(no subject)
Title: Arriverderci, Roma
Author: xvanilla_cokex / tune out
Band: Avenged Sevenfold
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I do not own anyone mentioned in this story. Nor do I have any affiliation. It is all fiction, it is all in good fun.
Summary: Money won't change a thing, it's all about tonight.
Date(s) Posted: 02/09/06
Your fingers moved gracefully around the curve of his spine, the tiny section of his skin that you knew would send him into shivers. His fingers tightened around the pot in front of him, one hand on the plastic handle, the other on the wooden spoon stirring the thick red sauce. The scent of garlic and tomatoes, amongst other spices, filled the kitchen as he had spent all day moving around in there. But now he was paralyzed, your fingers holding him captive as your lips traced the delicate skin of his earlobe. He let out a soft whimper, your name tumbling off his lips as his eyes slid shut.
“Is dinner almost ready, my love?” You mumbled against his earlobe, as he sucked in his breath, nodding. With a snicker, you pulled your body away from him, placing another soft peck on his skin. “It smells amazing.”
“Old family recipe.” He cleared his throat as he spoke, beginning to regain the use of his motor skills. You loved how you could control him like that, how you could just touch him and he would lose control over everything. He looked over at you, one eyebrow raised - a surefire sign that he was agitated with your presence since you had disentangled yourself from him.
“I should thank your mother for teaching it to you.” You placed a kiss on his cheek before slipping out of the kitchen, a smug smile on your face. He wasn’t really mad at you, he just hated anyone in his kitchen when he was cooking, not even you, his other half, the love of his life. Not that you could really blame him, cooking was an art, and he, like all other exceptional artists, needed to concentrate.
With a grin upon your face, you moved into the small living room of the apartment, listening to the sound of him shuffling around inside the kitchen. The two of you were as different as they came, an odd couple to say the least. But you completed each other, you - the once spoiled rich kid grown into a struggling musician slash construction worker to pay the bills - and him - the boy from the wrong side of the tracks working his way through college courses to become a chef. It wasn’t as if you complained, he was constantly making new dishes for you to try out.
“Brian?” You turned around and looked at him with a smile, as he leaned against the doorway. “Take a shower, you smell foul.” With that, he disappeared back into the depths of the kitchen, leaving you standing there with your face falling. With a snort, you rolled your eyes. As tactless as he was, you knew you would comply - he had worked hard on this dinner and you wanted it to be just as special as he was making it. You slipped through the living room and past the small bedroom, into the awaiting bathroom. Hair products and make up cluttered around the sink, different colored hair dye having left stains on the white porcelain. Closing the door behind you, you looked at yourself in the mirror. Tanned skin, from working out in the sun all day, complimenting your dyed dark hair. Your natural color was a lighter brown, but you enjoyed experimenting with different colors and your darling boyfriend had enjoyed the dark color on you. He always said that it made your big eyes look so much brighter, despite the fact that they were the last feature that you wanted to draw attention to. Rolling your eyes at yourself for spending so much time staring at yourself, you moved to the stall shower, pulling open the door. Turning the water on, you closed the door again to let yourself strip down as the hot water kicked in. You pulled your shirt off your muscular chest and started on your belt, listening to the sound of the spray hit the glass. One day, you had promised him, that you would make it big and he would become a famous chef and the two of you could moved into some mansion in Beverly Hills with a huge tub, rather than live in this cramped apartment with only a shower stall In LA.
Once you were properly stripped down, you climbed back into the shower, thankful that the hot water had kicked in. Rinsing yourself off, you watched the grim slide off you and down the drain, thankful that you had been reminded to get yourself clean. You reached over to the shelf and grabbed your bottle of shampoo, pouring it into your hand. Working it into a lather in your long hair, you closed your eyes tight, your lips curling into a smile, remembering the countless times since the two of you moved into the apartment that you both had showered together. You had moved in together when he was thrown out of his house at seventeen, you a much older nineteen at the time. You had worked hard, to pay the bills solely, you weren’t about to make him quit school his senior year. Not a bright boy like him, he was all too good for that. Besides, it had been your fault that he had been kicked out, but it was his fault that you had been disinherited.
Completely clean, you turned off the water and stepped out of the stall, reaching for a towel to dry yourself off. Wrapping it around your waist, you opened the bathroom door, steam billowing out after you. He greeted you in the hallway, a smirk gracing across his full lips. He ruffled your wet hair, sliding his other arm around your waist.
“Dinner’s ready, sweetheart. Get dressed and come enjoy it with me.” You nodded and pressed your lips against his, rubbing your long fingers against his tshirt clad hips. He pulled himself away from you, reluctantly you could tell. You turned and slipped into the small bedroom the two of you shared. The bed took up most of the room, two small end tables on either side of the bed, one for each of you. Yours was the one closest to the door and you reached inside for a pair of boxers. You slid them up under the towel and dropped the towel on the bed. A small closet was near his side of the bed and you walked around to it. Something nice and that he would love, something that would show him how much you appreciated him and the past four years the two of you had spent together. He had been fifteen when you met him, at the homecoming game your senior year, his sophomore. Your best friend at the time was friends with his older sister, who had been dragging around shy little him all night. You graciously took him off her hands and spent the rest of the night debating with him about music and politics and just about everything else you could think of. He let himself get comfortable around you, and you liked that. The two of you became closer over that month, until by the end of it, Halloween to be precise, you ended up giving him a hand job in the backseat of your car. After that incident, lust had overtaken the two of you, and for his sixteenth birthday in December, you gave him his first blowjob.
The two of you kept your relationship a secret; you were almost eighteen from the start. Not to mention the fact that you were a well known and well liked senior, and he was a shy, very male, sophomore. You graduated that June and turned eighteen not long after. You stayed close to home, close to him, and even spent the summer mostly around him. While all your friends were going to college, you were getting jobs working around local stores. You weren’t about to leave him alone, not when he had two years left. The year came and went quickly, and you started looking into apartments near his seventeenth birthday. You decided to wait until he was eighteen to move in together, but that plan changed drastically just after your nineteenth birthday when his parents found the two of you in bed together. He was kicked out and your father cut you off once he found out, leaving the two of you to rent the only apartment you could afford - the one you were living in at present time.
With you playing the role of breadwinner, you made sure he finished school, even graduated with honors. You coerced him into taking college courses, not as a full time student, but just the classes that he needed. But you were twenty-one now and he had just turned twenty, and the two of you made it through everything. Every little fight, every little problem you had worked your way through it.
Looking through the small closet, you decided on one of the button downs you had cut the sleeves off of, quickly throwing on a pair of jeans to go with it. You snuck back into the bathroom and sprayed on his favorite cologne, running your fingers through the tangled mess of waves you called hair. You looked down to run the tap to try and smooth it out some, but as you looked up, his feline features suddenly appeared next to yours.
“Come eat, dinner’s getting cold.” He practically purred into your ear, wrapping his arms around your waist. You nodded, turning your head to kiss his and the two of you disentangled once again, following him as your hands entwined, to the kitchen. The lights were off, but you could see what he had done by the light flickering from the candles on the table. He sent you his infectious grin as he moved to sit down, but you being fasted, pulled out his chair for him. He thanked you with a smile and you sat across from him, your eyes looking down at the dimly lit spaghetti dish in front of you. He had spent all day making it from scratch for you, because it was the holiday where lovers can be in love and show their affections. All he requested from you was a bottle of wine to go with the dish and your heart, but he had the latter for years. He reached over and pressed play on the stereo near him, and rather than the heavy metal that normally blasted from the speakers, the soft melody of Dean Martin’s ‘Arriverderci Roma’ came out. Your eyes met his over the table and you stood up, offering your hand to him. He took it with a confused look, staring up at you.
“But Bri, aren’t you going to eat?” You nodded and smiled down at him as you pulled him up and close to you, wrapping your arm around his waist, the other still holding his hand. You swayed with him like this, your heads together as Dean Martin continued to croon.
“Someday, Zacky, I’ll have enough money to take you to a real Italian restaurant for Valentine’s Day. And you can order the most expensive bottle of wine they have, baby. And we’ll go home to our house and…”
“Shh.” He whispered into your ear, and you could feel the hot tears stumble across his soft cheeks. “Money can’t make things more perfect than this.”
With tears streaking down both your cheeks, you spend your Valentine’s Day dancing in your kitchen with the love of your life to a constant flow of Dean Martin love songs. There was nothing in the world more perfect than the two of you that night.
-end-
Author: xvanilla_cokex / tune out
Band: Avenged Sevenfold
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I do not own anyone mentioned in this story. Nor do I have any affiliation. It is all fiction, it is all in good fun.
Summary: Money won't change a thing, it's all about tonight.
Date(s) Posted: 02/09/06
Your fingers moved gracefully around the curve of his spine, the tiny section of his skin that you knew would send him into shivers. His fingers tightened around the pot in front of him, one hand on the plastic handle, the other on the wooden spoon stirring the thick red sauce. The scent of garlic and tomatoes, amongst other spices, filled the kitchen as he had spent all day moving around in there. But now he was paralyzed, your fingers holding him captive as your lips traced the delicate skin of his earlobe. He let out a soft whimper, your name tumbling off his lips as his eyes slid shut.
“Is dinner almost ready, my love?” You mumbled against his earlobe, as he sucked in his breath, nodding. With a snicker, you pulled your body away from him, placing another soft peck on his skin. “It smells amazing.”
“Old family recipe.” He cleared his throat as he spoke, beginning to regain the use of his motor skills. You loved how you could control him like that, how you could just touch him and he would lose control over everything. He looked over at you, one eyebrow raised - a surefire sign that he was agitated with your presence since you had disentangled yourself from him.
“I should thank your mother for teaching it to you.” You placed a kiss on his cheek before slipping out of the kitchen, a smug smile on your face. He wasn’t really mad at you, he just hated anyone in his kitchen when he was cooking, not even you, his other half, the love of his life. Not that you could really blame him, cooking was an art, and he, like all other exceptional artists, needed to concentrate.
With a grin upon your face, you moved into the small living room of the apartment, listening to the sound of him shuffling around inside the kitchen. The two of you were as different as they came, an odd couple to say the least. But you completed each other, you - the once spoiled rich kid grown into a struggling musician slash construction worker to pay the bills - and him - the boy from the wrong side of the tracks working his way through college courses to become a chef. It wasn’t as if you complained, he was constantly making new dishes for you to try out.
“Brian?” You turned around and looked at him with a smile, as he leaned against the doorway. “Take a shower, you smell foul.” With that, he disappeared back into the depths of the kitchen, leaving you standing there with your face falling. With a snort, you rolled your eyes. As tactless as he was, you knew you would comply - he had worked hard on this dinner and you wanted it to be just as special as he was making it. You slipped through the living room and past the small bedroom, into the awaiting bathroom. Hair products and make up cluttered around the sink, different colored hair dye having left stains on the white porcelain. Closing the door behind you, you looked at yourself in the mirror. Tanned skin, from working out in the sun all day, complimenting your dyed dark hair. Your natural color was a lighter brown, but you enjoyed experimenting with different colors and your darling boyfriend had enjoyed the dark color on you. He always said that it made your big eyes look so much brighter, despite the fact that they were the last feature that you wanted to draw attention to. Rolling your eyes at yourself for spending so much time staring at yourself, you moved to the stall shower, pulling open the door. Turning the water on, you closed the door again to let yourself strip down as the hot water kicked in. You pulled your shirt off your muscular chest and started on your belt, listening to the sound of the spray hit the glass. One day, you had promised him, that you would make it big and he would become a famous chef and the two of you could moved into some mansion in Beverly Hills with a huge tub, rather than live in this cramped apartment with only a shower stall In LA.
Once you were properly stripped down, you climbed back into the shower, thankful that the hot water had kicked in. Rinsing yourself off, you watched the grim slide off you and down the drain, thankful that you had been reminded to get yourself clean. You reached over to the shelf and grabbed your bottle of shampoo, pouring it into your hand. Working it into a lather in your long hair, you closed your eyes tight, your lips curling into a smile, remembering the countless times since the two of you moved into the apartment that you both had showered together. You had moved in together when he was thrown out of his house at seventeen, you a much older nineteen at the time. You had worked hard, to pay the bills solely, you weren’t about to make him quit school his senior year. Not a bright boy like him, he was all too good for that. Besides, it had been your fault that he had been kicked out, but it was his fault that you had been disinherited.
Completely clean, you turned off the water and stepped out of the stall, reaching for a towel to dry yourself off. Wrapping it around your waist, you opened the bathroom door, steam billowing out after you. He greeted you in the hallway, a smirk gracing across his full lips. He ruffled your wet hair, sliding his other arm around your waist.
“Dinner’s ready, sweetheart. Get dressed and come enjoy it with me.” You nodded and pressed your lips against his, rubbing your long fingers against his tshirt clad hips. He pulled himself away from you, reluctantly you could tell. You turned and slipped into the small bedroom the two of you shared. The bed took up most of the room, two small end tables on either side of the bed, one for each of you. Yours was the one closest to the door and you reached inside for a pair of boxers. You slid them up under the towel and dropped the towel on the bed. A small closet was near his side of the bed and you walked around to it. Something nice and that he would love, something that would show him how much you appreciated him and the past four years the two of you had spent together. He had been fifteen when you met him, at the homecoming game your senior year, his sophomore. Your best friend at the time was friends with his older sister, who had been dragging around shy little him all night. You graciously took him off her hands and spent the rest of the night debating with him about music and politics and just about everything else you could think of. He let himself get comfortable around you, and you liked that. The two of you became closer over that month, until by the end of it, Halloween to be precise, you ended up giving him a hand job in the backseat of your car. After that incident, lust had overtaken the two of you, and for his sixteenth birthday in December, you gave him his first blowjob.
The two of you kept your relationship a secret; you were almost eighteen from the start. Not to mention the fact that you were a well known and well liked senior, and he was a shy, very male, sophomore. You graduated that June and turned eighteen not long after. You stayed close to home, close to him, and even spent the summer mostly around him. While all your friends were going to college, you were getting jobs working around local stores. You weren’t about to leave him alone, not when he had two years left. The year came and went quickly, and you started looking into apartments near his seventeenth birthday. You decided to wait until he was eighteen to move in together, but that plan changed drastically just after your nineteenth birthday when his parents found the two of you in bed together. He was kicked out and your father cut you off once he found out, leaving the two of you to rent the only apartment you could afford - the one you were living in at present time.
With you playing the role of breadwinner, you made sure he finished school, even graduated with honors. You coerced him into taking college courses, not as a full time student, but just the classes that he needed. But you were twenty-one now and he had just turned twenty, and the two of you made it through everything. Every little fight, every little problem you had worked your way through it.
Looking through the small closet, you decided on one of the button downs you had cut the sleeves off of, quickly throwing on a pair of jeans to go with it. You snuck back into the bathroom and sprayed on his favorite cologne, running your fingers through the tangled mess of waves you called hair. You looked down to run the tap to try and smooth it out some, but as you looked up, his feline features suddenly appeared next to yours.
“Come eat, dinner’s getting cold.” He practically purred into your ear, wrapping his arms around your waist. You nodded, turning your head to kiss his and the two of you disentangled once again, following him as your hands entwined, to the kitchen. The lights were off, but you could see what he had done by the light flickering from the candles on the table. He sent you his infectious grin as he moved to sit down, but you being fasted, pulled out his chair for him. He thanked you with a smile and you sat across from him, your eyes looking down at the dimly lit spaghetti dish in front of you. He had spent all day making it from scratch for you, because it was the holiday where lovers can be in love and show their affections. All he requested from you was a bottle of wine to go with the dish and your heart, but he had the latter for years. He reached over and pressed play on the stereo near him, and rather than the heavy metal that normally blasted from the speakers, the soft melody of Dean Martin’s ‘Arriverderci Roma’ came out. Your eyes met his over the table and you stood up, offering your hand to him. He took it with a confused look, staring up at you.
“But Bri, aren’t you going to eat?” You nodded and smiled down at him as you pulled him up and close to you, wrapping your arm around his waist, the other still holding his hand. You swayed with him like this, your heads together as Dean Martin continued to croon.
“Someday, Zacky, I’ll have enough money to take you to a real Italian restaurant for Valentine’s Day. And you can order the most expensive bottle of wine they have, baby. And we’ll go home to our house and…”
“Shh.” He whispered into your ear, and you could feel the hot tears stumble across his soft cheeks. “Money can’t make things more perfect than this.”
With tears streaking down both your cheeks, you spend your Valentine’s Day dancing in your kitchen with the love of your life to a constant flow of Dean Martin love songs. There was nothing in the world more perfect than the two of you that night.
-end-