FIC - I'm taking back the life you stole 01
TITLE : I’m taking back the life you stole…
AUTHOR: Caliburn.Kira (ladyeigh)
RATING: R (NC-17 at the end)
PAIRING: VAM (Ville Valo/Bam Margera), Waycest (Mikey/Gerard)
CHARACTERS: Too many to mention!
POV: Third person
SUMMARY: A harsh day and a long talk…
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, didn’t happen and didn’t see anything… promise
NOTES: To Hergerbabe .... Happy Birthday Hunaja
Her birthday present which she said I could publish!
@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@
“OK, OK, OK. All looking down, focusing on the red cross on the floor… Good!”
The powerful flash momentarily blinded the subjects, causing a few winces and a general gladness that that they hadn’t been looking up for the shot. The strong overhead white lights bleached colour from everything they touched. Set, backdrops, props and stars. All shadows and highlights were washed away in a glare that removed definition from faces and moisture from skin. The make-up artists were in constant motion, powdering shiny flesh and retouching eyeliner and other cosmetic enhancements. Since most of the subjects were accustomed to either doing their own ‘look’ or else going barefaced they had taken the constant fiddling well, or at least they had done for the first three hours. However, the fact that the set had been constructed inside a New York studio and was therefore a no-smoking zone was beginning to cause tempers to fray.
The set area of couches, chairs and chaise-longue had been lavishly draped in red, black and silver swathes of fabric. Candelabras had been lit to add to the general ambience of the room but the desired gothic splendour was proving hard to find. The candles in the elaborate sticks had been chosen as ones that would neither gutter nor smoke and so look good on film. But there was a price to be paid for candles that did not flicker in a non-existent breeze. Rather than a clean flame and an odour of beeswax there was a blue flame and a scent of chemicals. In fact they reeked of the artificiality of the entire set-up. Fake walls, cheap materials and forced friendliness. The old guard and the new school together; Goth, punk, emo and metal, the dark heart of music collected and gathered in a cramped Manhattan loft.
The set-ups were taking longer and longer. Fussing about details and missing larger issues; the photographer had thrown a tantrum about the exact angle of a table while missing that he had the wrong stars lined up in the framed shot. The magazine had written a master list of the pictures the editors wanted, enough to keep their articles going for months. From the main images of the whole group that had been gathered to small groups of similar or different styles for future reference. The main stars were also having individual pictures taken, further slowing the proceedings for those who were not participating except for being in the larger groups. The photographer was determined to get all the pictures taken and he was beginning to turn into an absolute tyrant, barking orders at his team and the stars alike. His long suffering assistants were bearing the brunt of his mood, alternately sympathising with him and with each other as he grew increasingly erratic.
Finally realising how disaffected the gathered musicians were becoming the photographer called for two runners, handed over his credit card and dispatched them out onto the streets. The two looked thrilled, even with the heavy lifting task that they had been assigned, and more than one pair of famous eyes looked as though they would rather volunteer to help than stay any longer in the stiflingly hot and stuffy space. They had asked about opening even a few of the large windows and a total of three small lights had been grudgingly unlocked; small breaths of fresh air and the sound of traffic coming through.
They had struggled through one more set of star pictures and a medium sized group shot before the junior crew returned, toting bags and boxes that chinked with alcoholic promise. Two delivery boys followed them, additional supplies in their young hands. The boys came into the room and gawped, the large group of their idols causing palms to sweat and packages to slip. They managed to catch most of their burdens but gasped when some of them were taken to lighten their loads.
“Thanks. That was close there… um… um… Mr Way.”
Gerard grinned, shaking his head slightly at the stunned expression.
“Not a problem…?”
“Matt, Matthew.”
“Not a problem Matt. No need for you to lose wages ‘cos of this mob!”
The blue haired teen was still gawping, confused by the friendly smile. Clad in a crisp white dress shirt that had been unbuttoned slightly to show the start of a smooth chest the My Chemical Romance singer cocked his head slightly to the side.
“You OK?”
“You’re Gerard Way.”
“Yes.”
“From My Chemical Romance!”
“Yes.”
His friend’s hennaed ponytail was swinging as he turned his head left and right, unable to take in the enormity of the company. He finally looked at his rescuer and blanched. Kohl rimmed eyes looked up at him, black curls framing delicate features.
“Pla… Pla… Pla…”
“Placebo?”
A dumb founded nod was the only response.
“Over here please.”
The four, two rock stars and two high school seniors took the boxes to the poorly named ‘hospitality’ corner. Several large coffee makers, a crate of sodas and a pile of pastries had all they had been provided, at least up until now. A few scattered cans of Diet Coke and Red Bull littered the area, dead soldiers waiting to be collected and recycled. Gerard put down his load carefully and helped Brian stack his pile on top. The two grocery helpers were still staring until the shorter star finally snapped.
“He’s him, I’m me and we are not exhibits.”
“Sorry.”
“Sorry.”
“Calm down!”
Brian looked up sheepishly at the younger man. Gee looked at him, smiling inside at the thought of one of the few male musicians who was actually smaller than him; then again, Brian seemed almost smaller than Frankie, which took some doing! Then again, he may be small but Frankie was definitely someone you wanted at your back in case of trouble, always seeming bigger than he was a deceptive firecracker. In fact, generally Frankie wasn’t at your back in a fight; he was at the front - starting it!
“I need a smoke!”
The delivery crew smiled, that they could sympathise with.
“OK… Mr Molko.”
“Shoots put me on edge and nicotine cravings…”
“Gotcha… like last period when it’s a double and all you want…”
“Exactly. Stupid New York and their stupid rules.”
Gee and Brian signed a couple of pieces of paper and the teenagers grasped them, happier with the post-its than with the cash the junior team were handing them on the way out of the door.
“How are you so calm?!”
Gerard smiled again and raised the hem of the dress shirt he was wearing, showing a sliver of now slim and tight flesh. Just peeking over the waistband of his jeans was a tell tale sign.
“Patch”
“Ooh, quitting?”
“Cutting back. Last vice apart from caffeine and the coffee is non-negotiable!!”
So saying Gee reached past Brian and picked up a large latte style mug, filling it to the brim with steaming hot black filter, adding a little sugar he took a huge gulp.
“Like I said, non-negotiable.”
Brian smiled, patted the nearest arm and headed for the seat he had abandoned to help. Gerard went back more slowly, sipping at the mug he had poured to try and maximise his enjoyment. Non-negotiable on the quitting, but he had agreed to cut back a little, at least while they were not on tour. Then again, substituting Diet Cola was probably not keeping strictly to the spirit of the deal, more to the exact letter of it!
The support staff unpacked the new deliveries, putting cans and bottles into the fridge to cool whilst lining up the pre-chilled offerings. Whiskey and Vodka seals were cracked and the bottles stacked safely away from the table edge. As a final flourish red and white wine bottles were opened and left out, spares put carefully away to make sure they didn’t get smashed.
In small groups the assorted musicians began to drift towards the new offerings; selecting their favourite tipples and taking their seats again.
@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@
AUTHOR: Caliburn.Kira (ladyeigh)
RATING: R (NC-17 at the end)
PAIRING: VAM (Ville Valo/Bam Margera), Waycest (Mikey/Gerard)
CHARACTERS: Too many to mention!
POV: Third person
SUMMARY: A harsh day and a long talk…
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, didn’t happen and didn’t see anything… promise
NOTES: To Hergerbabe .... Happy Birthday Hunaja
Her birthday present which she said I could publish!
@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@
“OK, OK, OK. All looking down, focusing on the red cross on the floor… Good!”
The powerful flash momentarily blinded the subjects, causing a few winces and a general gladness that that they hadn’t been looking up for the shot. The strong overhead white lights bleached colour from everything they touched. Set, backdrops, props and stars. All shadows and highlights were washed away in a glare that removed definition from faces and moisture from skin. The make-up artists were in constant motion, powdering shiny flesh and retouching eyeliner and other cosmetic enhancements. Since most of the subjects were accustomed to either doing their own ‘look’ or else going barefaced they had taken the constant fiddling well, or at least they had done for the first three hours. However, the fact that the set had been constructed inside a New York studio and was therefore a no-smoking zone was beginning to cause tempers to fray.
The set area of couches, chairs and chaise-longue had been lavishly draped in red, black and silver swathes of fabric. Candelabras had been lit to add to the general ambience of the room but the desired gothic splendour was proving hard to find. The candles in the elaborate sticks had been chosen as ones that would neither gutter nor smoke and so look good on film. But there was a price to be paid for candles that did not flicker in a non-existent breeze. Rather than a clean flame and an odour of beeswax there was a blue flame and a scent of chemicals. In fact they reeked of the artificiality of the entire set-up. Fake walls, cheap materials and forced friendliness. The old guard and the new school together; Goth, punk, emo and metal, the dark heart of music collected and gathered in a cramped Manhattan loft.
The set-ups were taking longer and longer. Fussing about details and missing larger issues; the photographer had thrown a tantrum about the exact angle of a table while missing that he had the wrong stars lined up in the framed shot. The magazine had written a master list of the pictures the editors wanted, enough to keep their articles going for months. From the main images of the whole group that had been gathered to small groups of similar or different styles for future reference. The main stars were also having individual pictures taken, further slowing the proceedings for those who were not participating except for being in the larger groups. The photographer was determined to get all the pictures taken and he was beginning to turn into an absolute tyrant, barking orders at his team and the stars alike. His long suffering assistants were bearing the brunt of his mood, alternately sympathising with him and with each other as he grew increasingly erratic.
Finally realising how disaffected the gathered musicians were becoming the photographer called for two runners, handed over his credit card and dispatched them out onto the streets. The two looked thrilled, even with the heavy lifting task that they had been assigned, and more than one pair of famous eyes looked as though they would rather volunteer to help than stay any longer in the stiflingly hot and stuffy space. They had asked about opening even a few of the large windows and a total of three small lights had been grudgingly unlocked; small breaths of fresh air and the sound of traffic coming through.
They had struggled through one more set of star pictures and a medium sized group shot before the junior crew returned, toting bags and boxes that chinked with alcoholic promise. Two delivery boys followed them, additional supplies in their young hands. The boys came into the room and gawped, the large group of their idols causing palms to sweat and packages to slip. They managed to catch most of their burdens but gasped when some of them were taken to lighten their loads.
“Thanks. That was close there… um… um… Mr Way.”
Gerard grinned, shaking his head slightly at the stunned expression.
“Not a problem…?”
“Matt, Matthew.”
“Not a problem Matt. No need for you to lose wages ‘cos of this mob!”
The blue haired teen was still gawping, confused by the friendly smile. Clad in a crisp white dress shirt that had been unbuttoned slightly to show the start of a smooth chest the My Chemical Romance singer cocked his head slightly to the side.
“You OK?”
“You’re Gerard Way.”
“Yes.”
“From My Chemical Romance!”
“Yes.”
His friend’s hennaed ponytail was swinging as he turned his head left and right, unable to take in the enormity of the company. He finally looked at his rescuer and blanched. Kohl rimmed eyes looked up at him, black curls framing delicate features.
“Pla… Pla… Pla…”
“Placebo?”
A dumb founded nod was the only response.
“Over here please.”
The four, two rock stars and two high school seniors took the boxes to the poorly named ‘hospitality’ corner. Several large coffee makers, a crate of sodas and a pile of pastries had all they had been provided, at least up until now. A few scattered cans of Diet Coke and Red Bull littered the area, dead soldiers waiting to be collected and recycled. Gerard put down his load carefully and helped Brian stack his pile on top. The two grocery helpers were still staring until the shorter star finally snapped.
“He’s him, I’m me and we are not exhibits.”
“Sorry.”
“Sorry.”
“Calm down!”
Brian looked up sheepishly at the younger man. Gee looked at him, smiling inside at the thought of one of the few male musicians who was actually smaller than him; then again, Brian seemed almost smaller than Frankie, which took some doing! Then again, he may be small but Frankie was definitely someone you wanted at your back in case of trouble, always seeming bigger than he was a deceptive firecracker. In fact, generally Frankie wasn’t at your back in a fight; he was at the front - starting it!
“I need a smoke!”
The delivery crew smiled, that they could sympathise with.
“OK… Mr Molko.”
“Shoots put me on edge and nicotine cravings…”
“Gotcha… like last period when it’s a double and all you want…”
“Exactly. Stupid New York and their stupid rules.”
Gee and Brian signed a couple of pieces of paper and the teenagers grasped them, happier with the post-its than with the cash the junior team were handing them on the way out of the door.
“How are you so calm?!”
Gerard smiled again and raised the hem of the dress shirt he was wearing, showing a sliver of now slim and tight flesh. Just peeking over the waistband of his jeans was a tell tale sign.
“Patch”
“Ooh, quitting?”
“Cutting back. Last vice apart from caffeine and the coffee is non-negotiable!!”
So saying Gee reached past Brian and picked up a large latte style mug, filling it to the brim with steaming hot black filter, adding a little sugar he took a huge gulp.
“Like I said, non-negotiable.”
Brian smiled, patted the nearest arm and headed for the seat he had abandoned to help. Gerard went back more slowly, sipping at the mug he had poured to try and maximise his enjoyment. Non-negotiable on the quitting, but he had agreed to cut back a little, at least while they were not on tour. Then again, substituting Diet Cola was probably not keeping strictly to the spirit of the deal, more to the exact letter of it!
The support staff unpacked the new deliveries, putting cans and bottles into the fridge to cool whilst lining up the pre-chilled offerings. Whiskey and Vodka seals were cracked and the bottles stacked safely away from the table edge. As a final flourish red and white wine bottles were opened and left out, spares put carefully away to make sure they didn’t get smashed.
In small groups the assorted musicians began to drift towards the new offerings; selecting their favourite tipples and taking their seats again.
@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@