people's glitter, other people's spit and come, but they're not fucking yet, him and Not-Brian-Slade, they're just lying crushed between two other sets of people, things, warm and moving, and Brendon's hands are shaking their way over Maxwell's stomach, over the arch of his ribcage and his nipples and his throat and Maxwell, he's just lying there, just staring sort of amused sort of spaced, letting Brendon, and Brendon thinks maybe he could lean in and lick the sweat from Maxwell's collarbones, he'd be allowed that, but then Maxwell breathes or moves or - or - Brendon doesn't fucking know, but he can feel it happening beneath him and it sets his hands to shaking all over again and it's not that he doesn't want to fuck him, it's just that in order to do that he'd have to stop this and he can't, not quite.
"Oh dear," says Maxwell, and he sounds. Brendon doesn't know how he sounds, he doesn't sound like anything, least of all human, but he says, "you're new, aren't you?" and Brendon's together enough to nod yes and then regret it and then forget it, completely, everything, because Maxwell's hand is on his cock, stroking firm and steady and warm. Brendon gasps something, he feels himself say it, but he doesn't know what it means.
Maxwell, though - Maxwell, who's all blue hair and predatory eyes and who tastes, very specifically, like prayer - Maxwell takes some meaning from it becuase he turns Brendon over onto his side, his face pressed against the back of whoever's next to them, and pushes two fingers into him, roughly.
Brendon loses the order of things after that. Everything blurs down into heat and pressure and a sound that isn't like any kind of creature, a rhythm that isn't like any kind of song. He can feel Maxwell flush against him, nails digging into his chest, teeth at his shoulder, his hand still moving over Brendon's cock and that's all Brendon can see, all he can even contemplate thinking about until the warm shape in front of him disentangles itself, becomes Jon and peeling away from a glittered girl, gasping and grinning and letting his eyes slide over Brendon like Brendon's the first thing he's ever seen, slow and greedy and somehow surprised.
The scratches on Jon's chest are red, raw, glistening, and Brendon needs to touch them, needs to press them beneath his fingers and touch them and taste them and dig his teeth into the edges, needs to know what they are are how Jon sounds when they're made, and he's reaching up to find out even as Jon's turning toward him, folding himself into the shape that he and Maxwell make until Brendon's lost to the world and Maxwell's saying "Am I going to hurt you?" to someone or anyone, and Brendon thinks, yes, maybe, please, please, please.
Aaand for
radioreverie , who foolishly responded to the comment "I want to take Radiohead home and feed them soup" with "maybe you could just leave bowls of soup around Oxford with little signs saying, 'for Radiohead'."
"It'll probably kill you."
"It's soup."
"It's not right, is all I'm saying. Normal people don't do this."
"No."
"They don't."
"I'm not saying they do."
"They're - " Thom made as if to pick up one of the tupperware containers covering his kitchen table, but thought better of it. "They're fucking warm."
"Only the one from Woodstock Road," Jonny pointed out. "The ones from the canal are cold. Besides, I don't think leaving warm soup - "
"There's no reason to believe it's soup."
"It looks like soup, it smells like soup and even if it isn't soup, the fact that it's warm doesn't make it more insane. Will you stop pacing like that? It's not going to jump you."
Thom stilled obligingly, but braced his hands against the tabletop and leant as far back as possible, as if getting too close to the - the - as if getting to close to it might cause it to awaken and attack. "What if it isn't soup?" he asked, quietly, staring at the chipped lid with its waterstained post-it note. "Oh shit, what if it is? What sort of mad bastard leaves people fucking soup?"
"I think it's carrot."
"You're not taking this seriously."
"No."
"It's the tenth this week."
"They have to run out at some point."
"But they don't. Why did you have to bring them here?"
Jonny shrugged. "Yours was nearest."
"You didn't have to bring them anywhere."
"They were a present. They have our names on and everything, what was I supposed to do?"
"Leave them! Leave them until whichever mad samaritan put them there took them away again."
"I tried. They started coming in the post."
Thom paled. "Okay. Right, okay. Here's the plan: we feed them to Ed."
"What?"
"Ed. We get him to eat them. Even if they're not soup it probably won't matter, he's gotten used to London, he's probably immune to most things by now -"
"What?"
" - like a rat, or a pigeon. I bet there's nothing in these his system couldn't deal with, and if that doesn't work, fuck knows."
"We can't poison Ed."
"It can't stay here."
"I could take it and - "
"It'll probably kill you."
"It's soup."
"It's not right..."