Crucified
Title: Crucified
Author: Tas (tasyfa)
Characters: Fink/Reverend
Word Count: 719
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I own only the words; the people own themselves and the events are fictitious.
Summary: The Reverend is not as Fink expects.
Author's Notes: For slowdevices, for having made me think about it in the first place. :D And, warning for potentially offensive religious imagery, I suppose, though the title is *not* literal. ;-)
He curls up from his unnoticed seat in the shadowed corner, slinking towards the hastily-stripping man. Jacket, shirt, sinfully tight jeans, boxers all go flying, multiple necklaces jangling crazily as he hops on one foot to tug off each sock in turn, adding them to the growing pile. It's when he reaches for the fresh clothing folded neatly on top of the hotel dresser that Fink also stretches out a hand and makes his presence known.
His perpetual motion freezes, blond-tipped curls dancing to a halt split seconds after his body, and then he laughs, sardonic and amused and somehow pleased. He doesn't move Fink's hand from his shoulder, merely spins to face him and grins wickedly, hazel eyes slightly bloodshot and sparking bright. "I was wondering when you would show."
Fink smiles, covering his vague surprise at the forthrightness. He strokes across the tangle of necklaces, fingering the rosary, smile becoming dark smirk at the muddied symbolism. They do, after all, belong to the same Church and despite one of the new songs, it's not a religion that looks kindly on virgins. He tugs on the handful of beads, intending to pull the other man closer; to seduce him the way he's done countless times before, sensuality cutting through the frontman's half-hearted protests.
Except that so-slight tug seems to have been taken as an open invitation and Fink finds his mouth opening under the onslaught of the other's kiss, tongue snaking in immediately to twine and stroke with the unmistakeable sharpness of liquor. It throws him off-balance and his other hand comes up to clutch at tattooed arms as he kisses back.
This isn't the way it's supposed to happen and finally Fink pulls away, blinking in confusion. "Billie, what-"
"Aha, there we go," he interrupts, that grin reappearing on reddened lips. "I'm no more Billie Joe Armstrong than you are."
Fink studies the man in front of him. Physically he appears identical to the Green Day singer - same odd proportions, same tattoos, same everything. But he himself shares those characteristics so he knows well how deceptive that can be.
It's not until they lock eyes that he begins to understand. A wild, reckless hunger stares back at him, one that's thrown off any restraints; a truth underscored by the hand unzipping vinyl pants and dipping inside with zero hesitation. This isn't someone Fink would have to coerce into anything. In fact, this is someone he can't predict at all.
Hazels flash with glittering smugness and Fink struggles for breath as he's stripped of everything but his mask and borne back onto the bed. He tilts his hips up automatically to protect his tailbone and the other man laughs in pure delight as he crawls over top, necklaces dragging and banging along Fink's bare skin. "So it is real."
He doesn't answer that - doesn't need to, with his tail lashing against the hotel bedspread. Instead he poses a question of his own, fighting to make it sound suitably cool and detached through the pleasure rushing through him as hips slide together and his erection is trapped beside another, both seeking friction. He can feel the crucifix and the crocodile head digging into his chest and it clouds his mind. "Who, then? What shall I call you?"
The second part was a mistake and he knows it immediately, but it's out there and that grin grows impossibly bigger. Fink can't think about it much, though, as slick fingers probe between his spread thighs to coax him open. He hasn't had time to process any of this, let alone claw past the sensation flooding him to remember that this is supposed to be the other way around.
He bears down shamelessly, caught up in this man's abandon and feeling oddly pleased by the approving murmurs in between ravenous kisses. Then suddenly the hand is gone, cock pushing against his entrance in its place, and those limitless hazel eyes burn into his.
"Normally I go by the Reverend. Reverend Strychnine Twitch." His swollen lips quirk in that irrepressible grin as Fink's gaze darts over the massed necklaces and back up, to be pinned in place by his words as surely as his body.
"Right now, though, you can call me God. And God is going to fuck the devil."
Author: Tas (tasyfa)
Characters: Fink/Reverend
Word Count: 719
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I own only the words; the people own themselves and the events are fictitious.
Summary: The Reverend is not as Fink expects.
Author's Notes: For slowdevices, for having made me think about it in the first place. :D And, warning for potentially offensive religious imagery, I suppose, though the title is *not* literal. ;-)
He curls up from his unnoticed seat in the shadowed corner, slinking towards the hastily-stripping man. Jacket, shirt, sinfully tight jeans, boxers all go flying, multiple necklaces jangling crazily as he hops on one foot to tug off each sock in turn, adding them to the growing pile. It's when he reaches for the fresh clothing folded neatly on top of the hotel dresser that Fink also stretches out a hand and makes his presence known.
His perpetual motion freezes, blond-tipped curls dancing to a halt split seconds after his body, and then he laughs, sardonic and amused and somehow pleased. He doesn't move Fink's hand from his shoulder, merely spins to face him and grins wickedly, hazel eyes slightly bloodshot and sparking bright. "I was wondering when you would show."
Fink smiles, covering his vague surprise at the forthrightness. He strokes across the tangle of necklaces, fingering the rosary, smile becoming dark smirk at the muddied symbolism. They do, after all, belong to the same Church and despite one of the new songs, it's not a religion that looks kindly on virgins. He tugs on the handful of beads, intending to pull the other man closer; to seduce him the way he's done countless times before, sensuality cutting through the frontman's half-hearted protests.
Except that so-slight tug seems to have been taken as an open invitation and Fink finds his mouth opening under the onslaught of the other's kiss, tongue snaking in immediately to twine and stroke with the unmistakeable sharpness of liquor. It throws him off-balance and his other hand comes up to clutch at tattooed arms as he kisses back.
This isn't the way it's supposed to happen and finally Fink pulls away, blinking in confusion. "Billie, what-"
"Aha, there we go," he interrupts, that grin reappearing on reddened lips. "I'm no more Billie Joe Armstrong than you are."
Fink studies the man in front of him. Physically he appears identical to the Green Day singer - same odd proportions, same tattoos, same everything. But he himself shares those characteristics so he knows well how deceptive that can be.
It's not until they lock eyes that he begins to understand. A wild, reckless hunger stares back at him, one that's thrown off any restraints; a truth underscored by the hand unzipping vinyl pants and dipping inside with zero hesitation. This isn't someone Fink would have to coerce into anything. In fact, this is someone he can't predict at all.
Hazels flash with glittering smugness and Fink struggles for breath as he's stripped of everything but his mask and borne back onto the bed. He tilts his hips up automatically to protect his tailbone and the other man laughs in pure delight as he crawls over top, necklaces dragging and banging along Fink's bare skin. "So it is real."
He doesn't answer that - doesn't need to, with his tail lashing against the hotel bedspread. Instead he poses a question of his own, fighting to make it sound suitably cool and detached through the pleasure rushing through him as hips slide together and his erection is trapped beside another, both seeking friction. He can feel the crucifix and the crocodile head digging into his chest and it clouds his mind. "Who, then? What shall I call you?"
The second part was a mistake and he knows it immediately, but it's out there and that grin grows impossibly bigger. Fink can't think about it much, though, as slick fingers probe between his spread thighs to coax him open. He hasn't had time to process any of this, let alone claw past the sensation flooding him to remember that this is supposed to be the other way around.
He bears down shamelessly, caught up in this man's abandon and feeling oddly pleased by the approving murmurs in between ravenous kisses. Then suddenly the hand is gone, cock pushing against his entrance in its place, and those limitless hazel eyes burn into his.
"Normally I go by the Reverend. Reverend Strychnine Twitch." His swollen lips quirk in that irrepressible grin as Fink's gaze darts over the massed necklaces and back up, to be pinned in place by his words as surely as his body.
"Right now, though, you can call me God. And God is going to fuck the devil."