We are invading Iraq on behalf of Marilyn fuckin' Manson.
So this is a smallish picspam I've done for chemfishee birthday. Basically this is an artwork based on her various ficlets. The pictures don't always exactly match, but hey, Marines make do, right?
Happy birthday, Amanda!
You can read chemfishee ficlets HERE.
There’s a LOT of ficlets in there and I mean A LOT. Mainly Brad/Nate. *cough*And there’s porn.*cough* Go read them! Then comment and say Amanda that she’s awesome.
Person appears to be appraising him as he finishes his coffee. “Shit. You and Brad are going to sit around doing the Sunday crossword in pen and then put on matching polo shirts to rake the sand out of the yard.”
Nate has no idea who Brad is, but he’s vaguely uncomfortable with what Person’s implying. Person climbs off the bench. “Does this mean I’m going to have to teach you to read, too? Corporal, they neglected to inform me that Recon actually meant an illiterate group of assholes hanging around inner-city LA.”
Person laughs. Nate’s going to have to police his reactions better. “Yeah, you’re all right.”
[read it here]
Brad still hasn’t learned to ride in an enclosed vehicle - plane, train or automobile - without background noise. Twenty minutes into the trip, he turns the radio on, flipping to the CD option before some goat-fucked DJ getting paid to fake her orgiastic enthusiasm for the latest single from some American Idol reject has a chance to infest his ears. It takes until the fourth song for him to remember what CD he’s listening to, but by that time, he’s keeping rhythm on the steering wheel. He catches himself looking to the passenger side, twice, before he realizes that Ray isn’t there to play keyboards.
[read it here]
Brad is looking at him with this expression that Nate could classify as fond, but there's something more to it than that. And that terrifies him.
[read it here]
"You know, Marilyn Manson had this hourglass built into the wall of his home bar. Except, instead of sand, it was filled with animal ashes."
The right side of Ray's face twitches. He's listening.
"Did he shoot dogs and add them in?" Trombley hollers down.
Brad pinches the bridge of his nose. "We don't fucking shoot dogs, Trombley."
Reporter waits a beat before continuing. "Well, there weren't any strays in his neighborhood..."
Brad glares over his shoulder as Ray slaps his hand off the steering wheel. "No fucking way! I knew that guy was a psycho."
"Ray."
"Did he cremate them there?"
"Ray."
"I bet he had a dungeon in his basement filed with Vietnamese whores who had, like, stepped on landmines and shit."
"Ray!"
"Vietnamese boys. I bet he's a member of NAMBLA. We are invading Iraq on behalf of Marilyn fuckin' Manson."
[read it here]
"Brad."
Brad catches the comforter Nate fucking flings at him and shakes it out. "Seriously. I didn't know you could bend like that."
"Keep talking and you'll only have memories of that particular skill."
[read it here]
Happy birthday, Amanda!
You can read chemfishee ficlets HERE.
There’s a LOT of ficlets in there and I mean A LOT. Mainly Brad/Nate. *cough*And there’s porn.*cough* Go read them! Then comment and say Amanda that she’s awesome.
Person appears to be appraising him as he finishes his coffee. “Shit. You and Brad are going to sit around doing the Sunday crossword in pen and then put on matching polo shirts to rake the sand out of the yard.”
Nate has no idea who Brad is, but he’s vaguely uncomfortable with what Person’s implying. Person climbs off the bench. “Does this mean I’m going to have to teach you to read, too? Corporal, they neglected to inform me that Recon actually meant an illiterate group of assholes hanging around inner-city LA.”
Person laughs. Nate’s going to have to police his reactions better. “Yeah, you’re all right.”
[read it here]
Brad still hasn’t learned to ride in an enclosed vehicle - plane, train or automobile - without background noise. Twenty minutes into the trip, he turns the radio on, flipping to the CD option before some goat-fucked DJ getting paid to fake her orgiastic enthusiasm for the latest single from some American Idol reject has a chance to infest his ears. It takes until the fourth song for him to remember what CD he’s listening to, but by that time, he’s keeping rhythm on the steering wheel. He catches himself looking to the passenger side, twice, before he realizes that Ray isn’t there to play keyboards.
[read it here]
Brad is looking at him with this expression that Nate could classify as fond, but there's something more to it than that. And that terrifies him.
[read it here]
"You know, Marilyn Manson had this hourglass built into the wall of his home bar. Except, instead of sand, it was filled with animal ashes."
The right side of Ray's face twitches. He's listening.
"Did he shoot dogs and add them in?" Trombley hollers down.
Brad pinches the bridge of his nose. "We don't fucking shoot dogs, Trombley."
Reporter waits a beat before continuing. "Well, there weren't any strays in his neighborhood..."
Brad glares over his shoulder as Ray slaps his hand off the steering wheel. "No fucking way! I knew that guy was a psycho."
"Ray."
"Did he cremate them there?"
"Ray."
"I bet he had a dungeon in his basement filed with Vietnamese whores who had, like, stepped on landmines and shit."
"Ray!"
"Vietnamese boys. I bet he's a member of NAMBLA. We are invading Iraq on behalf of Marilyn fuckin' Manson."
[read it here]
"Brad."
Brad catches the comforter Nate fucking flings at him and shakes it out. "Seriously. I didn't know you could bend like that."
"Keep talking and you'll only have memories of that particular skill."
[read it here]