I'm his "it's complicated" girlfriend...the_sidewinderMay 8 2008, 18:06:52 UTC
Sex never takes more than half an hour with Faris; it's a very quick and simple process that goes something like this: door locked, clothes off, on the bed, then fifteen or twenty minutes of frantic scratching and sweating and grinding, and they're done. Clothes on, out of the door, shifty looks all around to check that no one's watching. Always Faris' room, always his rules. It's not that Joshua minds exactly (quite frankly he'd take the offer up even if Faris wanted it on a bed of barbed wire, such is his lust) but a little more consideration wouldn't go amiss. A little more recognition that it's his best friend and not a faceless body that Faris is fucking. A little...(dare he even think it?) tenderness
( ... )
I would give up anything if you would just...the_sidewinderMay 8 2008, 19:52:11 UTC
(You don't want feminine!jailbait!Jon/Ryan and then you give me that as a prompt? Fine. Here goes.)
Jon wants to kiss Ryan again, his thin face cupped between Jon's large, tanned hands, their bodies pressed together, toe to toe and heart to heart. He wants to pass his hand over Ryan's light skin and let his fingers dance in his hair. But not this Ryan. The Ryan who drinks and laughs and writes such light-hearted tunes, the Ryan who wraps himself in his girlfriend and his piano lessons, the Ryan who wears loud shirts and cord trousers and doesn't brush his hair. The Ryan who stays in his own bunk at nights, and peppers his girlfriend with kisses from the lips Jon remembers so well. That's not what he wants.
Jon Walker joined the band for Ryan, the old Ryan, his Ryan. For the flouncy shirts and ruffles, the intricate make up, the masks and the metaphors, the lyrics that took so much deciphering. Jon's Ryan was vulnerable and young and their relationship depended on Ryan needing him. Although the kisses were short and few, and the
( ... )
I hate how obsessed I am...the_sidewinderMay 8 2008, 20:34:44 UTC
Michael is used to getting what he wants. When you're pretty and cheeky, with a ready wit and an outgoing nature, good luck and opportunity seems to fall into your lap. That Michael is here at all is proof of that. But the one opportunity he craves never seems to come up- and the one time it did, he passed it by.
(They were sitting together backstage when it happened, and Michael remembers it perfectly: his head thrown back across the long seat, nudging against the other man's thigh. The other man, the other Michael. Looking at him was bizarrely like a mirror, for tired eyes anyway. The glasses, the short dark hair, the weary brown eyes. He had been drumming absent mindedly on his knees, fumbled, dropped a stick. He leaned over to pick it up and a mad scheme whirled through Michael's head which thrummed to this sort of rhythm: lean up. kiss him. lean up. just a little. kiss him. kiss him. He hadn't, of course. Life continued as normal. If it hadn't aroused suspicion, Michael would have kicked himself daily
( ... )
I fuck guys without even thinking about it...the_sidewinderMay 8 2008, 22:31:07 UTC
Jarvis thought, I'm getting a bit old for this sort of thing but it didn't stop him for one second, because it was Nick motherfucking Cave. No one in their right mind would turn down a fuck from Nick Cave, especially not after seeing him onstage and seeing what those hips could do just to the open air. Trousers that tight on a fifty year old should make you cringe, but Jarvis didn't; instead he watched, with his mouth embarrassingly wide open, and later that night at the aftershow party, in the dressing room, saw for himself just how tight those trousers were. Jarvis had fucked a lot of men (and been fucked by a lot of men but that was an area he glossed over, because for a music icon, being shagged up the arse wasn't exactly an accolade) but when they said Cave was driven by deeper forces they weren't fucking joking
( ... )
The first few weeks weren't too bad. They were never too bad, the first few weeks of living with someone new. The flat was clean, the washing tended to get done on time, someone cooked and someone cleaned and they played videogames in the morning and watched wrestling in the evening. Everything went swimmingly, and for two males in their late twenties they didn't think they were doing too badly at the whole co-habitation thing
( ... )
Comments 24
AND AHAHSAGHAHAHA
THIS ONE. THIS ONE. http://i26.tinypic.com/154fz8g.jpg
FAZ/JOSH I BEG OF YOU.
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036. http://i25.tinypic.com/1zbfmgp.png
Jon/Ryan. But Pretty. Odd Jon/Ryan, not feminine!jailbait!Jon/Ryan. :M
038. http://i25.tinypic.com/w8nuv4.jpg
Michaeldrum/Michael M
please *___*
I'd ask for Thom Stone/Kevin Tuffy because I found THE PERFECT ONE for it but ;__;
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Jon wants to kiss Ryan again, his thin face cupped between Jon's large, tanned hands, their bodies pressed together, toe to toe and heart to heart. He wants to pass his hand over Ryan's light skin and let his fingers dance in his hair. But not this Ryan. The Ryan who drinks and laughs and writes such light-hearted tunes, the Ryan who wraps himself in his girlfriend and his piano lessons, the Ryan who wears loud shirts and cord trousers and doesn't brush his hair. The Ryan who stays in his own bunk at nights, and peppers his girlfriend with kisses from the lips Jon remembers so well. That's not what he wants.
Jon Walker joined the band for Ryan, the old Ryan, his Ryan. For the flouncy shirts and ruffles, the intricate make up, the masks and the metaphors, the lyrics that took so much deciphering. Jon's Ryan was vulnerable and young and their relationship depended on Ryan needing him. Although the kisses were short and few, and the ( ... )
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Aw.
But Ryan loves the vag.
Alas. ;_____;
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(They were sitting together backstage when it happened, and Michael remembers it perfectly: his head thrown back across the long seat, nudging against the other man's thigh. The other man, the other Michael. Looking at him was bizarrely like a mirror, for tired eyes anyway. The glasses, the short dark hair, the weary brown eyes. He had been drumming absent mindedly on his knees, fumbled, dropped a stick. He leaned over to pick it up and a mad scheme whirled through Michael's head which thrummed to this sort of rhythm: lean up. kiss him. lean up. just a little. kiss him. kiss him. He hadn't, of course. Life continued as normal. If it hadn't aroused suspicion, Michael would have kicked himself daily ( ... )
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16, frank and gee.
Douche.
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I.
I'M SHAKING SO BADLY I CAN'T TYPE <33
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The Rev/Alex Turner. (Apart from the being sixteen bit)
OH PLEASE OH PLEASE OH PLEASE
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