(no subject)
Title: Death Is In Love With Us (4/4)
Pairing: Matt/Everyone (A7X)
Rating: NC-17.
Summary: Four stories of Death for the 31st.
Genre: AU. Deadly.
Dedications: Absolutely everyone who has read and commented. You've got me through this, and this is the first chaptered thing I have ever completed. It's for you guys.
Disclaimer: I don't even own the damn title OR lyrics. Death Is In Love With Us by HIM and Comfortably Numb by Pink Floyd.
Author's note: This... is the end. And it makes me rather sad. I've enjoyed this. I adore it. And to think, it was just a random little idea that was going to be a single piece! Hah. I wouldn't have finished it if that was the case. But I'm considering doing a Christmas special with Davey Havok and Brandon Schipetti... Thoughts? xD
Prologue.
Part One.
Part Two.
Part Three.
There is no pain, you are receding.
A distant ships smoke on the horizon.
You are only coming through in waves.
Your lips move but I cant hear what you're sayin'.
When I was a child I caught a fleeting glimpse,
Out of the corner of my eye.
I turned to look but it was gone.
I cannot put my finger on it now.
The child is grown, the dream is gone.
I have become comfortably numb.
Act IV.
Death can be brutal...
Zacky Baker hated a lot of things. And not just a petty little dislike. It was a true abhorrence that scarred at his flesh and boiled at his guts, stretching and tugging at his very spine until the last, healing threads of his sanity snapped and vengeance was all he could want.
Revenge. It was the only way to stop the itching, to stop the niggling. To hurt someone as much as they had hurt himself.
But that was juvenile, that was pathetic. He grew on to bigger and better things.
To hurt anyone for anything. And that‘s just an example.
It was still a form of vengeance, he thought. Making others pay for whatever might have been pissing him the fuck off at that moment in time. Because why should he hurt, why should he cry when someone was toddling along happily with their life? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t justice.
Which was why he didn't care as he stood, in yet another alley, back to the mouth as he stared at the ground, the entire surface coated with a fine sheet of water due to faulty drainage system from the cheap little town, each drop forming ripples that circled out, each one somehow making its way to the toes of his worn trainers before spreading and breaking. Dying.
Blood coated his thighs. He could feel it. Stark scarlet to the deathly pale flesh of his thighs, clotting, thickening, cooling, staining the tight material of paint splattered jeans. Blue splatter. The colour of the room he had painted that day at work.
But that was all insignificant. That was another world, another facet, another life. It was something ugly in its simplicity, horrendous and agonising in its sheer mediocrity. Zacky didn't want to think about it. He was too bust focusing on the water trickling down his neck, flattening tiny hairs that should have been prickling at the sensation coiling so tightly within.
It smothered his satiated bliss. Drowned out his smug victory. Numbed the power-rush. He hated it, that feeling of simply waiting. Itching impatience and expectation running riot within his form, making him want to rip off his skin with his own bitten, dirty nails.
That feeling made him so small. It shrunk him down into a pathetic little ball, just standing, frozen and staring at the floor as calloused fingers twitched over the bulge to the side of his belt. He didn't like feeling so small, so insignificant. Especially now, in his time, in his night, being what he was for once... and it was being ruined by the seemingly slow-motion rush at his senses.
Someone was behind him, he knew that much. And they weren't even hiding. He could see the dark stretch of shadow across the floor from a form standing in the flood of light from the flickering street lamp. Strange, really, that when he had hidden in this labyrinth of an undergrowth he had chosen the one nook with light. Maybe some higher being was dabbling around in this matter.
He really should have cared more than he did. Someone was behind. Silent, standing, staring... for he could feel electrifying eyes burning twin holes right through his sodden shirt to the fleshy back below.
But it was one of those moments where he was just focusing, just calming down his haggard breaths as he clung to the ripped and torn fragments of his control.
Zacky liked losing control. It was the one thing he loved, the one thing he enjoyed. The majority of his time was spent being plain, boring, normal. Just a scene kid withering in the crowd. Then, as soon as the lights went out, as soon as the knife was in his palm and a soul was chosen, he was more than that. He was different.
In this life we take nothing but memories and leave nothing but footprints.
But some footprints are bigger than others.
Well Zacky wanted to leave some Doc Martin style footprints. He wanted to leave his mark on this pathetic excuse for a planet, to forcefully cut and scar his image into the hearts of the unwilling.
They would always remember him.
He knew that so well.
But now, he needed control. Now he needed to stop his hand leaping for the concealed weapon, to stop him turning and firing at nothing.
Nothing.
Because that shadow was gone.
He hadn't even noticed. Strange, that. The shift of movement hadn't even registered to his softly ticking mind. He was too intent on the itching. Willing it away. Because he didn't want to wait. Zacky Baker didn't wait.
Sharply, he turned on his heel, glaring into nothingness, seeing exactly what he knew he would see -- nothing. Just a tall, spindly source of light illuminating some more big fat blobs of nothing.
His lungs tried to gather their breaths, regain their precious rhythm. In and out, in and out, deeper and deeper, precious oxygen seeping, calming, leaking. And he sighed. Because it was okay. His mind was gathered and he simply smiled, a turn up of plush, pierced lips. Zacky knew what he had been, knew what he was, knew what he wanted to be. And really, wasn't that all a soul ever needed, no matter how sociopathic?
Gathered. Very gathered and composed, but still not quite registering everything going on around him. A trigger in his brain had been switched, that waiting feeling smothering his poor senses, so much so that he didn't even notice the warm hands to his hips, and when he did, he didn't even start.
No fear, no surprise. Just a pleasant sort of warmth tracing the flesh of his sides. It might not have even been hands, for all he knew, and maybe that was the logic keeping him from spinning in mad examination. Just a gentle heat smoothing over the shirt clinging to his body, touches that he was unfamiliar with. Soft and gentle, welcome rather than violating.
Because believe it or not, rape was always a one-sided affection, and he missed being touched in such a way. Even though it was foolish. He couldn't miss something he had never had.
The maniac adrenaline rush that had energised him through his glorious attack was fading, leaving his lids heavy, each lash made of lead and weighing the shadowed flesh down as a sort of content overwhelmed him. Though it still didn't quite make its way passed the waiting. It just dulled at it. As though whatever he was waiting for was coming closer and closer and closer…
By now, long fingers were walking up his chest, simply curious, exploring, mapping out his form, touching the parts the exhilaration of his attacks couldn't quite reach. Palms seemed to pull down his defences as they slid aimlessly over him, filling his hollow form with a heat that muffled his awareness further, leaving him dazed, barely conscious.
Though thoroughly aroused.
The disembodied hands seemed to take advantage of this silent lull, turning the frozen body, and suddenly, oh so suddenly, jade snapping open with an amusing speed, it wasn't just hands, and it wasn't just gentility.
It was muscle and flesh and thighs and chest and neck and lips and eyes...
Those eyes betrayed the soft nature of longed for touches. Hazel fire burnt with a venom that would have had a weaker man's stomach churning. And please, don't get me wrong, Zacky was as weak as they come. Only right now, so fortunately, he was closed off from this new world of anger.
Of vengeance.
The things that grew with time and evolution, life and love, the very components that made him human -- or near as -- were gone, leaving only animalistic instinct, primeval desire.
Eat. Sleep. Hunt. Fuck.
Something in that fire exhilarated the animal with in. It had the beast raging and clawing, desperate for the dominance that emanated in bitter waves from the hulk of a male with his hands still slowly tracing the lines of skin and tattoos.
The animal won out - and why wouldn't it? The human was long gone, mostly of Zacky's own selfish doing. There wasn't much to break down. In victory hands curled in the collar of a soaked t-shirt, and he was backing himself against the wall, tugging this stranger with him, submitting to the power, the control, the dominance that he had so craved. That this man reeked of. That he wanted more of.
So close, lips crashing, bruising, crushing. He kissed his stranger as he kissed his victims; all force and heat and the slight tingle of teeth catching tender flesh, the tug and clash of metal to metal as short fingers entwined their selves into short, damp hair.
The anger that had been so precisely concealed burst force through that kiss. Demanding, presumptuous, pierced lips prised apart by the skill of a slick tongue, leaving a burning, chemical heat as he was ravished from the inside out. Gone was the big man with the knife, replaced with a wanton little whore, small, soft frame melting into the hard bulk of body pressed to his so perfectly.
Knees buckling, shaking, weak, form cold and shivering yet so impossibly hot as he was kissed to within an inch of his life, eyes clenched shut as he so desperately clung, the indescribable force of soft lips preventing any breaths from being taken.
That mouth was away, but it was too late. He was won. Completely and utterly, possessed by the man watching him with something bordering disgust, his own eyes wide, jaw slack in something resembling shock. Blood trickled down his chin, and suddenly he was choking in great, needy breaths, green never leaving the violence bubbling so deeply, etched in every feature of the larger man's face.
Zacky was hypnotised. He didn't know what he had been, what he was, what he was going to be. He was just here. Just now. Just floating so beautifully as he stared, mesmerised from his warped head to his lost soul to the fragments of his black and withered heart. A shell, so empty, so robotic, mindlessly obeying as eye contact was kept.
Words ruffled hotly passed his ear, crisp and low, almost inaudible. He could have sworn he had made it up if his head was currently capable of doing such things. But it wasn't, and he was simply staring straight ahead through the falling rain as the command whispered and tickled, nothing but a crisp leaf on an Autumn breeze fluttering against the functioning sections of his motor-functions like a lover's sweet nothings.
Something was in his hand now, he knew that much. Heavy and metallic, weighing down the limp limb. But strong fingers were closing his hand around it, a finger against something quite loose, and he would have frowned at the curiosity of it all if he didn't have a job to do.
Because those soft words were echoing, a husky demand, and once he obeyed he could pay more attention to everything else. But now all his world consisted of was the whispers and the fury of that piercing gaze.
He didn't want to disobey that gaze.
Cool barrel to his temple.
A silencer smothering a skull rattling click.
Brains splattered against a wall.
Stark pink and red to black and grey.
And the gaze softened. The world was in its natural state. Calmness fell over the statuesque form almost audibly, black melting away, the haze of anger vanishing as he stared down almost fondly at the lifeless body and empty skull, now crumpled and bleeding to the floor.
Sweeping out of the alley way, as serene and tranquil as always, a smile lingering across lips that still held the essence of a dead man.
I know it and I feel it,
Just as well as you do, Honey,
It's not our fault if death's in love with us,
It's not our fault if the reaper holds our hearts.
Epilogue.
Death is endless...
He shouldn't have lost his temper like that.
It was unnecessary.
But it had happened.
And nothing could stop that.
He knew that better than anyone.
The wisps of life followed him, misty and foggy, barely there, simply floating as he lead them.
One more stop and then back home.
Maybe two if he got pissed enough again.
The rage was still there, of course.
Floating gently beneath the beautiful surface.
It always would.
The wrath of God...
No.
More than that.
Because God couldn't compare.
Two opposite sides of a broad and ugly spectrum.
All a God could bring is life. All he could ever do was give and give like the walkover he was, constantly renewing, constantly providing. This false idea of buying love.
Whereas he...
He would take. And he would keep taking, keep ripping, keep tearing away with the face of an angel until there was no more to remove and he would turn on himself.
That was true love.
True love hurt.
True love ended a good thing. Took away the pain. Took away the misery.
And Death can love with a passion unequaled.
Until it all ends.
Pairing: Matt/Everyone (A7X)
Rating: NC-17.
Summary: Four stories of Death for the 31st.
Genre: AU. Deadly.
Dedications: Absolutely everyone who has read and commented. You've got me through this, and this is the first chaptered thing I have ever completed. It's for you guys.
Disclaimer: I don't even own the damn title OR lyrics. Death Is In Love With Us by HIM and Comfortably Numb by Pink Floyd.
Author's note: This... is the end. And it makes me rather sad. I've enjoyed this. I adore it. And to think, it was just a random little idea that was going to be a single piece! Hah. I wouldn't have finished it if that was the case. But I'm considering doing a Christmas special with Davey Havok and Brandon Schipetti... Thoughts? xD
Prologue.
Part One.
Part Two.
Part Three.
There is no pain, you are receding.
A distant ships smoke on the horizon.
You are only coming through in waves.
Your lips move but I cant hear what you're sayin'.
When I was a child I caught a fleeting glimpse,
Out of the corner of my eye.
I turned to look but it was gone.
I cannot put my finger on it now.
The child is grown, the dream is gone.
I have become comfortably numb.
Act IV.
Death can be brutal...
Zacky Baker hated a lot of things. And not just a petty little dislike. It was a true abhorrence that scarred at his flesh and boiled at his guts, stretching and tugging at his very spine until the last, healing threads of his sanity snapped and vengeance was all he could want.
Revenge. It was the only way to stop the itching, to stop the niggling. To hurt someone as much as they had hurt himself.
But that was juvenile, that was pathetic. He grew on to bigger and better things.
To hurt anyone for anything. And that‘s just an example.
It was still a form of vengeance, he thought. Making others pay for whatever might have been pissing him the fuck off at that moment in time. Because why should he hurt, why should he cry when someone was toddling along happily with their life? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t justice.
Which was why he didn't care as he stood, in yet another alley, back to the mouth as he stared at the ground, the entire surface coated with a fine sheet of water due to faulty drainage system from the cheap little town, each drop forming ripples that circled out, each one somehow making its way to the toes of his worn trainers before spreading and breaking. Dying.
Blood coated his thighs. He could feel it. Stark scarlet to the deathly pale flesh of his thighs, clotting, thickening, cooling, staining the tight material of paint splattered jeans. Blue splatter. The colour of the room he had painted that day at work.
But that was all insignificant. That was another world, another facet, another life. It was something ugly in its simplicity, horrendous and agonising in its sheer mediocrity. Zacky didn't want to think about it. He was too bust focusing on the water trickling down his neck, flattening tiny hairs that should have been prickling at the sensation coiling so tightly within.
It smothered his satiated bliss. Drowned out his smug victory. Numbed the power-rush. He hated it, that feeling of simply waiting. Itching impatience and expectation running riot within his form, making him want to rip off his skin with his own bitten, dirty nails.
That feeling made him so small. It shrunk him down into a pathetic little ball, just standing, frozen and staring at the floor as calloused fingers twitched over the bulge to the side of his belt. He didn't like feeling so small, so insignificant. Especially now, in his time, in his night, being what he was for once... and it was being ruined by the seemingly slow-motion rush at his senses.
Someone was behind him, he knew that much. And they weren't even hiding. He could see the dark stretch of shadow across the floor from a form standing in the flood of light from the flickering street lamp. Strange, really, that when he had hidden in this labyrinth of an undergrowth he had chosen the one nook with light. Maybe some higher being was dabbling around in this matter.
He really should have cared more than he did. Someone was behind. Silent, standing, staring... for he could feel electrifying eyes burning twin holes right through his sodden shirt to the fleshy back below.
But it was one of those moments where he was just focusing, just calming down his haggard breaths as he clung to the ripped and torn fragments of his control.
Zacky liked losing control. It was the one thing he loved, the one thing he enjoyed. The majority of his time was spent being plain, boring, normal. Just a scene kid withering in the crowd. Then, as soon as the lights went out, as soon as the knife was in his palm and a soul was chosen, he was more than that. He was different.
In this life we take nothing but memories and leave nothing but footprints.
But some footprints are bigger than others.
Well Zacky wanted to leave some Doc Martin style footprints. He wanted to leave his mark on this pathetic excuse for a planet, to forcefully cut and scar his image into the hearts of the unwilling.
They would always remember him.
He knew that so well.
But now, he needed control. Now he needed to stop his hand leaping for the concealed weapon, to stop him turning and firing at nothing.
Nothing.
Because that shadow was gone.
He hadn't even noticed. Strange, that. The shift of movement hadn't even registered to his softly ticking mind. He was too intent on the itching. Willing it away. Because he didn't want to wait. Zacky Baker didn't wait.
Sharply, he turned on his heel, glaring into nothingness, seeing exactly what he knew he would see -- nothing. Just a tall, spindly source of light illuminating some more big fat blobs of nothing.
His lungs tried to gather their breaths, regain their precious rhythm. In and out, in and out, deeper and deeper, precious oxygen seeping, calming, leaking. And he sighed. Because it was okay. His mind was gathered and he simply smiled, a turn up of plush, pierced lips. Zacky knew what he had been, knew what he was, knew what he wanted to be. And really, wasn't that all a soul ever needed, no matter how sociopathic?
Gathered. Very gathered and composed, but still not quite registering everything going on around him. A trigger in his brain had been switched, that waiting feeling smothering his poor senses, so much so that he didn't even notice the warm hands to his hips, and when he did, he didn't even start.
No fear, no surprise. Just a pleasant sort of warmth tracing the flesh of his sides. It might not have even been hands, for all he knew, and maybe that was the logic keeping him from spinning in mad examination. Just a gentle heat smoothing over the shirt clinging to his body, touches that he was unfamiliar with. Soft and gentle, welcome rather than violating.
Because believe it or not, rape was always a one-sided affection, and he missed being touched in such a way. Even though it was foolish. He couldn't miss something he had never had.
The maniac adrenaline rush that had energised him through his glorious attack was fading, leaving his lids heavy, each lash made of lead and weighing the shadowed flesh down as a sort of content overwhelmed him. Though it still didn't quite make its way passed the waiting. It just dulled at it. As though whatever he was waiting for was coming closer and closer and closer…
By now, long fingers were walking up his chest, simply curious, exploring, mapping out his form, touching the parts the exhilaration of his attacks couldn't quite reach. Palms seemed to pull down his defences as they slid aimlessly over him, filling his hollow form with a heat that muffled his awareness further, leaving him dazed, barely conscious.
Though thoroughly aroused.
The disembodied hands seemed to take advantage of this silent lull, turning the frozen body, and suddenly, oh so suddenly, jade snapping open with an amusing speed, it wasn't just hands, and it wasn't just gentility.
It was muscle and flesh and thighs and chest and neck and lips and eyes...
Those eyes betrayed the soft nature of longed for touches. Hazel fire burnt with a venom that would have had a weaker man's stomach churning. And please, don't get me wrong, Zacky was as weak as they come. Only right now, so fortunately, he was closed off from this new world of anger.
Of vengeance.
The things that grew with time and evolution, life and love, the very components that made him human -- or near as -- were gone, leaving only animalistic instinct, primeval desire.
Eat. Sleep. Hunt. Fuck.
Something in that fire exhilarated the animal with in. It had the beast raging and clawing, desperate for the dominance that emanated in bitter waves from the hulk of a male with his hands still slowly tracing the lines of skin and tattoos.
The animal won out - and why wouldn't it? The human was long gone, mostly of Zacky's own selfish doing. There wasn't much to break down. In victory hands curled in the collar of a soaked t-shirt, and he was backing himself against the wall, tugging this stranger with him, submitting to the power, the control, the dominance that he had so craved. That this man reeked of. That he wanted more of.
So close, lips crashing, bruising, crushing. He kissed his stranger as he kissed his victims; all force and heat and the slight tingle of teeth catching tender flesh, the tug and clash of metal to metal as short fingers entwined their selves into short, damp hair.
The anger that had been so precisely concealed burst force through that kiss. Demanding, presumptuous, pierced lips prised apart by the skill of a slick tongue, leaving a burning, chemical heat as he was ravished from the inside out. Gone was the big man with the knife, replaced with a wanton little whore, small, soft frame melting into the hard bulk of body pressed to his so perfectly.
Knees buckling, shaking, weak, form cold and shivering yet so impossibly hot as he was kissed to within an inch of his life, eyes clenched shut as he so desperately clung, the indescribable force of soft lips preventing any breaths from being taken.
That mouth was away, but it was too late. He was won. Completely and utterly, possessed by the man watching him with something bordering disgust, his own eyes wide, jaw slack in something resembling shock. Blood trickled down his chin, and suddenly he was choking in great, needy breaths, green never leaving the violence bubbling so deeply, etched in every feature of the larger man's face.
Zacky was hypnotised. He didn't know what he had been, what he was, what he was going to be. He was just here. Just now. Just floating so beautifully as he stared, mesmerised from his warped head to his lost soul to the fragments of his black and withered heart. A shell, so empty, so robotic, mindlessly obeying as eye contact was kept.
Words ruffled hotly passed his ear, crisp and low, almost inaudible. He could have sworn he had made it up if his head was currently capable of doing such things. But it wasn't, and he was simply staring straight ahead through the falling rain as the command whispered and tickled, nothing but a crisp leaf on an Autumn breeze fluttering against the functioning sections of his motor-functions like a lover's sweet nothings.
Something was in his hand now, he knew that much. Heavy and metallic, weighing down the limp limb. But strong fingers were closing his hand around it, a finger against something quite loose, and he would have frowned at the curiosity of it all if he didn't have a job to do.
Because those soft words were echoing, a husky demand, and once he obeyed he could pay more attention to everything else. But now all his world consisted of was the whispers and the fury of that piercing gaze.
He didn't want to disobey that gaze.
Cool barrel to his temple.
A silencer smothering a skull rattling click.
Brains splattered against a wall.
Stark pink and red to black and grey.
And the gaze softened. The world was in its natural state. Calmness fell over the statuesque form almost audibly, black melting away, the haze of anger vanishing as he stared down almost fondly at the lifeless body and empty skull, now crumpled and bleeding to the floor.
Sweeping out of the alley way, as serene and tranquil as always, a smile lingering across lips that still held the essence of a dead man.
I know it and I feel it,
Just as well as you do, Honey,
It's not our fault if death's in love with us,
It's not our fault if the reaper holds our hearts.
Epilogue.
Death is endless...
He shouldn't have lost his temper like that.
It was unnecessary.
But it had happened.
And nothing could stop that.
He knew that better than anyone.
The wisps of life followed him, misty and foggy, barely there, simply floating as he lead them.
One more stop and then back home.
Maybe two if he got pissed enough again.
The rage was still there, of course.
Floating gently beneath the beautiful surface.
It always would.
The wrath of God...
No.
More than that.
Because God couldn't compare.
Two opposite sides of a broad and ugly spectrum.
All a God could bring is life. All he could ever do was give and give like the walkover he was, constantly renewing, constantly providing. This false idea of buying love.
Whereas he...
He would take. And he would keep taking, keep ripping, keep tearing away with the face of an angel until there was no more to remove and he would turn on himself.
That was true love.
True love hurt.
True love ended a good thing. Took away the pain. Took away the misery.
And Death can love with a passion unequaled.
Until it all ends.