(c) Dancing Bruises; M.
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(c) Dancing Bruises; M.
by Heartswell. Mon 13 Oct 2008, 3:14 am
Title: Dancing Bruises.
Author: Moi.
Status: Chaptered/Incomplete.
Warnings: Could contain gory/graphic descriptions.
-
Hold Your Guts.
Chapter One.
What's funny about it is that it really really isn't funny.
Just little fucking Frankie Iero stumbling around, trying to be funny, trying to be stupid with those drunken orbs and cherry-glazed dead eyelids blocking the funny out of him.
Hold your guts, Wentz. It's only Frankie-fucking-Iero.
And he's just tryin'ta have a little fun with those spotlights.
A pile of bones, a dancing skeleton; Frankie's moves -under this light- are more comical than his cartoon-like haze, where colors battled sounds and lights and those nasty visions of the letters on his fingers floating around in halos on dead skin.
His stumbling dance led him to the arms of another tattooed boy, whose lips curl into a toothy Cheshire-cat grin, holding his arms so far apart so they could swallow little Frankie whole; the puppet boy with the termite-raided joints, falling and crumbling all over every floor and body he manages to merge his stringy tentacles with to suck the life out of.
He's seen it happen so many times; empty boys and lonely girls stuck with Frankie until one of them is finally drained. Then Frankie would dance again.
He was dancing and playing under the lights, dancing and playing, playing and dancing around and around and around under the black lights. He was dancing with the walls, dancing with the lights, dancing with the crowds and dancing with his sanity.[/i]
Frankie was a little insane and we can't deny that. Nobody can.
But it was hero Pete who wanted to. Hero Pete wanted to know why Frankie was dancing every night; why Frankie would throw his small body on the floor and bang bang bang every fraction of his boney body onto the hateful concrete walls and grounds until he hears one lovely crack.
Then Frankie would start dancing into bones and flesh; dancing through gasps, through sweat, through moans and through dirty sheets.
Pete didn't know Frankie that much, no-one really did. But he knows the one onstage; dancing with his fingers and six-string lovers; a Frankie who didn't slur, didn't spin around himself in deformed circles.
He didn't know Frankie much, not even how to fucking say his last name.
But he cared. Pete cared for that bumbling, skinny, doodle-mess.
And with those sinisterly playful giggles, tattooed arms tumbled and tangled into other tattooed arms again after a struggle with the visions invading Frankie's eyes caused by the shifting lights and colors, and Frankie was barely making an effort to lift himself up. He just hung there on Pete's arms and collarbone, muttering incoherent syllables and disfigured pleas; dead weight.
"Have you seen any Snuff movies, babe?" he starts, words colliding on the top of his breath, "Because if you did, you'd witness the dissecting of human beauty layer by layer, until there's nothing beautiful in a coat of skin laying on a slaughterhouse's floor. That's beautiful in its very being. You can see someone naked without the fear of blushing nor having an erection."
Frankie's words cascaded as his lips trailed the other boy's ear. "There's beauty in the lack of it."
The whispers, the scent of his skin, that voice; it all registered into Pete's mind as his arms held him up higher, fearing that the stirring boy will slip and break something. Something other than what's already broken.
"The ugly in the beautiful is always beautiful, but the beautiful in the ugly is never beautiful."
Frankie's words are the ones dancing now, flirting with wasted thoughts and tired sanity in the shape of relentless rambles, reeking of alcohol and bone-white powder. Hero Pete doesn't understand what Frankie's slurring now; why did he care for words that didn't even make sense?
It was like that every night; that boy just thrashed and thrashed and thrashed around the place under the dim lights, living off of sweat and hungry stares, until he left. He was beautiful, as everyone saw, but with that kind of beauty came a price; redundant scary giggles and groping unstable hands. And no-one was sure if they could afford it.
And before Pete knew it, he had left the bruised stack of dancing marionette bones to slide on the floor and walked away.
He didn't care that much.
Author: Moi.
Status: Chaptered/Incomplete.
Warnings: Could contain gory/graphic descriptions.
-
Hold Your Guts.
Chapter One.
What's funny about it is that it really really isn't funny.
Just little fucking Frankie Iero stumbling around, trying to be funny, trying to be stupid with those drunken orbs and cherry-glazed dead eyelids blocking the funny out of him.
Hold your guts, Wentz. It's only Frankie-fucking-Iero.
And he's just tryin'ta have a little fun with those spotlights.
A pile of bones, a dancing skeleton; Frankie's moves -under this light- are more comical than his cartoon-like haze, where colors battled sounds and lights and those nasty visions of the letters on his fingers floating around in halos on dead skin.
His stumbling dance led him to the arms of another tattooed boy, whose lips curl into a toothy Cheshire-cat grin, holding his arms so far apart so they could swallow little Frankie whole; the puppet boy with the termite-raided joints, falling and crumbling all over every floor and body he manages to merge his stringy tentacles with to suck the life out of.
He's seen it happen so many times; empty boys and lonely girls stuck with Frankie until one of them is finally drained. Then Frankie would dance again.
He was dancing and playing under the lights, dancing and playing, playing and dancing around and around and around under the black lights. He was dancing with the walls, dancing with the lights, dancing with the crowds and dancing with his sanity.[/i]
Frankie was a little insane and we can't deny that. Nobody can.
But it was hero Pete who wanted to. Hero Pete wanted to know why Frankie was dancing every night; why Frankie would throw his small body on the floor and bang bang bang every fraction of his boney body onto the hateful concrete walls and grounds until he hears one lovely crack.
Then Frankie would start dancing into bones and flesh; dancing through gasps, through sweat, through moans and through dirty sheets.
Pete didn't know Frankie that much, no-one really did. But he knows the one onstage; dancing with his fingers and six-string lovers; a Frankie who didn't slur, didn't spin around himself in deformed circles.
He didn't know Frankie much, not even how to fucking say his last name.
But he cared. Pete cared for that bumbling, skinny, doodle-mess.
And with those sinisterly playful giggles, tattooed arms tumbled and tangled into other tattooed arms again after a struggle with the visions invading Frankie's eyes caused by the shifting lights and colors, and Frankie was barely making an effort to lift himself up. He just hung there on Pete's arms and collarbone, muttering incoherent syllables and disfigured pleas; dead weight.
"Have you seen any Snuff movies, babe?" he starts, words colliding on the top of his breath, "Because if you did, you'd witness the dissecting of human beauty layer by layer, until there's nothing beautiful in a coat of skin laying on a slaughterhouse's floor. That's beautiful in its very being. You can see someone naked without the fear of blushing nor having an erection."
Frankie's words cascaded as his lips trailed the other boy's ear. "There's beauty in the lack of it."
The whispers, the scent of his skin, that voice; it all registered into Pete's mind as his arms held him up higher, fearing that the stirring boy will slip and break something. Something other than what's already broken.
"The ugly in the beautiful is always beautiful, but the beautiful in the ugly is never beautiful."
Frankie's words are the ones dancing now, flirting with wasted thoughts and tired sanity in the shape of relentless rambles, reeking of alcohol and bone-white powder. Hero Pete doesn't understand what Frankie's slurring now; why did he care for words that didn't even make sense?
It was like that every night; that boy just thrashed and thrashed and thrashed around the place under the dim lights, living off of sweat and hungry stares, until he left. He was beautiful, as everyone saw, but with that kind of beauty came a price; redundant scary giggles and groping unstable hands. And no-one was sure if they could afford it.
And before Pete knew it, he had left the bruised stack of dancing marionette bones to slide on the floor and walked away.
He didn't care that much.
Last edited by fraudulent zodiac- on Mon 13 Oct 2008, 7:31 am; edited 1 time in total (Reason for editing : checked: zodiac.)
Heartswell.- Red Scare
-
Number of posts : 637
Age : 34
Location : On your back.
Re: (c) Dancing Bruises; M.
by Heartswell. Tue 14 Oct 2008, 4:22 pm
The Saint With the Used Boys.
Chapter Two.
This was the second night; and Frankie was there, looking worse than the night before; eyes wide and unsettling surrounded with ill-patterned violet, clumsily hidden under peachy creams and powders.
Pete just stared at him now, standing next to one of the fluorescent-blue highlighted walls Frankie would dance with. He saw him last night, on that glaring stage, and he swore that the kid playing guitar with all his heartbeat and strings was nothing like this broken hurricane of a human-being.
That boy wasn't like this walking shell beating itself over nothing and everything... but yet again he didn't know much about Frankie.
Just that he's the guy with the beaten heart and body that plays guitar with every last ounce of passion dripping from his soul; and that's why he looks so drained when he goes dancing his crazy dance.
It wasn't a dance really, just aimless moves with no order, crazy crazy strange moves that meant nothing; but it had a... it had a rhythm, it had this hypnotizing feel; you can't stop watching his wild un-choreographed dance. How flashes of those pink-red slim hips would protrude through moving fabric, how his sweat-damp locks would swirl in seductive black around his lips and cling helplessly to his creamy complexion.
Now he's throwing green-glimmering glances at the brown-eyed boy avoiding preying hands and intoxicated slutty cackles. The only boy who ever left Frankie Iero hanging and sprawled on the filthy floors between restless feet untouched.
Nobody doesn't touch Frankie. It was either take Frankie home or get out of the way.
Nobody ever ever leaves him intact.
That boy... that boy with the brown eyes and the Nightmare Before Christmas tattoos was different. He didn't look right through him like the rest of them did; he didn't drape long sticky gazes along every taut inch of his body like he was a faceless whore. His looks resembled gleams of faded interest and concern, instead of smirking wanting apathy.
They were different. He was different.
And for the first time in his not-so-glamorous life, Frankie was scared.
Not that kind of scared, the good kind, the one you have before almost tripping over yourself on your way to the scorching spotlights.A good kind of scared.
And he didn't like that. No he didn't. Nobody likes that shine when the sun comes up, especially if they loved the dark.
It made him feel empty; because no boy left Frankie unharmed.
Not even if they wanted to.
*
Frankie's hovering to the boy huddled with shadows and hollow conversations; he's throwing himself into his arms like a sunny schoolgirl high on crystal-meth, preparing fractured random information and words on his tongue, useless information that hung around buzzing between the blurs of his thoughts and realizations.
Frankie's clinging to Pete's neck like it was a frozen safety rope in hell, but Pete doesn't mind; he doesn't do anything, doesn't fight him back or shrug him off. He just waited for words to tickle his ear.
"Why do you stare?" They come out whispered, raspy and harsh. "Why do you always stare, Wentz?" And that voice is all over his head now, penetrating every fold of stacked grey-matter and every sense that got a hold of it. He could hear, feel, smell and taste the need in that voice; the voice of that vacant crust of a human-being, knelling from the inside only to amuse deaf ears.
"Why don't you attack?" his rotten whispers hiss.
The shades don't let the curved smirk show, "Not a fan of used boys."
"Ain't you a fucking saint?" His chapped lips are digging into Pete's neck, skin moist with dewy breaths.
"And you're the little devil with the broken horns." He props up the small boy from slipping from his hands; so wet and so clammy.
"You know better than that, Wentz. I see you. I know those looks..."
"And I see you, too... but I don't know much. " He hides his truthful words under coats and coats of newly-surfaced apathy. He doesn't really know the boy that's grasping to his veins and vertebras with all his fucking might and bare-bone fingers.
"Wanna know more than you ever wanted?" Frankie's fingertips are lacing with the hems of the crisp cotton shirt adhering to his lower body.
Gently, he's mouthing giddy chuckles between cracked exhales onto the other boy's flesh, thoughts and other words popping and bursting before they reached his throat like doomed bubbles in crystal-blue whirlpools.
Pete knew it when he felt sneaking spider hands run all over his back and sweat-clad spine; hands overflowing with stinging agility aiming to cripple his words; Frankie's little way of hoping he'd cave in through prickles and prickles of goosebump shocks clogging his mind. That semi-disbanded group of weightless limbs was on its way to engulfing him and every care he had.
Not that he had any.
"Claws off, kid." A smirking lead singer strutted into the frame of clashing wills, hazel-green eyes scrutinizing the two bodies each careless in its own way; one who's flipping off the world and the second flipping through the other's eyes.
"Well, well if it isn't Mr. Buzzkill." Frankie's eyes rolled along with that upturned corner of his mouth, scrawny arms still wrapped up around the bassist's neck.
"Wasn't Mr. Buzzkill last night." The lead singer's smug impression was almost carved into his lips as he flung heedful glances towards Pete's cornered status in an all-too-knowing manner.
"Fuck you." Was all fell off of Frankie's mouth as he disregarded the seemingly unwanted company. "I'm still waiting for my answer." His lopsided smile twisted and turned as he glanced back between the two pairs of brown and hazel adding, "So if you feel like answering... you know where I'm dancing." Waves of shivers ran across gasping bones and ribs as the younger boy's throat reverberated against his own, enticing and inviting in its velvety texture as it invaded his ears so closely once more.
And with that Frankie's little arms let him loose before he twirled on his heel and went dancing within the piles of skimpy outfits and raging hormones.
All what was left for Pete now was a bulge in the pants and two pair of eyes torching holes to his skull. "Slut's got you all worked up." A vaguely murmured sentence skulked into his ear.
"What?" A hoarse question dropped out into the air between, a voice so disfigured by breathlessness he barely realized it was his own.
"Frankie."
"Oh."
Damndamndamn. He didn't care, he didn't care, he didn't fucking care about Frankie-fucking-Iero.
It was scary how this was all dawning on him like a blow to head; spark and rainbows shining like a thousand suns before his eyes. He just wanted to know why Frankie was dancing like he is now. Orderless and chaotic acts against similar reckless beings.
"Frankie's a drug, Wentz. Kills you as you consume it. Put that in mind next time you're hanging around here," Hazel Eyes mumbled lighting up a cigarette lying between his lips as he passed the distant boy.
Kills?
That's why he was interested in his little crazy dances; they're the dance of death; distracts you long enough as he eats you up alive like skeleton-pearled acid.
He just stood there, images whirring by his eyesight as he focused on the blur of black hair and pink flesh clothed in streaks of navy blue and black.
Why?
Chapter Two.
This was the second night; and Frankie was there, looking worse than the night before; eyes wide and unsettling surrounded with ill-patterned violet, clumsily hidden under peachy creams and powders.
Pete just stared at him now, standing next to one of the fluorescent-blue highlighted walls Frankie would dance with. He saw him last night, on that glaring stage, and he swore that the kid playing guitar with all his heartbeat and strings was nothing like this broken hurricane of a human-being.
That boy wasn't like this walking shell beating itself over nothing and everything... but yet again he didn't know much about Frankie.
Just that he's the guy with the beaten heart and body that plays guitar with every last ounce of passion dripping from his soul; and that's why he looks so drained when he goes dancing his crazy dance.
It wasn't a dance really, just aimless moves with no order, crazy crazy strange moves that meant nothing; but it had a... it had a rhythm, it had this hypnotizing feel; you can't stop watching his wild un-choreographed dance. How flashes of those pink-red slim hips would protrude through moving fabric, how his sweat-damp locks would swirl in seductive black around his lips and cling helplessly to his creamy complexion.
Now he's throwing green-glimmering glances at the brown-eyed boy avoiding preying hands and intoxicated slutty cackles. The only boy who ever left Frankie Iero hanging and sprawled on the filthy floors between restless feet untouched.
Nobody doesn't touch Frankie. It was either take Frankie home or get out of the way.
Nobody ever ever leaves him intact.
That boy... that boy with the brown eyes and the Nightmare Before Christmas tattoos was different. He didn't look right through him like the rest of them did; he didn't drape long sticky gazes along every taut inch of his body like he was a faceless whore. His looks resembled gleams of faded interest and concern, instead of smirking wanting apathy.
They were different. He was different.
And for the first time in his not-so-glamorous life, Frankie was scared.
Not that kind of scared, the good kind, the one you have before almost tripping over yourself on your way to the scorching spotlights.A good kind of scared.
And he didn't like that. No he didn't. Nobody likes that shine when the sun comes up, especially if they loved the dark.
It made him feel empty; because no boy left Frankie unharmed.
Not even if they wanted to.
*
Frankie's hovering to the boy huddled with shadows and hollow conversations; he's throwing himself into his arms like a sunny schoolgirl high on crystal-meth, preparing fractured random information and words on his tongue, useless information that hung around buzzing between the blurs of his thoughts and realizations.
Frankie's clinging to Pete's neck like it was a frozen safety rope in hell, but Pete doesn't mind; he doesn't do anything, doesn't fight him back or shrug him off. He just waited for words to tickle his ear.
"Why do you stare?" They come out whispered, raspy and harsh. "Why do you always stare, Wentz?" And that voice is all over his head now, penetrating every fold of stacked grey-matter and every sense that got a hold of it. He could hear, feel, smell and taste the need in that voice; the voice of that vacant crust of a human-being, knelling from the inside only to amuse deaf ears.
"Why don't you attack?" his rotten whispers hiss.
The shades don't let the curved smirk show, "Not a fan of used boys."
"Ain't you a fucking saint?" His chapped lips are digging into Pete's neck, skin moist with dewy breaths.
"And you're the little devil with the broken horns." He props up the small boy from slipping from his hands; so wet and so clammy.
"You know better than that, Wentz. I see you. I know those looks..."
"And I see you, too... but I don't know much. " He hides his truthful words under coats and coats of newly-surfaced apathy. He doesn't really know the boy that's grasping to his veins and vertebras with all his fucking might and bare-bone fingers.
"Wanna know more than you ever wanted?" Frankie's fingertips are lacing with the hems of the crisp cotton shirt adhering to his lower body.
Gently, he's mouthing giddy chuckles between cracked exhales onto the other boy's flesh, thoughts and other words popping and bursting before they reached his throat like doomed bubbles in crystal-blue whirlpools.
Pete knew it when he felt sneaking spider hands run all over his back and sweat-clad spine; hands overflowing with stinging agility aiming to cripple his words; Frankie's little way of hoping he'd cave in through prickles and prickles of goosebump shocks clogging his mind. That semi-disbanded group of weightless limbs was on its way to engulfing him and every care he had.
Not that he had any.
"Claws off, kid." A smirking lead singer strutted into the frame of clashing wills, hazel-green eyes scrutinizing the two bodies each careless in its own way; one who's flipping off the world and the second flipping through the other's eyes.
"Well, well if it isn't Mr. Buzzkill." Frankie's eyes rolled along with that upturned corner of his mouth, scrawny arms still wrapped up around the bassist's neck.
"Wasn't Mr. Buzzkill last night." The lead singer's smug impression was almost carved into his lips as he flung heedful glances towards Pete's cornered status in an all-too-knowing manner.
"Fuck you." Was all fell off of Frankie's mouth as he disregarded the seemingly unwanted company. "I'm still waiting for my answer." His lopsided smile twisted and turned as he glanced back between the two pairs of brown and hazel adding, "So if you feel like answering... you know where I'm dancing." Waves of shivers ran across gasping bones and ribs as the younger boy's throat reverberated against his own, enticing and inviting in its velvety texture as it invaded his ears so closely once more.
And with that Frankie's little arms let him loose before he twirled on his heel and went dancing within the piles of skimpy outfits and raging hormones.
All what was left for Pete now was a bulge in the pants and two pair of eyes torching holes to his skull. "Slut's got you all worked up." A vaguely murmured sentence skulked into his ear.
"What?" A hoarse question dropped out into the air between, a voice so disfigured by breathlessness he barely realized it was his own.
"Frankie."
"Oh."
Damndamndamn. He didn't care, he didn't care, he didn't fucking care about Frankie-fucking-Iero.
It was scary how this was all dawning on him like a blow to head; spark and rainbows shining like a thousand suns before his eyes. He just wanted to know why Frankie was dancing like he is now. Orderless and chaotic acts against similar reckless beings.
"Frankie's a drug, Wentz. Kills you as you consume it. Put that in mind next time you're hanging around here," Hazel Eyes mumbled lighting up a cigarette lying between his lips as he passed the distant boy.
Kills?
That's why he was interested in his little crazy dances; they're the dance of death; distracts you long enough as he eats you up alive like skeleton-pearled acid.
He just stood there, images whirring by his eyesight as he focused on the blur of black hair and pink flesh clothed in streaks of navy blue and black.
Why?
Heartswell.- Red Scare
-
Number of posts : 637
Age : 34
Location : On your back.
Re: (c) Dancing Bruises; M.
by proust. Wed 22 Oct 2008, 7:35 pm
I can't remember how long ago I promised to read and review this.
I must sincerely apologize for my lack of time, energy and just mood to do so.
Because you need to be in a certain frame of mind to be able to read, understand and feel Fatma's writing style. It's something purely emotional, something you can just taste, it has a certain scent. There are many writers -both new and old, I don't think its something exclusively mibbian/iarian- who try to make their writing seem interesting, intelligent, even beautiful by adding useless words, words with no meaning and no face to their stories. It's wrong and if you still write your stories by looking up the longest words for the simplest feelings in a thesaurus please stop. I've read this book, and yes I am aware of the fact that I'm rambling completely off-topic now, I hope Fatma will find it in her heart to forget me for this one too, out the material condition of poetry. A very passionate conservator literary critic -historian and philologist for that matter- was explaining how for a poem to be a true poem, an original lyrical text the words in it need to spark in the mind of the readers images [visual, acoustic, tactile and others], because those images are the essence of poetry rather than the words.
So, I've rambled.
Truth is, this story sends shivers down my spine more than most stories I've read. More than all my favorite stories, well favorite stories so far. There's beauty in the lack of it. Yes, yes there is. This story is so full of grueling beauty, it takes over your mind, step by step, you start seeing the characters, you start seeing skeletons dancing in front of your eyes -very much like the Medieval Danse Macabre, I think, I've always been scared to dead of it, anyway, so I might and must be just me- you start making connections, assumptions, questions. You wonder if people like Pete and Frankie truly exist, if they live and breathe the way they do in the story, because the story sounds so horrifyingly true and honest, they must exist, they must.
I've always been a huge fan of AU -well not always, I wasn't a fan of fanfiction until I stumbled upon a few well-written AUs, so really AU is the reason why I even bother to read fanfiction, and I love the possibility, how it makes the characters real by making them unreal. You read about a heroic Pete Wentz, you can see him before your eyes so much better than a heroic don Quixote -for example- because you've seen Pete Wentz, you know that he exists and that he is very much like the character. Or if not you make him be very much like the character anyway. I am certain that from now on I won't be able to distinguish clearly from Hero Pete and Pete Wentz.
There's beauty in the lack of it.
I love this story so much, I don't think I can say any more about it. I'd just ruin it.
If I haven't already. @_@
I can't wait for Fatma's first published book.
I can but hope I'll find some bits of Dancing Bruises in it, but she'll probably come up with something better soon enough.
I must sincerely apologize for my lack of time, energy and just mood to do so.
Because you need to be in a certain frame of mind to be able to read, understand and feel Fatma's writing style. It's something purely emotional, something you can just taste, it has a certain scent. There are many writers -both new and old, I don't think its something exclusively mibbian/iarian- who try to make their writing seem interesting, intelligent, even beautiful by adding useless words, words with no meaning and no face to their stories. It's wrong and if you still write your stories by looking up the longest words for the simplest feelings in a thesaurus please stop. I've read this book, and yes I am aware of the fact that I'm rambling completely off-topic now, I hope Fatma will find it in her heart to forget me for this one too, out the material condition of poetry. A very passionate conservator literary critic -historian and philologist for that matter- was explaining how for a poem to be a true poem, an original lyrical text the words in it need to spark in the mind of the readers images [visual, acoustic, tactile and others], because those images are the essence of poetry rather than the words.
So, I've rambled.
Truth is, this story sends shivers down my spine more than most stories I've read. More than all my favorite stories, well favorite stories so far. There's beauty in the lack of it. Yes, yes there is. This story is so full of grueling beauty, it takes over your mind, step by step, you start seeing the characters, you start seeing skeletons dancing in front of your eyes -very much like the Medieval Danse Macabre, I think, I've always been scared to dead of it, anyway, so I might and must be just me- you start making connections, assumptions, questions. You wonder if people like Pete and Frankie truly exist, if they live and breathe the way they do in the story, because the story sounds so horrifyingly true and honest, they must exist, they must.
I've always been a huge fan of AU -well not always, I wasn't a fan of fanfiction until I stumbled upon a few well-written AUs, so really AU is the reason why I even bother to read fanfiction, and I love the possibility, how it makes the characters real by making them unreal. You read about a heroic Pete Wentz, you can see him before your eyes so much better than a heroic don Quixote -for example- because you've seen Pete Wentz, you know that he exists and that he is very much like the character. Or if not you make him be very much like the character anyway. I am certain that from now on I won't be able to distinguish clearly from Hero Pete and Pete Wentz.
There's beauty in the lack of it.
I love this story so much, I don't think I can say any more about it. I'd just ruin it.
If I haven't already. @_@
I can't wait for Fatma's first published book.
I can but hope I'll find some bits of Dancing Bruises in it, but she'll probably come up with something better soon enough.
proust.- New Recruit
-
Number of posts : 385
Age : 32
Location : on page 143
Re: (c) Dancing Bruises; M.
by Heartswell. Sun 26 Oct 2008, 3:39 pm
OMG I DELETED THIS CHAPTER AND RE-EDITED IT ACCIDENTLY
anyways i jusy ly Andy ;-; ;-;
anyways i jusy ly Andy ;-; ;-;
Lucky Number.
Chapter Three.
This is the third night and he's getting sick of it here. So sick of the moves, the dances, the bodies clawing at each other's last bits of emotions and integrity.
But he's waiting now; waiting for his golden-plated boy with the chipping elbows to strap himself to his neck and waist and mutter nonsensical babble on his head. Hopefully an answer would merge from within that usually aggressive flood of words.
Frankie's there; a streak of sensual red and black swirling around like a panicked whirlwind. He's there but so so lost like a puppy in a dog hound.
And that's a part of it; so he doesn't look so dazed and confused, like a lover with no heart and a heart with no pulse.
Frankie was so lost and that was part of the puzzle; his frustrating facade of teasing straps of flesh and incredulous brashness that set him out as an attractive leech, nothing less, nothing more.
A sweet sweet parasite bathing in a high voltage shower of rainbow lights.
He's watching hazel eyes watch the small body sunken within masses of candy-coated dancing bones. Somehow Frankie's body was so painfully prominent between the other animated forms; an only dancing bruise.
He'd dance into walls, he'd dance into boys, he'd dance into girls, he'd dance within anything that'd break him and paint him with uncaring brushes. He's just a smudge on someone's pants or a taste in some girl's mouth. Just a piece of candy gone sour and a painting so abstract it just repels anyone unable to understand it.
A blunt "Why?" left Pete's lips after he felt the familiar touch of warm skin against him, registering the sight of the tattoo-tainted Frankie swerving between frolicking figures to grasp onto him, with panting pink lips parted into an elusive grin. A grin that soon faded as the younger boy stared at him
uncomprehending looks pouring from his indecisive greens.
"Why?" Pete repeated, holding Frankie's stiffening body with the boozed-up glances shooting all over his face. "Why do you dance like this every night? Till you're painted black and blue?"
Silence landed between them as Frankie chewed on his bottom lip and his words before retorting back, "Why?"
It was Wentz's turn for shooting confused glances.
"Why do you wanna know?" Frankie's teeth lets his lower lips loose when he senses it seeping droplets of rusty carmine onto his taste buds.
"Because... I do," came the response. He couldn't let that cursed I care to glide down his lips.
"Figures." the boy with the drawn out features mutters, a hesitant bitter smile losing its temper and surfacing upon his lips.
"What?"
"I knew there was a reason behind that occupied haunted stare in your eyes; the reason you didn't fuck around like everyone else." The corner of his mouth is upturned now in half a smile, devouring his olden facial expression. "I'm just a question to you, right?" The pace of his moves thickens.
Pete could only feel the twirls of confusion and embarrassment flooding through his stomach and ears which caused the dark-haired boy on his arms to smile. A genuine smile that practically lit his face up. And with that smile he let go adding, "You should stick around this time and maybe... maybe then you'll get your answers 'cause you know... third time's the charm."
"Always the fucking charm." Pete mutters as he sees the hastily scribbled digits across his palm.
Then it all crashes down on him once more: he cared about this boy, but not in the way he intended to.
"Always."
Chapter Three.
This is the third night and he's getting sick of it here. So sick of the moves, the dances, the bodies clawing at each other's last bits of emotions and integrity.
But he's waiting now; waiting for his golden-plated boy with the chipping elbows to strap himself to his neck and waist and mutter nonsensical babble on his head. Hopefully an answer would merge from within that usually aggressive flood of words.
Frankie's there; a streak of sensual red and black swirling around like a panicked whirlwind. He's there but so so lost like a puppy in a dog hound.
And that's a part of it; so he doesn't look so dazed and confused, like a lover with no heart and a heart with no pulse.
Frankie was so lost and that was part of the puzzle; his frustrating facade of teasing straps of flesh and incredulous brashness that set him out as an attractive leech, nothing less, nothing more.
A sweet sweet parasite bathing in a high voltage shower of rainbow lights.
He's watching hazel eyes watch the small body sunken within masses of candy-coated dancing bones. Somehow Frankie's body was so painfully prominent between the other animated forms; an only dancing bruise.
He'd dance into walls, he'd dance into boys, he'd dance into girls, he'd dance within anything that'd break him and paint him with uncaring brushes. He's just a smudge on someone's pants or a taste in some girl's mouth. Just a piece of candy gone sour and a painting so abstract it just repels anyone unable to understand it.
A blunt "Why?" left Pete's lips after he felt the familiar touch of warm skin against him, registering the sight of the tattoo-tainted Frankie swerving between frolicking figures to grasp onto him, with panting pink lips parted into an elusive grin. A grin that soon faded as the younger boy stared at him
uncomprehending looks pouring from his indecisive greens.
"Why?" Pete repeated, holding Frankie's stiffening body with the boozed-up glances shooting all over his face. "Why do you dance like this every night? Till you're painted black and blue?"
Silence landed between them as Frankie chewed on his bottom lip and his words before retorting back, "Why?"
It was Wentz's turn for shooting confused glances.
"Why do you wanna know?" Frankie's teeth lets his lower lips loose when he senses it seeping droplets of rusty carmine onto his taste buds.
"Because... I do," came the response. He couldn't let that cursed I care to glide down his lips.
"Figures." the boy with the drawn out features mutters, a hesitant bitter smile losing its temper and surfacing upon his lips.
"What?"
"I knew there was a reason behind that occupied haunted stare in your eyes; the reason you didn't fuck around like everyone else." The corner of his mouth is upturned now in half a smile, devouring his olden facial expression. "I'm just a question to you, right?" The pace of his moves thickens.
Pete could only feel the twirls of confusion and embarrassment flooding through his stomach and ears which caused the dark-haired boy on his arms to smile. A genuine smile that practically lit his face up. And with that smile he let go adding, "You should stick around this time and maybe... maybe then you'll get your answers 'cause you know... third time's the charm."
"Always the fucking charm." Pete mutters as he sees the hastily scribbled digits across his palm.
Then it all crashes down on him once more: he cared about this boy, but not in the way he intended to.
"Always."
Last edited by Heartswell. on Tue 28 Oct 2008, 3:39 pm; edited 1 time in total
Heartswell.- Red Scare
-
Number of posts : 637
Age : 34
Location : On your back.
Re: (c) Dancing Bruises; M.
by Heartswell. Tue 28 Oct 2008, 3:36 pm
The Boy In the Dark.
Chapter Four.
Third time's the charm. Third time's the charm. Third time's the charm.
He's been tossing and turning within the empty lonely sheets for a while now, battling unborn monsters and queasy fears bursting from the back of his head and the barrier of fantasy and reality; all mixed with that harrowing feeling of self-induced loneliness. A feeling so hauntingly familiar to Pete that it hurts; a feeling that hadn't come up since the night everything tore itself apart; the first night of the aftermath where he felt so alone, so deathly alone and without a shred of flickering light to guide him from the hole he had thrown himself in, gnashing on his perfectly carved smile and every I'm sorry his ears consumed.
Just a question to you with rotten breaths and indecisive greens.
The boy in his dreams is bleeding and spilling his guts all over the marble floors and he's screaming his lungs away as he almost tastes the bloody rust spread across his arms and cotton-clad chest soaked red. The rusty calloused taste is thickening over his fingertips and clothes as he's drinking up the sight splattered across the thready nerves adorning his retinas.
You're just a poor little boy who can't cry, Wentz. The boy of his dreams is coughing blood and laughing his dead ass off as his bowels mix on the floor, climbing out of that grinning gash puckered like cherry-dyed lips revealing rib-long teeth and yellow bowel-puke; right next to the door with the flickering light bulb. One, two, three, four, eleven; he's missing a rib that's leaving this big big wide space in his side like an ugly lost tooth ruining a magazine Hollywood smile.
All a scary scarring nightmare that runs through his mind every night and breaks down his sleep into a non-existent memory of insomnia and mouthfuls of bitter-grainy pills clawing their way down his stubborn esophagus; dry as a towel and spiky as a cactus it felt after each capsule and each compressed-powder remedy.
He needed sleep, no doubt. But the boy in the dream had raging-sea-black skull-eyes hollow enough to suck the soul from you, suck any will to rest and feel at peace with the universe. Eyes very much like the ones hiding behind Frankie's sallow eyelids; the dyed-eyelids that looked dead-white under the rapidly changing club lights, where he'd dance, dance and dance until the lights made no sense to both of them; dancer and viewer. And those pieces of boneless flesh would merge into mindless and unsaved kisses.
That boy had him now; he had him good.
Good.
He's an innocent little dancing doll with claws in his eyes that tunnel deep in your eyes.
Oh fuck.
He's curling into his unwanting bed again and holding back all those feelings gushing through his insides as the glossy black and white of the night climbed through his mirror casting reflections of dull moonlight against his walls and his eyes followed. Like a little boy with a larger than life imagination creating beasts across his walls and monsters under this bed. He was knocked out back into that rocky state of mind only panic can grant; his eyes were creating monsters on the ceiling, on the walls through the mirror and through the shadows; even dancing on the tip of his fingers with cherry lips and impaled grins. His eyes made those trickling beams of moonlight seem like headlights chasing him into the dark and waiting. Waiting to run him over and leave his body a matted minced rug onto the floor.
It's the illusions, the fantasies, the nightmares that never stay in your head.
If he fell asleep flashes and ribbons of bleeding colors choke his mind and pin him down so he'd never wake up, and if he wakes up slaps and metal beatings are the ones who'd never let him sleep.
He was in limbo and he needed a catalyst to face the headlights or never wake up. And maybe... maybe those twirling shameless bones were the answer.
Chapter Four.
Third time's the charm. Third time's the charm. Third time's the charm.
He's been tossing and turning within the empty lonely sheets for a while now, battling unborn monsters and queasy fears bursting from the back of his head and the barrier of fantasy and reality; all mixed with that harrowing feeling of self-induced loneliness. A feeling so hauntingly familiar to Pete that it hurts; a feeling that hadn't come up since the night everything tore itself apart; the first night of the aftermath where he felt so alone, so deathly alone and without a shred of flickering light to guide him from the hole he had thrown himself in, gnashing on his perfectly carved smile and every I'm sorry his ears consumed.
Just a question to you with rotten breaths and indecisive greens.
The boy in his dreams is bleeding and spilling his guts all over the marble floors and he's screaming his lungs away as he almost tastes the bloody rust spread across his arms and cotton-clad chest soaked red. The rusty calloused taste is thickening over his fingertips and clothes as he's drinking up the sight splattered across the thready nerves adorning his retinas.
You're just a poor little boy who can't cry, Wentz. The boy of his dreams is coughing blood and laughing his dead ass off as his bowels mix on the floor, climbing out of that grinning gash puckered like cherry-dyed lips revealing rib-long teeth and yellow bowel-puke; right next to the door with the flickering light bulb. One, two, three, four, eleven; he's missing a rib that's leaving this big big wide space in his side like an ugly lost tooth ruining a magazine Hollywood smile.
All a scary scarring nightmare that runs through his mind every night and breaks down his sleep into a non-existent memory of insomnia and mouthfuls of bitter-grainy pills clawing their way down his stubborn esophagus; dry as a towel and spiky as a cactus it felt after each capsule and each compressed-powder remedy.
He needed sleep, no doubt. But the boy in the dream had raging-sea-black skull-eyes hollow enough to suck the soul from you, suck any will to rest and feel at peace with the universe. Eyes very much like the ones hiding behind Frankie's sallow eyelids; the dyed-eyelids that looked dead-white under the rapidly changing club lights, where he'd dance, dance and dance until the lights made no sense to both of them; dancer and viewer. And those pieces of boneless flesh would merge into mindless and unsaved kisses.
That boy had him now; he had him good.
Good.
He's an innocent little dancing doll with claws in his eyes that tunnel deep in your eyes.
Oh fuck.
He's curling into his unwanting bed again and holding back all those feelings gushing through his insides as the glossy black and white of the night climbed through his mirror casting reflections of dull moonlight against his walls and his eyes followed. Like a little boy with a larger than life imagination creating beasts across his walls and monsters under this bed. He was knocked out back into that rocky state of mind only panic can grant; his eyes were creating monsters on the ceiling, on the walls through the mirror and through the shadows; even dancing on the tip of his fingers with cherry lips and impaled grins. His eyes made those trickling beams of moonlight seem like headlights chasing him into the dark and waiting. Waiting to run him over and leave his body a matted minced rug onto the floor.
It's the illusions, the fantasies, the nightmares that never stay in your head.
If he fell asleep flashes and ribbons of bleeding colors choke his mind and pin him down so he'd never wake up, and if he wakes up slaps and metal beatings are the ones who'd never let him sleep.
He was in limbo and he needed a catalyst to face the headlights or never wake up. And maybe... maybe those twirling shameless bones were the answer.
Heartswell.- Red Scare
-
Number of posts : 637
Age : 34
Location : On your back.
Re: (c) Dancing Bruises; M.
by Heartswell. Thu 30 Oct 2008, 6:09 am
Doormat Body.
Chapter Five.
He never did call. And Frankie was scared already. They always did.
Twirling his bones around in those baby-blue sheets, he pulled his limbs together and sat up right, rubbing those tired orbs of his and flicking the strings of flawless black away from his sight.
He eyed the still silent body sprawled next to him, exhaling and inhaling all yesterday's memories away. That's what they did. Inhaled and exhaled him like a one-shot thing, a cancer-packed nothing thrown under their heels and stomped into the ground.
But it's not like he minded.
He was just this big-eyed joint that was passed around between strangers he never cared to know. Just let them take a whiff and have a taste then move on; away from instant pleasure. It wasn't like he was being selfish and having all the fun. He was the one spreading joy in his own way. This way they'll never have to deal with heart-break; he's like their own little Santa Claus. Making everyone happy through tearing up his body.
Slowly, Frankie twisted out of those suffocating sheets, stained of sweat, booze and God knows what, to let his bare feet meet the unwelcoming cold of the floors that was more like needles and shards of searing dry-ice planted there to remind him that home was far far away and alien like a stranger's frigid heart. His small defined frame stood as he forlornly scanned the grounds for any familiar piece of clothing until he found his simple attire piled up in a messy bundle near an equally messy heap of darker fabrics.
At least it's clean this time. A faint smile eroded his past feelings as he swooped his shirt and began to pull it on; no rush. It's not like someone's out for your neck.
No-one's gonna shoot Santa Claus. Even if he's a little bit different than the rest of us.
*
Some times, at night, I just wake up to kiss you on the lips and see if you're still real.
That's the last bit of any sincere emotion Frankie could ever remember. It draws a smile and a smirk all over his lips at the same time, because that very same sweet talker said those words over and over like a broken record that's finally gone insane. A broken record on its last leg and a noose around its throat. Last sincere words, pretty much a suicide note.
Just like that. Come home, tired as hell, fucker's gotta bullet through his skull and no pulse at all.
And nothing else to say.
Frankie sighs and blinks away old scenes of messes and screams; the past died and he didn't.
There's got to be a bright side to that. Everything's gotta reason, right?
First night, cry yourself to sleep on the floor. Second night, ask why God's fucked you over and didn't take your worthless life instead. Third night, you get pissed at the lazy fucker who was too weak to hold on and fucking try to dig his way through life like you're doing. Fourth night, you're lost and confused and crying altogether. Fifth night, you want to kill yourself and meet the bastard in hell. Sixth night, you're still crying. Seventh night, your tears dry out. Eighth night, you give up and lose it.
Ninth night, you go dancing.
And he's fucked everything in sight so the image of that sweet-talking ghost would lose itself through all the sweat and the dim lights. But it always came back at the end of the night; no matter how hard he tried.
Even though each crease and sin in his body has been unfolded and re-folded numerous times by now, he still had that stupid stupid childish glint in his eyes. The one that said 'don't leave me alone' but instead they did just that; so he began to do the opposite: leave them before they left him.
And now he's doing just that; leaving the stack of blood and oxygen sleeping back in its own baby-blue sheets as he skulked down the allies and just thought. Just wishful thinking, like in the movies, that he'd find his prince charming that would love him and love him and squeeze his little bones out of their joints and sockets and light his hips on fire. Just wishful thinking.
He never really had any friends, except his band. Apart from a few casual fucks with Hazel Eyes, they were the purest people to him; the only ones he could lend his trust even just for a little while. He never listened to them, though. Frankie just kept doing the shit he kept doing the past months and going nowhere. He stopped caring when he smelled rust on his clothes and gunpowder on his bed.
He's sighing now as he sees home. His numb numb home where the circle begins all over. Just gotta change then wait till the sun dies down.
Then Frankie's gonna dance until his bones rot.
Chapter Five.
He never did call. And Frankie was scared already. They always did.
Twirling his bones around in those baby-blue sheets, he pulled his limbs together and sat up right, rubbing those tired orbs of his and flicking the strings of flawless black away from his sight.
He eyed the still silent body sprawled next to him, exhaling and inhaling all yesterday's memories away. That's what they did. Inhaled and exhaled him like a one-shot thing, a cancer-packed nothing thrown under their heels and stomped into the ground.
But it's not like he minded.
He was just this big-eyed joint that was passed around between strangers he never cared to know. Just let them take a whiff and have a taste then move on; away from instant pleasure. It wasn't like he was being selfish and having all the fun. He was the one spreading joy in his own way. This way they'll never have to deal with heart-break; he's like their own little Santa Claus. Making everyone happy through tearing up his body.
Slowly, Frankie twisted out of those suffocating sheets, stained of sweat, booze and God knows what, to let his bare feet meet the unwelcoming cold of the floors that was more like needles and shards of searing dry-ice planted there to remind him that home was far far away and alien like a stranger's frigid heart. His small defined frame stood as he forlornly scanned the grounds for any familiar piece of clothing until he found his simple attire piled up in a messy bundle near an equally messy heap of darker fabrics.
At least it's clean this time. A faint smile eroded his past feelings as he swooped his shirt and began to pull it on; no rush. It's not like someone's out for your neck.
No-one's gonna shoot Santa Claus. Even if he's a little bit different than the rest of us.
*
Some times, at night, I just wake up to kiss you on the lips and see if you're still real.
That's the last bit of any sincere emotion Frankie could ever remember. It draws a smile and a smirk all over his lips at the same time, because that very same sweet talker said those words over and over like a broken record that's finally gone insane. A broken record on its last leg and a noose around its throat. Last sincere words, pretty much a suicide note.
Just like that. Come home, tired as hell, fucker's gotta bullet through his skull and no pulse at all.
And nothing else to say.
Frankie sighs and blinks away old scenes of messes and screams; the past died and he didn't.
There's got to be a bright side to that. Everything's gotta reason, right?
First night, cry yourself to sleep on the floor. Second night, ask why God's fucked you over and didn't take your worthless life instead. Third night, you get pissed at the lazy fucker who was too weak to hold on and fucking try to dig his way through life like you're doing. Fourth night, you're lost and confused and crying altogether. Fifth night, you want to kill yourself and meet the bastard in hell. Sixth night, you're still crying. Seventh night, your tears dry out. Eighth night, you give up and lose it.
Ninth night, you go dancing.
And he's fucked everything in sight so the image of that sweet-talking ghost would lose itself through all the sweat and the dim lights. But it always came back at the end of the night; no matter how hard he tried.
Even though each crease and sin in his body has been unfolded and re-folded numerous times by now, he still had that stupid stupid childish glint in his eyes. The one that said 'don't leave me alone' but instead they did just that; so he began to do the opposite: leave them before they left him.
And now he's doing just that; leaving the stack of blood and oxygen sleeping back in its own baby-blue sheets as he skulked down the allies and just thought. Just wishful thinking, like in the movies, that he'd find his prince charming that would love him and love him and squeeze his little bones out of their joints and sockets and light his hips on fire. Just wishful thinking.
He never really had any friends, except his band. Apart from a few casual fucks with Hazel Eyes, they were the purest people to him; the only ones he could lend his trust even just for a little while. He never listened to them, though. Frankie just kept doing the shit he kept doing the past months and going nowhere. He stopped caring when he smelled rust on his clothes and gunpowder on his bed.
He's sighing now as he sees home. His numb numb home where the circle begins all over. Just gotta change then wait till the sun dies down.
Then Frankie's gonna dance until his bones rot.
Heartswell.- Red Scare
-
Number of posts : 637
Age : 34
Location : On your back.
Re: (c) Dancing Bruises; M.
by Heartswell. Sun 04 Jan 2009, 4:20 pm
The Cat Affect.
Chapter six.
Numbers smash into his eyesight as he recalls Frankie's name, Frankie's lips, Frankie's hasty handwriting and it's just a parade of FrankieFrankieFrankie and more FrankieFrankieFrankie and shit, he still didn't care that much.
He's just stuck in denial, denial and more denial. He just didn't want to admit it. He never cared for anyone like Frankie -dancers and whores and used people- but Frankie... oh he didn't dance to any beat. Not like every dancerwhoreusedperson. He danced to invisible beats drawn out in his head and his body; his body language. It was obscene, dirty, vulgar yet, sweetly broken down into fragile signs and gestures scattered across every living sanguine muscle laid across his twirling bones. He leaked desperation and wanted to fill himself up with attention, attention and more attention.
Pete didn't want to care for him but he did. He still wanted to know what made Frankie dance.
The number that was on his hand days ago had faded out with every look he gave it until it tattooed itself into his brain matter. And every time he peered into his mind it almost begged him to call; the zeroes and the fours and the fives all smiled at him brightly, smiles that almost lit his eyes on fire. Cat-got-the-canary smiles.
That's when he knew he couldn't stop his fingers from pinching those numbers.
It was all for Frankie and his larger than life smile.
Frankie's messing with his head and scrambling his thoughts and sprinkling static and confusion all over everything he's doing now; a TV screen without a picture or sound, only dots of black and white drowning in grey waves and indistinguishable racket. He couldn't think, he couldn't sleep, he couldn't even take a breath without inhaling Frankie's name and eyes mingled between every little gas atom in the air; a new kind of pollution. It's in the air, it's in his pores, it's in his blood. He's being poisoned by Frankie and every number he marked on his skin. And he's helpless; a baby dipped in boiling ammonia by his own mother.
Pete's sighing now, looking past his walls, past his common sense, past his feelings and he bites his words before he even lets them loose. He didn't care, he didn't want this, he just wants to know.
"Fuck..." he swore under his breath, holding onto his cell phone. This is a mess waiting to happen. Curiosity killed the cat, didn't it?
Click, one, click, two, click, crash, click, you're, click, suffocating, click, don't, click, stupid, click, don't.
Remember the dead cat? Ringringring and you hear his voice. Cat's got your tongue? So so many cats come into mind, they're not as nice and cute as the ones you see in pictures or cartoons. They're not as stupid. They're just curious evil things that stab you in the back, just like Tom.
He's suffocating and stumbling on his letters and sentences; speechless for Frankie Iero.
"... Frankie?"
Remember the cat?
Chapter six.
Numbers smash into his eyesight as he recalls Frankie's name, Frankie's lips, Frankie's hasty handwriting and it's just a parade of FrankieFrankieFrankie and more FrankieFrankieFrankie and shit, he still didn't care that much.
He's just stuck in denial, denial and more denial. He just didn't want to admit it. He never cared for anyone like Frankie -dancers and whores and used people- but Frankie... oh he didn't dance to any beat. Not like every dancerwhoreusedperson. He danced to invisible beats drawn out in his head and his body; his body language. It was obscene, dirty, vulgar yet, sweetly broken down into fragile signs and gestures scattered across every living sanguine muscle laid across his twirling bones. He leaked desperation and wanted to fill himself up with attention, attention and more attention.
Pete didn't want to care for him but he did. He still wanted to know what made Frankie dance.
The number that was on his hand days ago had faded out with every look he gave it until it tattooed itself into his brain matter. And every time he peered into his mind it almost begged him to call; the zeroes and the fours and the fives all smiled at him brightly, smiles that almost lit his eyes on fire. Cat-got-the-canary smiles.
That's when he knew he couldn't stop his fingers from pinching those numbers.
It was all for Frankie and his larger than life smile.
Frankie's messing with his head and scrambling his thoughts and sprinkling static and confusion all over everything he's doing now; a TV screen without a picture or sound, only dots of black and white drowning in grey waves and indistinguishable racket. He couldn't think, he couldn't sleep, he couldn't even take a breath without inhaling Frankie's name and eyes mingled between every little gas atom in the air; a new kind of pollution. It's in the air, it's in his pores, it's in his blood. He's being poisoned by Frankie and every number he marked on his skin. And he's helpless; a baby dipped in boiling ammonia by his own mother.
Pete's sighing now, looking past his walls, past his common sense, past his feelings and he bites his words before he even lets them loose. He didn't care, he didn't want this, he just wants to know.
"Fuck..." he swore under his breath, holding onto his cell phone. This is a mess waiting to happen. Curiosity killed the cat, didn't it?
Click, one, click, two, click, crash, click, you're, click, suffocating, click, don't, click, stupid, click, don't.
Remember the dead cat? Ringringring and you hear his voice. Cat's got your tongue? So so many cats come into mind, they're not as nice and cute as the ones you see in pictures or cartoons. They're not as stupid. They're just curious evil things that stab you in the back, just like Tom.
He's suffocating and stumbling on his letters and sentences; speechless for Frankie Iero.
"... Frankie?"
Remember the cat?
Heartswell.- Red Scare
-
Number of posts : 637
Age : 34
Location : On your back.
Re: (c) Dancing Bruises; M.
by Heartswell. Sun 04 Jan 2009, 4:21 pm
Rollercoaster Life.
Chapter seven.
He called.
And Frankie's over the fucking moon. He's swimming with the stars and he's lost for words and he's everything else that he's never been. It's like someone shot him in the head during sex and it's just... an everlasting moment; a moment frozen in time like the climax of your last day to live or seeing a pretty face just before blacking out. He's seeing all these stars now, he can taste the glitter and the shine and every bit of light that took over his head; is it lust? Is it happiness? Is it a feeling known to mankind? He didn't know, only that it's a feeling he wanted to embrace to the very last moment in time.
Santa's gonna spread more joy now.
Pete didn't say much though; just that he wanted to see him and Frankie exploded after the tone.
It felt like... some kind of warped victory. Triumph in it's finest moment, but at the same time it wasn't. This was winning the battle; winning the war wasn't going to be as easy.
Frankie was already set to go; hips and bones reassembled and ready with his moves nonexistent.
So he's just lying there soaking in the moment; an orgasm on Pause; and he's thinking; something never really came in his favor because... he just figured out the same things and revelations over and over again.
He's leading an empty life and going nowhere. Just rising and falling, rising and falling like his bony chest is right now. He has nothing to do and nothing to live for. It was always music, love, music, love, music, love but love's shot itself dead, didn't it? And it fucking hurt when it did; more than scraping the skin off a third degree burn; skin grows back as scar tissue; hearts can't afford that kind of luxury.
It's always intact or broken, pulled out or shoved back in. No middle ground. No middle ground he could find at least. So he's just hanging around in mid-air; still in love with memories and writhing in his sleep when it comes to reality.
Truth is, he's a dreamer. Every bad thing that happens is just a nightmare that goes away with a blink of an eye; even if it still hung out in the background of everything. Blink and dance. That's how it went for him. Frankie has his little shell to hide in like everyone else. Surprise, surprise.
He has little boxes where he stashes his secrets and truths just like a normal human being. He just knows how to hide them away like a good boy should. Don't speak of the past and it won't chase you down.
Except in his case it did chase him down; he just learned to live with ghosts, invisible blood stains and the shadows that crawl up his room and his arms tracing every move he makes. He ignores the eyes watching him; they watched him in his sleep, in his wake, they drove him to tears and to the edge night after night. Until he couldn't take it. Instead of two eyes setting him aflame, why not a hundred? He's already a goner.
That was on the ninth night. And he's been dancing ever since. He still feels those eyes pulling and flaying at the back of his head, but it's less painful with crowds and crowds blocking him out and ripping him apart. He's a pretty little boy dancing his heart out to them, a moral-free treat for the eyes and the hands. He didn't mind.
"Going out again?" A deadpan plead creeps into his head. Dead, jealous, pissed; he could never really tell.
"Yeah..." he replies, still lying down, splayed and pinned by his own thoughts; an animal, a corpse, a numb girl waiting for dissection.
"When?" The questions are always the same.
"When the time's right." And the answers never change.
Hazel Eyes glares at him, standing in the middle of the living room, opposite the boy with the distant face who lied there with nothing but infinity on his mind.
"Do you like this, Frankie? Being useless?"
"Do you?"
"Seriously, Frankie... do you?"
The same questions.
"I'm not useless. I just have a different way of helping."
The answers never change.
"You need to live a real life at some point."
"Life is real as you want it to be." What's not real about floating around icy waters avoiding the ice bergs?
"Stop fucking around." Interesting choice of words. "Get your balls back and be a person again."
Footsteps, footsteps and insults walked out of the door and Frankie doesn't care.
How can you be a person again? He's flesh and blood, he has a soul, he moves and breaks like every person. Be a person again? Hazel Eyes doesn't understand a word he's saying.
People don't be; they're born. And if you stop being a person, there's no way back.
Unless you get reborn of course.
Maybe that's what this special day and that call was. God's way of a rebirth. It took two people to bring him to life and it will take one to revive him.
Chapter seven.
He called.
And Frankie's over the fucking moon. He's swimming with the stars and he's lost for words and he's everything else that he's never been. It's like someone shot him in the head during sex and it's just... an everlasting moment; a moment frozen in time like the climax of your last day to live or seeing a pretty face just before blacking out. He's seeing all these stars now, he can taste the glitter and the shine and every bit of light that took over his head; is it lust? Is it happiness? Is it a feeling known to mankind? He didn't know, only that it's a feeling he wanted to embrace to the very last moment in time.
Santa's gonna spread more joy now.
Pete didn't say much though; just that he wanted to see him and Frankie exploded after the tone.
It felt like... some kind of warped victory. Triumph in it's finest moment, but at the same time it wasn't. This was winning the battle; winning the war wasn't going to be as easy.
Frankie was already set to go; hips and bones reassembled and ready with his moves nonexistent.
So he's just lying there soaking in the moment; an orgasm on Pause; and he's thinking; something never really came in his favor because... he just figured out the same things and revelations over and over again.
He's leading an empty life and going nowhere. Just rising and falling, rising and falling like his bony chest is right now. He has nothing to do and nothing to live for. It was always music, love, music, love, music, love but love's shot itself dead, didn't it? And it fucking hurt when it did; more than scraping the skin off a third degree burn; skin grows back as scar tissue; hearts can't afford that kind of luxury.
It's always intact or broken, pulled out or shoved back in. No middle ground. No middle ground he could find at least. So he's just hanging around in mid-air; still in love with memories and writhing in his sleep when it comes to reality.
Truth is, he's a dreamer. Every bad thing that happens is just a nightmare that goes away with a blink of an eye; even if it still hung out in the background of everything. Blink and dance. That's how it went for him. Frankie has his little shell to hide in like everyone else. Surprise, surprise.
He has little boxes where he stashes his secrets and truths just like a normal human being. He just knows how to hide them away like a good boy should. Don't speak of the past and it won't chase you down.
Except in his case it did chase him down; he just learned to live with ghosts, invisible blood stains and the shadows that crawl up his room and his arms tracing every move he makes. He ignores the eyes watching him; they watched him in his sleep, in his wake, they drove him to tears and to the edge night after night. Until he couldn't take it. Instead of two eyes setting him aflame, why not a hundred? He's already a goner.
That was on the ninth night. And he's been dancing ever since. He still feels those eyes pulling and flaying at the back of his head, but it's less painful with crowds and crowds blocking him out and ripping him apart. He's a pretty little boy dancing his heart out to them, a moral-free treat for the eyes and the hands. He didn't mind.
"Going out again?" A deadpan plead creeps into his head. Dead, jealous, pissed; he could never really tell.
"Yeah..." he replies, still lying down, splayed and pinned by his own thoughts; an animal, a corpse, a numb girl waiting for dissection.
"When?" The questions are always the same.
"When the time's right." And the answers never change.
Hazel Eyes glares at him, standing in the middle of the living room, opposite the boy with the distant face who lied there with nothing but infinity on his mind.
"Do you like this, Frankie? Being useless?"
"Do you?"
"Seriously, Frankie... do you?"
The same questions.
"I'm not useless. I just have a different way of helping."
The answers never change.
"You need to live a real life at some point."
"Life is real as you want it to be." What's not real about floating around icy waters avoiding the ice bergs?
"Stop fucking around." Interesting choice of words. "Get your balls back and be a person again."
Footsteps, footsteps and insults walked out of the door and Frankie doesn't care.
How can you be a person again? He's flesh and blood, he has a soul, he moves and breaks like every person. Be a person again? Hazel Eyes doesn't understand a word he's saying.
People don't be; they're born. And if you stop being a person, there's no way back.
Unless you get reborn of course.
Maybe that's what this special day and that call was. God's way of a rebirth. It took two people to bring him to life and it will take one to revive him.
Heartswell.- Red Scare
-
Number of posts : 637
Age : 34
Location : On your back.
Re: (c) Dancing Bruises; M.
by Heartswell. Sun 04 Jan 2009, 4:23 pm
Schytzophrenic Santa.
Chapter eight.
He's here and he's trying not to care. It's harder than it looks but he's holding up as he spots little Frankie twirling out of bodies, out of wrangling hearts and onto his sight.
"You showed up." Frankie's smiling and it's out of this world. Just kept getting brighter and brighter as he stood there.
"You didn't think I'd ditch you, did you?" Pete's smiling too, smiling so wide; he wants his smile to shine just as bright as Frankie's. He's only trying to shineshineshine just as Frankie was doing.
"Kinda thought you would actually." And he just stood there and Pete just smiled as he smiled.
Not like the first, second and third nights here. No swinging arms clinging to necks, no elusive dialogue, just smiles.
"What made you think that?" he asks, eyes looking back at Frankie, peering beneath every motion and twitch tightening its grip over his slightly trembling body.
"A hunch." His expression dims into a lopsided smile and he looks around. He's never seen Frankie so stable before. He's never been so calm and so frail since he first laid eyes on him.
He was always dancing. Dancing and dancing and pushing everything and everyone away like he's the oil and the world's the water; separating himself from all of the shit, sweat and beating malicious veins. Even when he spoke; he had this serpentine way of moving his tongue to form words, you couldn't help to watch those lips create those words. Like watching an artist mix colors and pick canvases to splash bits of his soul across; fishing inside himself and catching the writhing spine that never budged.
"Well, it was only a hunch."
"Actually... no. It wasn't only a hunch." Frankie looks around again. Today's the rebirth; special day or not? Special boy or not? "People always... call, you know? The second night, they always do."
"Always?"
"Always." Frankie nodded, wearing that lopsided smile again. A child talking to a stranger not so strange. "When you didn't... I kinda figured out you weren't gonna."
"What's so special about me? I'm just a phone call to you, really."
"And I'm still just a question to you, right?" And that just shut him up. "And this is a real question. Am I? Am I just a question to you?"
Pete's mouth just kept contorting against itself, fighting to find a decent answer to a far than decent question, "Yeah. You are."
"Thought so. And don't feel bad; nothing better than an honest answer if you ask me. It's like a fresh breath of air." He kept looking around, shuffling his feet and avoiding contact with all the bodies staggering next to him, all radiating energy enough to power this whole building. Enough energy to blow up the whole city combined. "I don't think it's a bad thing. Mainly 'cause I stopped caring a while ago along with everyone I've met. You're kinda... different. You ask different questions, you want different answers and you don't really give until you're given. But that's just me assuming things about you. Wrong things, right things, even peculiar things but they're still guesses. Wanna confirm any of my rambles?"
"You don't think that's a bit too much to dump on a guy in a first date?" Pete's sticking to the wall now, dodging people and stares as he gazed at Frankie from head to toe. "and... thanks for the semi-compliment, I guess."
"... this is a date?"
"Well... what did you think it was?" He's shining and radiating nerves all over the place.
"A date..." Frankie looks at his feet, beyond his feet and at the ground and thinks. Special enough yet?
"A little too fast?" He never meant to care this way. A date? How the hell did he manage to slip out that word? Stupidstupidstupid. Remember the cat?
"I just assumed you wanted to... you know, see me." Santa Clause is in the headlights tonight; thawing into candycane strips of red and cotton wax.
"Just... see you? Without a reason?"
"It happens. More than I'd like to admit but it does." Santa's scared to death right now. What if he didn't have the right gift this time? What if he didn't want joy and happiness and everything he could give?
Pete's staring at Frankie's greens as they spilled over the floor, as if hiding from the glare of the lights. It's funny how he didn't notice how Frankie expanded with the lights, he grew bigger with the heat; in the dark he just shrinks and shrinks until he fits in your palms. Without the glamour of the fluorescent glow, he was just Frankie. Not Frankie Iero whose dancing was all over the place; just Frankie without the facade.
Frankie just shone under the lights. Every inch of him glowing a delicious baby-pink rather than the nonchalant fluorescent blue than hugged his locks; Frankie's heart and body were always doused blue when he's dancing, but when he's playing his guitars and writhing onstage -a sex addict shot in the dick- they're soaked in a most barbaric scalding yellow that keeps exploding in his eyes; almost like a bull in the middle of an arena. Doesn't give a fuck about the crowds, just the wild cheers and moves that piss off his colorblind fingers; ready to squeeze, squeeze and choke every stupid Kamikaze matador in his way; it didn't matter flesh or wood he got his hands over some necks and played with every tendon in his body.
Maybe that's why he craves the blues and pumping reds of the dancefloor? Pete thinks, desperately searching for the reason he came for before he ends up like any other boy for Frankie; entangled in him and his liquid-apple eyes and drained out.
"You still there?" Frankie's smiling at him, lips stretched out so wide they might as well be chiseled into his flesh. Not a skeleton smile, more like a halloween smile.
"Yeah... yeah. Just spaced out there..." Should've never done this.
"Stop thinking for a while, okay? At least when you're with me. This place doesn't need thinkers, it needs doers, Wentz." There's that larger-than-life smile again, but with a little hint of seduction.
"Doers, Frankie?" Well, if that's not suggestive...
"Dancing doesn't need brains, Wentz."
"I never did come for the dancing scene." Just for the dancers.
"So about our date... do you even know if I like boys? Maybe I don't, maybe I just like the attention?" he whispered, trailing a fingertip across his own inked arm.
I want to know everyfuckingthing about you.
"Who says that's a bad thing?"
I can give you all the attention you need if you tell me what I want.
They're walking from the lights now and all that's left from Frankie is his shadow with the gleaming eyes. "It's not a good thing exactly, especially if you're used to giving it." Santa Clause on drugs; so high and jolly.
"Attention's a cheap thing; it's everywhere, flooding our newspapers, magazines and TVs. All our gossiping words are attention, Frankie."
"Not my kind of attention." Sex-crazed Santa Clause.
And Pete flashes a smile with a little hint of seduction.
Chapter eight.
He's here and he's trying not to care. It's harder than it looks but he's holding up as he spots little Frankie twirling out of bodies, out of wrangling hearts and onto his sight.
"You showed up." Frankie's smiling and it's out of this world. Just kept getting brighter and brighter as he stood there.
"You didn't think I'd ditch you, did you?" Pete's smiling too, smiling so wide; he wants his smile to shine just as bright as Frankie's. He's only trying to shineshineshine just as Frankie was doing.
"Kinda thought you would actually." And he just stood there and Pete just smiled as he smiled.
Not like the first, second and third nights here. No swinging arms clinging to necks, no elusive dialogue, just smiles.
"What made you think that?" he asks, eyes looking back at Frankie, peering beneath every motion and twitch tightening its grip over his slightly trembling body.
"A hunch." His expression dims into a lopsided smile and he looks around. He's never seen Frankie so stable before. He's never been so calm and so frail since he first laid eyes on him.
He was always dancing. Dancing and dancing and pushing everything and everyone away like he's the oil and the world's the water; separating himself from all of the shit, sweat and beating malicious veins. Even when he spoke; he had this serpentine way of moving his tongue to form words, you couldn't help to watch those lips create those words. Like watching an artist mix colors and pick canvases to splash bits of his soul across; fishing inside himself and catching the writhing spine that never budged.
"Well, it was only a hunch."
"Actually... no. It wasn't only a hunch." Frankie looks around again. Today's the rebirth; special day or not? Special boy or not? "People always... call, you know? The second night, they always do."
"Always?"
"Always." Frankie nodded, wearing that lopsided smile again. A child talking to a stranger not so strange. "When you didn't... I kinda figured out you weren't gonna."
"What's so special about me? I'm just a phone call to you, really."
"And I'm still just a question to you, right?" And that just shut him up. "And this is a real question. Am I? Am I just a question to you?"
Pete's mouth just kept contorting against itself, fighting to find a decent answer to a far than decent question, "Yeah. You are."
"Thought so. And don't feel bad; nothing better than an honest answer if you ask me. It's like a fresh breath of air." He kept looking around, shuffling his feet and avoiding contact with all the bodies staggering next to him, all radiating energy enough to power this whole building. Enough energy to blow up the whole city combined. "I don't think it's a bad thing. Mainly 'cause I stopped caring a while ago along with everyone I've met. You're kinda... different. You ask different questions, you want different answers and you don't really give until you're given. But that's just me assuming things about you. Wrong things, right things, even peculiar things but they're still guesses. Wanna confirm any of my rambles?"
"You don't think that's a bit too much to dump on a guy in a first date?" Pete's sticking to the wall now, dodging people and stares as he gazed at Frankie from head to toe. "and... thanks for the semi-compliment, I guess."
"... this is a date?"
"Well... what did you think it was?" He's shining and radiating nerves all over the place.
"A date..." Frankie looks at his feet, beyond his feet and at the ground and thinks. Special enough yet?
"A little too fast?" He never meant to care this way. A date? How the hell did he manage to slip out that word? Stupidstupidstupid. Remember the cat?
"I just assumed you wanted to... you know, see me." Santa Clause is in the headlights tonight; thawing into candycane strips of red and cotton wax.
"Just... see you? Without a reason?"
"It happens. More than I'd like to admit but it does." Santa's scared to death right now. What if he didn't have the right gift this time? What if he didn't want joy and happiness and everything he could give?
Pete's staring at Frankie's greens as they spilled over the floor, as if hiding from the glare of the lights. It's funny how he didn't notice how Frankie expanded with the lights, he grew bigger with the heat; in the dark he just shrinks and shrinks until he fits in your palms. Without the glamour of the fluorescent glow, he was just Frankie. Not Frankie Iero whose dancing was all over the place; just Frankie without the facade.
Frankie just shone under the lights. Every inch of him glowing a delicious baby-pink rather than the nonchalant fluorescent blue than hugged his locks; Frankie's heart and body were always doused blue when he's dancing, but when he's playing his guitars and writhing onstage -a sex addict shot in the dick- they're soaked in a most barbaric scalding yellow that keeps exploding in his eyes; almost like a bull in the middle of an arena. Doesn't give a fuck about the crowds, just the wild cheers and moves that piss off his colorblind fingers; ready to squeeze, squeeze and choke every stupid Kamikaze matador in his way; it didn't matter flesh or wood he got his hands over some necks and played with every tendon in his body.
Maybe that's why he craves the blues and pumping reds of the dancefloor? Pete thinks, desperately searching for the reason he came for before he ends up like any other boy for Frankie; entangled in him and his liquid-apple eyes and drained out.
"You still there?" Frankie's smiling at him, lips stretched out so wide they might as well be chiseled into his flesh. Not a skeleton smile, more like a halloween smile.
"Yeah... yeah. Just spaced out there..." Should've never done this.
"Stop thinking for a while, okay? At least when you're with me. This place doesn't need thinkers, it needs doers, Wentz." There's that larger-than-life smile again, but with a little hint of seduction.
"Doers, Frankie?" Well, if that's not suggestive...
"Dancing doesn't need brains, Wentz."
"I never did come for the dancing scene." Just for the dancers.
"So about our date... do you even know if I like boys? Maybe I don't, maybe I just like the attention?" he whispered, trailing a fingertip across his own inked arm.
I want to know everyfuckingthing about you.
"Who says that's a bad thing?"
I can give you all the attention you need if you tell me what I want.
They're walking from the lights now and all that's left from Frankie is his shadow with the gleaming eyes. "It's not a good thing exactly, especially if you're used to giving it." Santa Clause on drugs; so high and jolly.
"Attention's a cheap thing; it's everywhere, flooding our newspapers, magazines and TVs. All our gossiping words are attention, Frankie."
"Not my kind of attention." Sex-crazed Santa Clause.
And Pete flashes a smile with a little hint of seduction.
Heartswell.- Red Scare
-
Number of posts : 637
Age : 34
Location : On your back.
Re: (c) Dancing Bruises; M.
by Heartswell. Sun 04 Jan 2009, 4:24 pm
Magnetic Pulls.
Chapter nine.
Frankie went home alone that night. And he's on the verge of tearing apart his last working nerve.
"I'm going to leave you for now." Pete whispers to the calm dancing bruise that had his inked arms over Pete's neck; the frozen safety rope dangling in the depths of their own darkened hell; their signature pose.
And Frankie's eyes go wide-open and his creeping fingers stop, "Why?"
"'Cause there's not gonna be a second one of these if we keep going," he answers, moving his hands over the flashes of Frankie's hips.
"You mean a date?" His eyes are still wide, looking more like a broken lightbulb by the second. Flickering back and forth hoping for a middle ground.
"You know it's not a date by now, Frankie." Then he left with his sharpened browns and goodbyes unsaid, leaving Frankie a stringy heap of wet veins and tangled thoughts thinking but you still didn't get your present yet.
Naive baby-voiced Santa Clause.
This was too much like the first night now.
And Frankie's head about to explode now.
He's on fire; why won't this one be just happy?
Why won't he just take what's thrown at him like any good boy would?
It just would go pass his common sense; why wouldn't he just take him?
*
He's onstage now and he's sweating his eyeballs off. Frankie's thrashing around and gasping and doing everything all at once. He's scraping at the floors, clawing at the metallic strings, shrieking off his vocal chords and it still wasn't enough for him. It never was enough. Just like the leech he was he always wanted more. He wanted to absorb the lights, the sweat, the blood and the emotion; all of it. He wanted the world to be a sepia heaven while he was the God with the bursting colors streaking his body and fancy fancy clothes.
But right now all he was thinking about is that failure: the boy with the retreating browns.
He ran away. He ran away before Frankie could make him happy. And that's all what was filling Frankie's skull at this moment.
Was he losing his touch?
Hell no; this boy just needed a new type of arm-twisting. Frankie didn't stop thinking for a fraction of a second as more lights pounded his irises.
Oh fuck. What if he's in the crowd?
That's when he forgot the next chord.
Frankie's looking through his sweat like a maniac at the crowd, ignoring the burn in his eyes.
That's how he ignored the rest of the song.
Then he saw the smile that strived to mimic his own on their date.
That's why he lost control and danced into the crowd. Just for hero Pete's eyes.
Chapter nine.
Frankie went home alone that night. And he's on the verge of tearing apart his last working nerve.
"I'm going to leave you for now." Pete whispers to the calm dancing bruise that had his inked arms over Pete's neck; the frozen safety rope dangling in the depths of their own darkened hell; their signature pose.
And Frankie's eyes go wide-open and his creeping fingers stop, "Why?"
"'Cause there's not gonna be a second one of these if we keep going," he answers, moving his hands over the flashes of Frankie's hips.
"You mean a date?" His eyes are still wide, looking more like a broken lightbulb by the second. Flickering back and forth hoping for a middle ground.
"You know it's not a date by now, Frankie." Then he left with his sharpened browns and goodbyes unsaid, leaving Frankie a stringy heap of wet veins and tangled thoughts thinking but you still didn't get your present yet.
Naive baby-voiced Santa Clause.
This was too much like the first night now.
And Frankie's head about to explode now.
He's on fire; why won't this one be just happy?
Why won't he just take what's thrown at him like any good boy would?
It just would go pass his common sense; why wouldn't he just take him?
*
He's onstage now and he's sweating his eyeballs off. Frankie's thrashing around and gasping and doing everything all at once. He's scraping at the floors, clawing at the metallic strings, shrieking off his vocal chords and it still wasn't enough for him. It never was enough. Just like the leech he was he always wanted more. He wanted to absorb the lights, the sweat, the blood and the emotion; all of it. He wanted the world to be a sepia heaven while he was the God with the bursting colors streaking his body and fancy fancy clothes.
But right now all he was thinking about is that failure: the boy with the retreating browns.
He ran away. He ran away before Frankie could make him happy. And that's all what was filling Frankie's skull at this moment.
Was he losing his touch?
Hell no; this boy just needed a new type of arm-twisting. Frankie didn't stop thinking for a fraction of a second as more lights pounded his irises.
Oh fuck. What if he's in the crowd?
That's when he forgot the next chord.
Frankie's looking through his sweat like a maniac at the crowd, ignoring the burn in his eyes.
That's how he ignored the rest of the song.
Then he saw the smile that strived to mimic his own on their date.
That's why he lost control and danced into the crowd. Just for hero Pete's eyes.
Author's Note: I lost some of this chapter, so there was supposed to be a bit of dialouge between Frankie and Hazel Eyes (in the first part) but I just can't remember it ;-; It was about the show (in the second part of the chapter) hence I felt that I needed to mention this to clarify the change in the scenery; it wasn't a significant part of the chapter so I left it out. >_>
Also, I'm not satisfied with this chapter at all. The next one is much better and a favorite of mine
Another note: the title might seem irrelevant but it refers to the second part. 'Cause I noticed that whenever Frankie and Pete are around each other something invisible seems to pull them towards the other >_>
Last edited by Heartswell. on Sun 04 Jan 2009, 4:26 pm; edited 1 time in total
Heartswell.- Red Scare
-
Number of posts : 637
Age : 34
Location : On your back.
Re: (c) Dancing Bruises; M.
by Heartswell. Sun 04 Jan 2009, 4:26 pm
Eat Up the Reel, the Movie's Done For.
Chapter ten.
Pete held up Frankie's pearly body with dazed arms and a drunken stumbling torso; he just held him up and crushed lips with the puppet boy in a first kiss that will give birth to others as they go on.
First sign of chaos: a first punch, a busted condom and morning sickness.
And Pete realized he just impregnated this relationship.
They're both perched against a highlighted wall and Frankie has his little toothpick legs wrapped around Pete's intoxicated middle and he's just aching for another touch. He's falling into this kiss and he doesn't want to get up again; he wants to choke between those lips and in this kiss. Die like no-one did before.
Pete's kissing Frankie like he's trying to dig up all his crippled demons and the searing hot reasons he's kissing Frankie for; the wolf impregnating the lamb to eat the embryo.
They're still glued to each other and it's a mental massacre. It's a bloody beating minus and the guts and the hate, instead, it just wears them down. It's the invisible internal bleeding that they won't dare show to anyone.
This is like the second night, only more physical and he's not the only one with the bulge.
He's holding onto Frankie's wrapped legs and letting the younger man's pearly hand feel him all over and cling to his very existence; a paperclip-thin little tiger who's fighting his way to what he wants in a forest of what he needs.
I'll give you what you want if you tell me what I need. Pete's head is throbbing with words and his body's throbbing with lust in contrast to his touch that shrilled with guilt. Can Frankie taste it yet?
Can he taste the bitterness and artificial candy-sweet concern?
Lithe hands roamed under his clothing and over his bones with Frankie's fire-hot lips invaded his neck. Nothing's happened yet, Wentz. You can still abort this; you can still kill this miscreation before it's alive. The cat never had a chance, you do.
But Frankie's lips are digging into him now; he's being poisoned by this little disaster who's slipping into his brain. All that's on his mind is get him on his back, get him on his knees, get into and break this pretty boy.
It's a mental massacre where necrophilia isn't out of the question. It's a movie played backwards where the reel pukes out all the edited grotesque actresses and their far than unique characters. And they were just more hatable than unique characters who're naked right now; even more than they were without their clothes.
They're two real unreal people who're too selfish to let go of what they want. Pete and Frankie can see what kind of character the other is. The first was the obsessed boy who was too much of a coward all of his life but when it comes to what he wants he'd jump mountains and drown himself in oceans of flames and sizzling pain; and Frankie's his polluted obsession this time. While the second one was the boy with the broken veins and complexes. When everyone calls themselves the antichrist, he stands out and becomes Santa Clause; just a bit more fucked up and used. Makes himself better by making everyone smile in his own way; it's not as selfless as you think, though. He's making cuts over his ego and letting all those boys and girls suck out the venom and enjoy it. At first sight, he's a leech. At last blink, he's a snake.
They're half naked now, clothes-wise, and Frankie's feet are back on the ground now but he's still high with arms over Pete's neck. Wanting those imaginary tattooed thorns to pierce his tiny arms to bit, perhaps?
Now Frankie's arms are sliding down as his fingers stagger towards Pete's belt; he's teasing and pulling at every small piece of attention he could get; and he starts losing a little bit of himself along the way every time this tape rolls.
"Let's..." Pete's breathless but he's trying to break his chained shallow moans into words just for Frankie's ears, "Just stick to above the waist, okay?"
The fuck? Frankie's liquid greens are bubbling with frustration, hurt and pure anger.
He was fucking livid.
No-one leaves Frankie intact; that was worse than twisting an arm to the breaking point and letting go, worse than an unfinished orgasm and a headless corpse flinching and squirting red life all over the place.
If you had the balls you'd do it.
Pete was terrified; plain and simple. He had this sinking feeling down at the pit of his stomach; like when you swallow a gallon of blood and you just can't puke it all up because of how good and sick it tastes.
His brain is falling apart under dancing boy's gaze and he's getting rid of every last bit of guilt through his pores and breaths.
But Frankie's fingers are just too fucking painful; grazing and digging into his skin, just like his acid green eyes now.
Frankie's fingers are sneaking beneath the belt loops and touching hidden skin now and Pete's just speechless as his own fingers start to slide away from the other boy.
Frankie's brain just worked his body on autopilot while he's registering all this hurt and anger; his gray-matter is bubbling like wax on Venus. Emotional meltdown might explain all the tears on Pete's clothes. Frankie felt like his bruises were all cracking and spilling lava as he paved his way through Pete's boxers; it would've felt better drinking kerosene; all the way to the point of flaming his own piss and insides.
He wouldn't have felt more fucked up than he did now.
Pete's just watching him without a word, lips hesitant to speak between every breath. Frankie stopped listening to him. his thoughts are crashing and canceling each other out as Frankie's hand tightens around him through the frail fabric of his underwear.
Fuck.
This relationship's just about to give birth.
And labor's a bitch, Wentz.
Chapter ten.
Pete held up Frankie's pearly body with dazed arms and a drunken stumbling torso; he just held him up and crushed lips with the puppet boy in a first kiss that will give birth to others as they go on.
First sign of chaos: a first punch, a busted condom and morning sickness.
And Pete realized he just impregnated this relationship.
They're both perched against a highlighted wall and Frankie has his little toothpick legs wrapped around Pete's intoxicated middle and he's just aching for another touch. He's falling into this kiss and he doesn't want to get up again; he wants to choke between those lips and in this kiss. Die like no-one did before.
Pete's kissing Frankie like he's trying to dig up all his crippled demons and the searing hot reasons he's kissing Frankie for; the wolf impregnating the lamb to eat the embryo.
They're still glued to each other and it's a mental massacre. It's a bloody beating minus and the guts and the hate, instead, it just wears them down. It's the invisible internal bleeding that they won't dare show to anyone.
This is like the second night, only more physical and he's not the only one with the bulge.
He's holding onto Frankie's wrapped legs and letting the younger man's pearly hand feel him all over and cling to his very existence; a paperclip-thin little tiger who's fighting his way to what he wants in a forest of what he needs.
I'll give you what you want if you tell me what I need. Pete's head is throbbing with words and his body's throbbing with lust in contrast to his touch that shrilled with guilt. Can Frankie taste it yet?
Can he taste the bitterness and artificial candy-sweet concern?
Lithe hands roamed under his clothing and over his bones with Frankie's fire-hot lips invaded his neck. Nothing's happened yet, Wentz. You can still abort this; you can still kill this miscreation before it's alive. The cat never had a chance, you do.
But Frankie's lips are digging into him now; he's being poisoned by this little disaster who's slipping into his brain. All that's on his mind is get him on his back, get him on his knees, get into and break this pretty boy.
It's a mental massacre where necrophilia isn't out of the question. It's a movie played backwards where the reel pukes out all the edited grotesque actresses and their far than unique characters. And they were just more hatable than unique characters who're naked right now; even more than they were without their clothes.
They're two real unreal people who're too selfish to let go of what they want. Pete and Frankie can see what kind of character the other is. The first was the obsessed boy who was too much of a coward all of his life but when it comes to what he wants he'd jump mountains and drown himself in oceans of flames and sizzling pain; and Frankie's his polluted obsession this time. While the second one was the boy with the broken veins and complexes. When everyone calls themselves the antichrist, he stands out and becomes Santa Clause; just a bit more fucked up and used. Makes himself better by making everyone smile in his own way; it's not as selfless as you think, though. He's making cuts over his ego and letting all those boys and girls suck out the venom and enjoy it. At first sight, he's a leech. At last blink, he's a snake.
They're half naked now, clothes-wise, and Frankie's feet are back on the ground now but he's still high with arms over Pete's neck. Wanting those imaginary tattooed thorns to pierce his tiny arms to bit, perhaps?
Now Frankie's arms are sliding down as his fingers stagger towards Pete's belt; he's teasing and pulling at every small piece of attention he could get; and he starts losing a little bit of himself along the way every time this tape rolls.
"Let's..." Pete's breathless but he's trying to break his chained shallow moans into words just for Frankie's ears, "Just stick to above the waist, okay?"
The fuck? Frankie's liquid greens are bubbling with frustration, hurt and pure anger.
He was fucking livid.
No-one leaves Frankie intact; that was worse than twisting an arm to the breaking point and letting go, worse than an unfinished orgasm and a headless corpse flinching and squirting red life all over the place.
If you had the balls you'd do it.
Pete was terrified; plain and simple. He had this sinking feeling down at the pit of his stomach; like when you swallow a gallon of blood and you just can't puke it all up because of how good and sick it tastes.
His brain is falling apart under dancing boy's gaze and he's getting rid of every last bit of guilt through his pores and breaths.
But Frankie's fingers are just too fucking painful; grazing and digging into his skin, just like his acid green eyes now.
Frankie's fingers are sneaking beneath the belt loops and touching hidden skin now and Pete's just speechless as his own fingers start to slide away from the other boy.
Frankie's brain just worked his body on autopilot while he's registering all this hurt and anger; his gray-matter is bubbling like wax on Venus. Emotional meltdown might explain all the tears on Pete's clothes. Frankie felt like his bruises were all cracking and spilling lava as he paved his way through Pete's boxers; it would've felt better drinking kerosene; all the way to the point of flaming his own piss and insides.
He wouldn't have felt more fucked up than he did now.
Pete's just watching him without a word, lips hesitant to speak between every breath. Frankie stopped listening to him. his thoughts are crashing and canceling each other out as Frankie's hand tightens around him through the frail fabric of his underwear.
Fuck.
This relationship's just about to give birth.
And labor's a bitch, Wentz.
Yeah, five chapters in one day
Heartswell.- Red Scare
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Number of posts : 637
Age : 34
Location : On your back.
I am Revolution :: Words :: Stories :: Fanfiction
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