holding hands with dark light

sleeping beauty: a modern retelling

Sat, 14 Apr 2007 20:25:45 GMT

Title: Sleeping Beauty: A Modern Retelling
Rating: PG-13; may change
Author: druscilla_way
Pairings: Ville/Bam; possible Jonne/Ryan; OMC/Bam
Disclaimer: I don’t own them or Sleeping Beauty. I own the words. Steal them [as people have done lately] and I will report/virtually maim/etc. you.
Author Notes: A retelling of Sleeping Beauty, though extremely stretched.
This is not a tacky Sleeping Beauty. It is an extremely modern metaphor that you have to stare at to understand the relation. I promise. And the first chapter's tone is different from most of the story.
Summary: Featuring Bam as Sleeping Beauty and Ville Valo as the Fair Prince.

Bam was the son of a Queen, Margaret Queen to be exact. She was the daughter of The Socialites and was forced to place the child up for adoption [send him away to the forest with fairies] after he was born. His court, Ryan Dunn and the two Brandons, accompany him on his walk to the gallows, also know as high school

Eventually he returns to the Kingdom he was banished from and falls into a deep sleep of sorts.

Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four

the serpent & the prey

Mon, 12 Mar 2007 22:36:51 GMT

2,607 words.

Title: The Serpent and the Prey
Author: druscilla_way
Rating: R
Pairing: Bam/Ville; Bam/Missy; Ryan/Jonne
Warnings: Rape
Disclaimer: I own nobody, but I own the words, except for the segment titles. Those are all lyrics taken from the song “Either Way” by Guster.
Summary: A dark drama told in seven segments: the mistake, the act, the truth, the confession, ‘I would have’, the end, and the apology.

Please, please give it a shot. The summary is pure shit, but the story’s pretty good I think.

Nobody wants a story like this dedicated to them, but thank you to musicophilia for the picture I needed.

The Serpent and the Prey

I.
Poison in Everything You Said

Bam left his fiancé for Ville, though not in the conventional way. Of course, which way is conventional when a boy falls in love with another boy? Bam did not leave his fiancé because Ville promised they would be together forever or because of a clumsy fuck on the terrace. Bam left his fiancé because Ville moved in and his school-boy fantasy couldn’t stand a woman he didn’t care for to be so close to the god he adored in his daydreams.

He was, oh, such a gentlemen about it, setting her up a bank account and getting her a house near her parents. He kissed her gently on the cheek. She slapped him across the face and threw her engagement ring in the gutter. He turned and walked back to his car, a smile trying not to flit across his face.

Ville was his now.

And only his.

Ryan and Jonne were two wrapped up in their own private world on the first floor to notice Bam’s increasing affection for the boy on the second. Theirs was a world of laughter, glitter, and sex noises heard throughout the house on quieter days.

Bam and Ville’s was a world of cigarettes, too much alcohol, not-so-drunken kisses, and Bam’s tears late at night. The younger, believing he was oh-so-smart and that no one had a clue. The older, a serpent, poised and awaiting the correct moment to strike.

Neither expected their fate, neither expected a merciful God and a messenger angel. One’s impossible daydream was a happily ever after; the other’s was much, much darker and much more possible.

II.
Were You Ever Kind, Were You Always Cruel?

It always seems to start during a thunderstorm, the beginning of the end. Sometimes the lights go out, but they didn’t in this case. Candles replaced glitter downstairs, but the laughter didn’t dissipate with the claps of thunder.

Upstairs alcohol had replaced alcohol and now Bam was half passed out on his bed, clad only in a pair of boxers. His eyes opened slightly when he heard the clunk of Ville’s beer bottle hitting the dresser. But they shut again almost immediately. “Dude, I’m too fuckin’ drunk for this shit.”

“Then I take it you won’t make a fuss, Bammie?” Ville’s smile was like that of the serpent. Too cruel, too insane, and completely in control. Bam’s eyes were still closed as Ville’s clothes fell to the ground. He didn’t open them until he felt Ville move over him, skin against skin. “Hello there.” Ville’s voice was leering, evil incarnate, a true flesh-and-blood demon. His fingers burnt Bam’s skin as they tugged his boxers down around his ankles. “Tell me you haven’t dreamt of this, darling, that you haven’t jerked off to this very moment.”

“Just go slow.” Bam said softly, eyes unsure but still brimming with trust. “I haven’t in awhile.” His eyes flickered toward his bedside table. “There’s lube in there, Ville.”

The older didn’t even look. Didn’t lick a finger, didn’t insert one into the boy beneath him. He simply thrust, pressing inward with all his strength.

Bam’s blue eyes flooded with pain as his face became nearly as pale as Ville’s. His lips trembled as he opened his mouth, but no words came out. His whole body began to tremble as his head moved a fraction of an inch to each side. Tears began to roll down his cheeks as Ville pulled out, only to thrust into him again savagely.

“No.” the younger managed to choke out. One word. The serpent laughed. Lips still trembling, Bam pressed a hand against Ville’s shoulder, shaking his head through the pain. “Not . . . in years . . . you’ll . . . tear me.”

Ville’s lips pressed against Bam’s ear. “Then you really ought to quit lying about your flings, love. People will think you’re a loose whore and try to take advantage.” He stared into Bam’s eyes as the younger boy sobbed. “You deserve it.”

With those three words, Bam’s head fell to the side. He stared at Ville’s wrist, eyes tracing the heart tattoo as his body continued to be tortured. The tears stopped and even when Ville tore him and the blood began to run down his thighs, Bam made no noise. He trembled, but he made no noise.

Ville came inside the younger boy, then pulled out. He put on his clothes without a word, turned and left.

Bam lay there for a moment, not thinking, barely breathing. He didn’t move to cover himself, didn’t cry out from the pain, didn’t call for help. There’s no telling how long he would have stayed that way if he hadn’t heard the door open. Wincing, he moved to try and pull up his boxers.

“Bam, Jonne and I heard Ville leave and—“ The voice froze. “Bam?”

The boxers were halfway up the boy’s legs, which were red from blood. He was lying in a puddle of it. It looked as though the bed were bleeding, not Bam.

“Jonne!” Ryan yelled, running to Bam. His fingers slide along Bam’s legs, looking for cuts. When he found none, his eyes widened in horror.

The blonde Finn appeared in the doorway. “Jesus Christ, Ryan, what the hell happened to him?”

“Call 911. Get an ambulance.”

Jonne’s cigarette fell to the floor. “Can’t we drive him there faster than they can get here?”

Ryan turned to look at his boyfriend. “They’re doctors. He’s sick. He needs a doctor.”

“People who are sick don’t bleed like that.” Jonne said, even as he was picking up Bam’s beside phone to place the call.

III.
Where Did You Learn, It’s Either Him or You?

They would release information to Bam’s next of kin. And as the boy had called off his engagement, at twenty-eight years old, the people who were still taking care of him were his parents. He heard his mother’s hushed voice as he woke up, keeping his eyes closed.

“He was raped.” She sounded as though she were crying.

“I know.” That was Ryan, his voice barely audible.

There were some quiet whispers, apparently from Jonne trying to comfort April.

“Ville was the last person to leave that room.” Ryan said finally. “We heard him leave and I went to check on Bam when he didn’t come back in.”

“Ville? That can’t be right.” April’s voice trailed off. “I always thought . . . they were lovers.” She looked at her son’s roommates. “Weren’t they?”

Jonne shook his head, leaning against Ryan, who brought an arm up around him. “Bam wanted Ville. Everyone knew that.”

“But Ville must have . . . who would put up with a school-girl crush like that if they didn’t?”

“He got off on it.” The voice was harsh, like a knife.

Then the voices grew silent.

IV.
Wonder What Difference Does it Make . . . Either Way?

Bam’s eyes opened slightly on instinct the second time he woke up. He saw his mother’s hand on the side of his bed, his father’s arm beside hers. He heard breaths behind him and knew either Ryan or Jonne, or both, were still there.

“Bam?” That was his mother’s voice.

The boy closed his eyes and said nothing.

“Bam? Sweetie?” No answer. “Are you feeling better? The doctor gave you something to help.”

“Was it Ville?”

“Ryan!”

No apology was issued. No answer was given.

“Ville’s probably in Finland by now,” Jonne murmured to his boyfriend, “so there’s no real reason to ask, is there?”

Bam turned so his head was in his pillow, pulling the sheets tighter to himself.

“I’ll kill him.” Bam heard Ryan say before there was a sound of tears and two sets of footsteps leaving the room.

Footsteps entered the room a silent three minutes later. “If you folks don’t mind, we’d like to ask him some questions alone.”

“Mom!” Bam reached out and grabbed April’s hand as both his parents stood to leave, cursing from the pain of moving his body so suddenly.

His mother sat down swiftly, holding tightly to her son’s hand as well. “Lay back down, Bam. You’ll only hurt yourself more. I won’t leave you, I promise. Now lay back down, sweetie.”

There was a silence as Bam did what his mother said for the first time in what would have been a longer time. “Now, Bam . . .” April’s voice was as gentle as the hand brushing her son’s curls out of his face. “Was it Ville?”

Silence.

“It’s really important that we know, Bam. Otherwise the cops won’t know who did it and they’ll have to start looking at other suspects. Ryan and Jonne both live with you, so they’ll be the next suspects.” It was a guilt trip from hell and April Margera didn’t feel at all comfortable with any of her words.

Bam’s hand twitched in hers.

“Was it Ville, Bam?”

He nodded.

V.
Don’t Let Me See That Other Side of You.

Ville had, in fact, made it back to Finland. Bam made it back to his house in a week. After that day in the hospital Bam showed no more affection toward his mother than anyone else, so she came by twice a day to check on him, leaving his general upkeep in the hands of Jonne and Ryan. It broke her heart, but Bam only hurt himself every time he pulled away from her.

There hadn’t been much glitter in the house since Ville left. Two days before Bam got discharged April had taken Jonne and Ryan aside and told them to get rid of every heartagram and H.I.M. artifact in the house, not knowing they had already started the seemingly impossible task. It looked as though someone had burglarized it.

Skateboard were missing, the heartagram sign was wrenched off the door. Ryan had driven the Heartagram car to the edge of the woods and left it there. The framed poster over the fireplace and the ones flanking Bam’s bed were gone. His bed had also been moved, replaced with another. April asked the hospital to wrap Bam’s wrist in gauze before he left so that her son wouldn’t have to see the heart tattoo he shared with his rapist.

The fourth day was the day Bam spoke. He looked up toward the left of his bed as Ryan came in. “Where is it?” he asked.

“We got rid of it.” Ryan said, sitting down on Bam’s bed. “We’ll have to go shopping when you get better. You have no stools, half your CDs are missing, we need something new to put over the fireplace, and you’re short a vehicle.”

Bam almost smiled. “I have his tattoos in my skin, Ryan. What do you want me to do about that?”

“They have laser surgery.”

Bam managed a small smile that time. “You know something?”

“I know lots of somethings.” Ryan said. “But probably not this one, so tell me.”

Bam’s smile got a bit bigger, but his eyes were still dark. “I loved him. I would have let him. I just wanted him to go slow. Use lube, prepare me, all that shit. I would have let him, Ry. He didn’t have to rape me.”

Ryan’s mouth opened, but Bam began to speak again.

“Do you think he was tricking me from the beginning? Do you think it was all leading up to this? I mean, he’s such a fucking good actor. Everyone thinks he’s this beautiful romantic. Even I did. How can that many people be so stupid, Ryan? How can he trick so many of us?”

“He’s a liar.” Ryan’s voice was soft. “He’s a liar and he’s good at it.”

Bam’s breath caught in his throat. “I would have let him. I loved him. I would have let him.”

No one knows how long they sat there like that, silent except for Bam trying not to cry and Ryan’s labored breathing.

“Where’s Jonne?” Bam asked finally.

“Finland.”

Bam sat up as much as he could, propping himself up on his elbows. His eyes were wide, his mouth slightly open. “What?! You let him go to Finland?”

Ryan nodded, looking on the sheets. “I had to. He needed it.”

“What’s he going to do?” Bam asked, eyes filling with tears. They both knew, but Ryan did the lying for them.

“I don’t know.”

VI.
I’ll Have to Wait to Get the Best of You.

It was the sixth day that Jonne came back. Ryan was sitting on Bam’s bed again and Bam was sitting up, leaning against too many pillows. The door opened and the Finnish blonde came in, smoking a cigarette. He leaned down to brush his lips against Bam’s forehead before sitting on his boyfriend’s lap and planting a kiss to Ryan’s lips.

“Doing better then?” he asked Bam. Two of his pink nails were chipped and one was broken.

“Did you see him?” Bam asked without answered.

Jonne paused for a moment, putting his cigarette out on the floor and fishing in his pocket for another, lighting it. “Yes. I rang him and asked him to meet me in a coffee shop. I asked him about what happened.”

“What did he say?”

Jonne’s fingers nearly dropped the cigarette. “Bastard laughed. Fucking laughed.”

Ryan’s eyes fell to the sheets and Bam’s filled with tears. “What happened then?”

“I propositioned him. We went to his place and I stabbed him with a kitchen knife ten times. I left him in a pile of his own blood, still alive, like he did you.”

“They’ll send you back!” Bam shrieked. “You’re not a citizen here! They’ll send you back!”

“No, they won’t. And, yes, I am.” Jonne pressed his cigarette to his lips. “I stopped and got married before I came back here.”

“Who the hell did you marry?” Ryan asked.

“Missy.” Jonne said.

“My ex-fiance?” Bam asked, dumfounded.

“Well, she was the only one who would have said yes.” Jonne said. “We’ll get divorced in a year or so. Irreconcilable differences.”

Bam’s eyes lowered. “Did she know about Ville?”

“Yes.”

Bam nodded. “Why don’t you guys go downstairs and have sex and stuff since Jonne’s back?”

“What are you going to do?” Ryan asked.

“Call her.”

“Missy?”

“Yes.” Bam sighed. “To thank her and talk to her. And since she’s married Jonne she better move in so the government doesn’t say Jonne only married her for a green card.”

“But he did.”

VII.
Why Give Away That Other Side of You?

“Missy?”

“Bam?” Missy’s voice flooded with relief and concern. “Are you all right? Jonne told me what happened. Oh, Bam, are you okay?”

“I will be. I just needed to tell you something.”

“It’s all right. I would have done the same thing he did.”

“. . . What?”

“Jonne? Weren’t you going to say something about the . . . what were you going to say, Bam?”

“I’m sorry.” Bam traced his fingers on his black sheets. “I’m sorry I broke off our engagement. I just . . . I guess I thought I . . . I did it because of Ville.” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “But I did love you. I still do. So I’m sorry for that, Missy. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

He could hear a smile. “I know, Bam. If you wanted to hurt me then you wouldn’t have taken care of me for so long.”

“So do you think . . . maybe someday you’ll be ready to . . . forgive me?”

“Yes.”

---Finished---

enough [for andie]

Sun, 11 Feb 2007 03:23:37 GMT

Title: Enough
Rating: PG
Pairing: Duh
Author: Moi
Summary: A thousand miles seems pretty far, but they've got planes and trains and cars
Dedication: This is for Andie, aka all_wound_up7. It's for her, it's about her.<333
Drabble

Enough

It’s been a long time.

His hands play a nervous beat on his kneecaps. Four thousand miles down, only another two million to go. It’s starting to lighten outside the airplane window, but the clouds are dark. His reflection looks at him, tired but not exhausted. In need of sleep, but not a break. He just wants to get home. Home. What a beautiful word.

It’s been too long.

He wakes up and walks around the empty house, making a pot of coffee and forgetting to put in the coffee. Lighting a cigarette without fire. Taking a shower without water. It’s oh so typical when the plane is oh so close. But not quite close enough. It’s starting to grow light outside and he can’t see a single cloud as he fishes around in a drawer for matches.

I won’t leave you again.

It’s an empty promise and both of them know that business will somehow pull them apart again. They’ll smile. It’s their life. If they didn’t have the chaotic schedules and the constant plane trips and music video shoots they wouldn’t have much of a life. They wouldn’t have each other.

I get in at five.

It’s never the right time and he knows this. Planes were created at the same time the word ‘delayed’ was. Runways are clocks with the wrong time. Vending machines and Starbucks are crack for loved ones stranded at the check point, waiting for the kiss or the hug or to see their new grandchild.

I’ll be there.

He holds his breath as the plane touches down; he’ll never get used to the sensation. He knows, while ignoring the stewardesses and the man still snoring two seats ahead of him, that there’s someone waiting at that gate for him. A pair of lips he hasn’t kissed in over three weeks, a pair of eyes he needs to stare into, a body his hands need to roam, a man he left behind.

I love you.

Ville’s arms close tight around the younger as Bam all but throws himself into the taller man. The kiss is ravenous, it’s gentle, it’s poetic, it’s arrogant, it’s cliché . . .

It’s a kiss.

It’s enough.

the lives on the screen

Sun, 11 Feb 2007 03:23:15 GMT

Title: The Lives on the Screen
Creator: druscilla_way
Song Used: "Disenchanted" by My Chemical Romance
Duration: 4:53
Genre: Drama
Summary: Basically, Bam and Ville fell apart through fights, anger, and ego. "You're just a sad song with nothing to say." "Because you never learned a god damn thing."
There's an accompanying story in the cut.
Link.

The Lives on the Screen

Let’s watch this once upon a time story, this once upon a fairy tale, this once upon a love . . . this prelude to heartbreak.

Now come the credits, the two lead characters and the supporting cast that watched the love come to the surface, the fights begin, the ego disperse, the beginning of the end.

Here’s your opening scene, a smile and a cigarette. A simple once upon a time hand on the arm, a secret-not-so-secret. The scene rolls on, a hand on the arm turns into two arms wrapped tightly around a close body before the lips find each other. It’s scalding, it’s smothering, it’s white-hot, it’s a scene that would never make it to the theatre.

The scenes before disaster. The happiness and the jokes, laughter and kisses. The scenes where one of the lead characters breaks two ribs and the other kisses him the entire way to the hospital. The scenes where they lie in bed and talk. The scenes where they watch TV and never make it to the end of a movie without reveling in the feel of each other.

Pre-disaster scene. One where you know it’s coming but the yells and the curses haven’t been thrown yet. You feel the tension, you see the glares, you notice the tears in one of the lead character’s darkened eyes. Except for the music in the background there’s no noise, aside from the tapping of fingernails on a kitchen counter.

The confrontation scene. The anger. The rawness of the moment. The chair being thrown and the yells, the screaming and a wall being punched. One curses violently at the other only to be met with insults and truths that can’t be denied, only spat on. No bloodshed, no tears. Not during this scene.

The flashing scene, where you see first one lead then the next. They’re in separate worlds, locked in the same hell, no where in sight of the other. One of them throws things. One of them breaks down and cries. They both end up asleep, exhausted from the anger and the pain built up inside of themselves.

The make-up scene. The kiss. The ‘I love you’. The sex.

Confrontation scene two. This time the lamp ends up against the wall, two inches from one of the lead’s heads. This time he’s rewarded with a slap and a scream and another insult. This time he throws one of his own back.

Confrontation scene three. This time it’s cursing and punches. This time it ends up in a black eye and a possible concussion. This time it ends up with a car peeling out. Cut to a shot of the tire marks.

The make-up scene. The shrug. The kiss. The walking to separate rooms.

Confrontation scene four. This time it’s screams and ego and truths and insults and lies. This time it’s accusations and a broken cell phone and an unformulated ‘get out’.

Confrontation scene five. This time it ends with a screamed ‘I hate you’ and a broken mirror.

The morning after scene. The one where only one of our lead characters wakes up in the house. The one where he discovers the other’s suitcase isn’t there, that his cell phone isn’t picking up, that there aren’t an extra set of shoes by the doorway.

The regret scene. The one where they both hate themselves and never say a word, trying to convince themselves it wasn’t their fault.

The final scene. Bam looks out his window every morning. Ville’s fingers begin to press the buttons on the phone but never make it to the last digit.

Roll credits.

the three-month blue jeans

Sun, 11 Feb 2007 03:22:05 GMT

2416 words.
Standalone.
Title: The Three-Month Blue Jeans
Author: druscilla_way
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance [some mini-drama; some humor]
Disclaimer: I have a goldfish named Ville and a hamster named Bam. They eat cookies and drink badger’s milk.
Author’s Note: This story was inspired by this thing I read about Ville saying he wore the same pair of jeans for four months straight . . . without washing them.
Summary: Ville was in West Chester, suddenly un-engaged and unable to work the washing machine. Bam was in West Chester, not so suddenly and not so subtly annoying the hell out of his best friend.

The Three-Month Blue Jeans

October.

“Bam, how do I work this thing?”

Ville was in the laundry room, staring at the buttons on the washing machine.

“How the fuck should I know?” Bam asked, poking his head in the door and crossing his arms. “Do I look like someone who does chores?”

“Didn’t April show you how to work it once?”

“Do I look like someone who would remember that?”

“You look like someone I’m about to deck.”

“PMS much?”

Ville glared at his best friend, pulling a pair of jeans out of the washer and putting them on. “Remind me why I’m here again.”

“Because you broke up with your fiancé and shouldn’t be in Finland brooding about it.”

“I wasn’t really brooding about it, Bammie, love.”

“Well, it’s an excuse to get you out here.”

“Since when do you need an excuse to get me out here?”

Bam opened his mouth to reply, then closed it, opening it once more before glaring at Ville and leaving the room. Ville heard the front door opening followed by ‘fucking Finnish fucker’ before it slammed again.

Truthfully, no one really knew why Ville was in West Chester. Bam hadn’t asked him to come and Ville hadn’t really planned it. He just walked into the airport one day and got a ticket for a couple days later. He showed up with a duffel bag and a carton of cigarettes.

Bam got him drunk after he heard about Jonna, then drug him to bed after Ville all but passed out from liquor and exhaustion. Ville, however, upon a waking up ten minutes later to vomit, crawled into bed with his best friend and fell asleep, pale but with a hint of a smile on his lips.

* * *

Ville was still in the same pair of jeans three days later, despite Bam saying he could just take them over to his parents’ house so April could wash them. ”Bam, you’re way too old to have your mother wash your clothes . . . or to stick your tongue out at me. Yes, I saw that.”

Bam had also decided that a swimming pool was as good as a washing machine and had pushed Ville into it twice that day. Vengeance is sweet, however, and Ville had grabbed Bam’s hand the second time he was pushed. It’s not warm enough in October to go swimming, so the pair were freezing as they hurried up to the house to immerse themselves in a jet of hot water.

Now they were both sitting on the couch watching ‘The Nightmare Before Christmas’ and drinking beer, Ville smoking a cigarette and Bam sneezing every ten minutes or so.

“You’re getting a cold.” Ville said, stating the obvious. “Pools in October aren’t a good idea, love.” The older boy left the room for a moment, returning with a heartagram blanket from Bam’s room, which he wrapped around the other boy’s shoulders.

“Well, why aren’t you sneezing then?” Bam asked irritably, wiping at his suddenly streaming eyes.

“Helsinki thermostat, Bammie. You’re just a pussy.” Ville teased, sitting down next to Bam and making sure the blanket was tight around him.

Bam wiped at his nose with the back of his hand. “If you would have washed your jeans, none of this would have happened.”

“You wouldn’t tell me how!”

“I told you to give them to Ape!”

Ville rolled his eyes and went to start a pot of coffee.

November.

It was the week before Thanksgiving and Ville was still in his unwashed jeans. Except for Bam forcing him into a bathtub fully clothed a few times they had been untouched by soap or water. April had literally tried to steal them to wash, but Bam had thwarted her, now interested in how long Ville would go without washing them.

Jonna had called a handful times and Ville would leave his cell phone open on the counter so his ex-fiancé was talking to air. It was a very ‘Bam thing’ to do according to several people, much to Ville’s amusement.

Jonna had called Bam’s home phone once and after the skateboarder had yelled at her to the point of reducing her to tears, she hadn’t called back. Ville still wouldn’t tell Bam who had done the breaking up or what the reason was, but he still found Bam’s telling off of Jonna one of the funniest things he’d ever heard.

Now, however, no one was on the phone. Ville and Bam were doing shots in the kitchen while the younger tried to get details from the Finn.

“Did she cheat on you?”

“No.”

“Did you cheat on her?”

“No.”

“Did you find out she used to be a man?”

“No.” Ville answered, amused.

“Are you going to say ‘no’ to every question I ask?”

Ville nodded, doing another shot. “Why do you want to know so much?”

“I want to know why I was yelling at the bitch for one. And why you guys broke up two weeks after you got the tattoo.” Bam reached out and traced his thumb over the inked ‘J’ on his friend’s ring finger. Ville pulled away abruptly, knocking his shot glass to the floor where it shattered. “Dude—“

Ville stood up, unsteadily due to the alcohol in his system. “I’m going to bed. Talk to me when you grow up.”

“Talk to me when you’ve pulled your head out of your ass.”

“Don’t talk to me.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you back.” Ville snapped, storming off.

* * *

“Go away.” Ville mumbled, pushing at Bam when the younger boy crawled into his bed later that night.

“No.” Bam said tiredly, forcing his way under the blankets. “It’s my house anyway.”

“You’re a bastard.” Ville said, refusing to open his eyes and look into Bam’s blue ones.

“That bad, huh?”

“I hate you.”

Bam sighed. “Go to sleep, Ville.” He slipped out from under the sheets and left, shutting the door behind him.

It was hours before either of them gave into fatigue.

When Ville woke up the next morning, Bam was sitting on the floor, his back against the door. “Hi.” the blue-eyed boy said quietly. Ville stared at him without saying anything. “Do you still hate me?”

“Almost.” Ville muttered.

“That’s good enough, I guess.” Bam said, lightly banging his head against the door. “Can you at least tell me if she’s a bitch?”

“No, I can’t.” Ville sat up, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

Bam stared at him. “Whatever.”

“It had to do with you.” Ville said after a pause.

Bam stood up and crossed the room, kneeling in front of Ville on the bed. “Me? What about me?”

“Didn’t I tell you enough?”

“No.” Bam said. “If I’m the reason you’re not getting married, I should know why.”

Ville leaned forward, resting his head against Bam’s chest. “I’ll tell you when you grow up.”

Bam’s hand gently ran though Ville’s hair. “Never, you mean?”

Ville sighed. “I need a drink.”

“All right.”

December.

Ville and Bam were at the mall, shopping for presents. Or rather, they were supposed to be shopping for Christmas presents, but instead were terrorizing people and buying things for themselves. Ville was still in his unwashed jeans, which had been attacked by the water sprayer on Bam’s sink a few times and earlier that day, in fact. He still hadn’t worn another pair.

“Fuck this.” Bam said suddenly. “I can shop online.” He grabbed Ville’s arm and pulled him through the mall, sticking his tongue out at a random old lady give him a once-over. Ville laughed, leaning in and whispering his friends ear: “I think you have a secret admirer, love.”

Bam let go of Ville and smacked the back of his head. “Fucker.”

Ville smirked. “Well, she looked your type.”

“Because my type has wrinkles like an elephant and tits that hang to her knees.”

“It’s not my fetish.”

Bam rolled his eyes as they left the mall, walking toward the Hummer. “Let’s eat.”

“Eat what? Besides your sexy girlfriend back there?”

“Fuck you, Valo.”

“Is that an offer?”

“Man, you need to get laid.”

“Didn’t you just offer to make that happen?”

“You wish.”

“Not really, Bammie-love.”

“I’m hurt.”

“You should be. I have extremely low standards and you still don’t make the cut.”

Christmas Eve.

Bam’s cell phone hadn’t stopped ringing, but he was ignoring it. Ever the romantic, Ville had forced Jonna—prior break up—to set the wedding date for Christmas Eve. So Bam had rented a hotel room and was proceeding to get his friend to the brink of alcohol poisoning. He hadn’t, however, told anyone where he was going. Thus the nonstop phone calls from his mother.

Ville was now standing in a cold shower, fully clothed, so Bam thought it was a relatively decent time to make a phone call. Rolling his eyes at the twenty-seven messages from his mother and thirty-three missed calls, he dialed the number.

“Where the hell are you?” April demanded, answering her phone almost immediately.

“With Ville.” Bam said, rolling his eyes and picking up his beer from the bedside table.

“And where’s Ville?”

“With me.”

“And where exactly is that, Bam Margera?”

“You know the wedding was set for today, right? Well, I figured he shouldn’t be around a ton of people with fake smiles and all that holiday bullshit. Gotta go.” he said, hanging up the phone as Ville stepped out of the shower, soaked from head to toe.

Ville’s eyes glanced at the cell phone in Bam’s hand before closing his eyes, dropping to the hotel room floor. His forehead rested in one of his hands. He heard footsteps, but his eyes didn’t open until he felt something tugging at his hair. He could see Bam’s reflection in the mirrored closet door; the skateboarder was running a hairbrush through Ville’s wet locks.

“Bammie . . .” Ville’s artistic fingers reached out to the mirror, tenderly grazing over Bam’s mirrored form. The other said nothing, just repositioned himself as Ville turned to look at reflections.

It was a moment before Bam dropped the hairbrush, leaning forward and resting his chin on Ville’s shoulder. “You’re soaked. And shivering.”

Ville nearly retorted with a smartass comment for Bam’s first statement, but he suddenly realized the second was true. He turned to look at Bam with a small smile, their noses nearly touching.

“You didn’t bring any other clothes, did you?”

Ville gave a small shake of his head.

Bam shrugged. “Sheets’ll work fine.” He stood up, offering Ville a hand. After the older had managed to stand, he started the struggle of getting out of the soaked pair of jeans. The shirt was easy enough and was immediately thrown in Bam’s face.

And suddenly, for no real reason at all, Bam’s eyes started to attend to other tasks as Ville’s jeans gradually managed to slip lower and lower down his elegant form. First it was to rifle through the minibar, then to look out the window, then to check the channels on the television. It was ridiculous and made no sense at all considering the number of times the two had seen each other unclothed, but Bam’s eyes remained fixed to the television screen nonetheless. It wasn’t until he heard the sheets on the bed rustle that he turned to look at Ville.

The Finn was paler than normal, which was saying a lot, and his ears the tip of his nose were red. Bam snorted before starting a pot of coffee. “You’re a dumb fuck.” he said, laughing as he sat on the bed beside Ville, albeit on top of the sheets.

“It’s a far cry short of a good fuck, but I’ll take what I can get.” Ville said. His words were a bit short, as were his breaths.

“All the way under the sheets, Valo.” Bam said, sounding oddly maternal. Obediently, Ville slipped lower until he was lying on his back and the sheets were covering him. He turned to look at Bam, who was lying on his stomach.

“It would have already been Christmas there.” Ville murmured. He gave a soft chuckle. “The honeymoon would have been over.” It was an odd play on words, but made sense in an equally odd sort of way, at least to the pair.

Bam was quiet for a moment. It was the first time Ville had mentioned Jonna or the wedding that day, or for several in fact. He opted for humor, hoping it would suffice. “You’re on a honeymoon with me, man. What’s better than that?”

Ville gave another laugh, his gaze suddenly intense. “What indeed?”

To Bam, the hand that reached out to stroke his cheek came out of nowhere, but it was much slower than that, much more tentative than he realized. Ville’s pale fingers lightly caressed Bam’s skin before drifting to the skateboarder’s slightly shocked, slightly terrified, slightly parted lips. “’S all right, Bammie.” the older man murmured before the kiss.

Bam clumsily responded to the kiss, eyes wide and hands trembling as they found Ville’s skin. His mind was racing, struggling to understand why this was happening, why he wasn’t disgusted, why he didn’t want to pull away, why he was suddenly hungry for Ville’s taste. His thoughts were a roar, but they didn’t matter.

Both men knew.

This was the way it was always supposed to be.

“Never had a chance.” Bam muttered as his lips drifted to Ville’s neck.

Christmas Day.

“That’s why , isn’t it?” Bam asked as they drove toward his house. They would change and then go to his parents’ for the holiday.

Ville nodded mutely, raking a hand through his hair.

“But who—“

“She did.” Ville answered. He and Bam exchanged a quick glance. “She knew. Smart girl, Jonna. Not a saint, though.” he added. “She had a few affairs on the side.” He lit a cigarette. “Always a rocky relationship.”

Bam nodded. It was awkward to have, for lack of a better term, an awkward silence between him and Ville. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. His teeth bit his bottom lip as he swallowed nervously.

Smiling, Ville reached out and placed his hand over Bam’s. “I know.”

The skateboard smiled back.

* * *

“Oh, thank God.” April said to Ville as he and Bam walked into the house. “I thought you were never going to change out of those jeans.”

poetic lust

Sun, 11 Feb 2007 03:00:29 GMT

Title: Poetic Lust
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Angst
Summary: Prompt 031; cheating.
100 prompts

Poetic Lust

Ville was never one for secrets, particularly from Bam. Perhaps that was due to the fact that Bam had once been his best kept secret, the affair behind closed doors. But now, a year after revealing their romance, another secret had entered the picture.

Ville’s late nights and poetic meandering midnight walks to find lyrics in the moonlight were starting to show in Bam’s suddenly dark eyes. Suddenly, the younger boy wasn’t so sure anymore, wasn’t sure at all that Ville was searching for inspiration.

Perhaps it was the fact that he hadn’t written anything in over a month, perhaps it was the fact that while watching from the window in their room he saw Ville slip into a car he didn’t recognize, perhaps it was the fact that he could call Ville’s bluff even before the first shoe hit the cement.

He didn’t say anything, however, when he felt the bed move from extra weight being deposited on it. Didn’t move when he felt Ville’s hand tracing his side. And he didn’t kiss back the next morning, just brushed past his lover to make coffee and dig in the laundry for clothes.

*

After weeks of silence and tiptoeing there came the night when Ville didn’t claim the need to wander aimlessly for inspiration. There came a night where he stayed home, playing with Bam’s hair as they watched a movie on TV. There came a night . . .

But only a night.

For on the next, poetic lust seemed desperate and Ville didn’t return home for hours.

a tear-stained breakdown

Sun, 11 Feb 2007 02:58:56 GMT

744 words
Title: A Tear-Stained Breakdown
Author: druscilla_way or obvious_garden
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Yeah.
Summary: Bam hears some words. Ville speaks some of his own.

A Tear-Stained Breakdown

Bam walked into the house, calmly and silent. That was odd. He kept his eyes directly in front of him as he walked past the living room and into his own. That was cause enough for a few people to turn their eyes to Ville, who was already standing and walking after his boyfriend.

The stereo in Bam’s room turned on, blocking the noise of the conversation from any ears other than the blue-eyed boy and his lover.

Ville’s finger left the play button as he walked toward Bam’s bed. The boy was already hidden under the blankets, face buried in his pillow. He made no sound, but his shoulders were shaking from the tears.

“Bammie?” Ville’s voice was soft and the bed dipped as he sat down, a hand coming up to stroke the boy’s thick locks. “Bammie, love, what is it?”

The younger shook his head, putting up a hand and moving it around blindly, trying to push Ville away. Instead, the Finn grabbed it, planting a light kiss to the palm. Bam pulled away violently.

There was a slight hurt in Ville’s face, but drastically overshadowed by fear and worry. He gently pulled the covers off the trembling boy, slipping a hand under his shirt and rubbing his back. “Bam, what is it?” Now, between the tracks of the CD, he could hear quiet hiccups, muffled by the pillow. Ville lowered his head, lips brushing Bam’s ear. “Love?” he murmured. “Talk to me.”

It was almost a squeak that came out as Bam shook his head once more. Ville’s teeth bit as his lip, green eyes lightening. Then, he put his hands on Bam’s shoulders and forcibly turned him over. It was a fight. The younger boy’s body tensed and his short nails clawed at any part of Ville they could. One way or another, however, Bam ended up on his back.

His face was coated in tears that were mixed with sweat and dust. “Bammie,” Ville purred softly, a hand coming up to brush the curls from his lover’s face, “tell me.”

“Why didn’t you?” Bam demanded suddenly, sitting up and wiping as his cheeks with his hands.

Ville’s eyes were confused. “Why didn’t I what, love?”

“Tell me.” Bam said coldly. When Ville continued to look at him blankly, the skateboard lost it. “Why didn’t you tell me you were sick of me!”

The yell was loud enough that the people congregated in the living room heard it.

Ville looked as though he had been slapped, then he just looked angry. “Who did you hear that from?” he growled.

“Why’s it matter?”

“Because it’s horse shit!” Ville snapped. “If I were sick of you, you’d fucking know it, Bam Margera.”

“Get out of my room.”

“Our room.” Ville said, voice cool as glass.

“Get out!”

“No.”

They both glared at each other for a moment and when Bam tried to leave, Ville gripped his arm to the paint of pain. “You’re not going. Anywhere.”

“You don’t tell me what to do!” Bam insisted, sounding very much like he was thirteen.

“Someone needs to.”

“Fuck you.”

There was another glaring contest and Bam once more struggled to leave. This time it ended with Bam halfway to the door and Ville’s arms around him, pinning his own to his sides.

“Why would I be sick of you?” Ville asked. Despite his tight grip on Bam, the kiss on his cheek was gentle.

“Because I do so much stupid shit. And I flirt too much. And because I’m so obsessive. And because . . .” Bam’s voice cracked. “. . . because you’re too good for me.”

Ville’s grip on bam kept him from falling to the floor as he burst into tears. “I . . . I’m . . . s-sorry.” Bam managed to get out as Ville picked him up and set him lightly on the bed.

“Don’t be.” A hand lifted Bam’s chin up to look into green eyes. “None of those things are true. I love you. For better and worse.”

Bam hiccupped. “They say that at weddings.” His hand brushed Ville’s cheek.

“This is as close as we’ll get, love. We both know you’re not the marrying type.” Ville took the hand on his cheek in his own, kissing it.

“I could be.” Bam said.

“I don’t want you because of what you could be, Bammie. I want you because of what you are.”

sex

Sun, 11 Feb 2007 02:56:24 GMT

Title: Sex
Rating: NC-17
Summary: 57-word porn. Duh.

Sex

It’s sex. Pure, raw, hungry. It’s eyes roaming flesh, hands casing their line of sight. It’s Bam moaning as Ville’s teeth tear at his flesh, unforgiving. It’s sweat falling into green eyes and soaked, dark hair. It’s bruises, cuts, and the faint shimmer of blood. It’s Ville swearing as Bam’s calloused hand finds his erection. It’s sex.

sins laid bare

Sun, 21 Jan 2007 17:28:32 GMT

Title: Sins Laid Bare
Pairing: Ville/Bam
Genre: Angst
Warnings: Cutting, eating disorders
Summary: God damn classic cutting story.
A/N: I told Andie that the depression would inspire me.

Sins Laid Bare

I instantly recoil. And by the way he smirks, it’s like that’s almost what he wants. He turns back to the sink, running the washcloth against the blood on his arm again.

“But why?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions.” he snaps. “It’s not like you’d understand the answer anyway. Oh so fucking perfect with your god damn head in the clouds, writing nothing but love songs. This has nothing to do with love. Or your fucking romanticism.”

“What’s it to do with then?”

He glares at me. “I already told you. Don’t ask stupid questions.” He stares at the blood soaked washcloth. “Fucking Finnish fuck.” he mutters.

“Bam! You fucking cut yourself and just expect me to not say anything?”

“You do it often enough.” He lets out a weak laugh. “Dude, this will just not stop fucking bleeding.”

I pull him toward me, grabbing a towel off the shelf. I press it hard against his arm, meeting his glare with mine. “What the fuck does that mean? ‘You do it often enough’?”

“I just said it.” He tries to pull away from me, but I don’t let him.

“How can I say anything?” I ask quietly. “Obviously you don’t tell me anything anymore.”

He snorts. “Oh please, Ville. All the fucking signs were there. Disappearing into the bathroom after I eat. Only wearing long sleeves. Not letting you fuck me with my shirt off. You’re not really that stupid, are you?”

I don’t say anything. Maybe I knew, maybe I didn’t. But it’s all true, all those things he’s done. And my sins of not paying him enough attention are laid bare.

“I didn’t . . . I . . . Bammie . . .”

He manages to pull away from my loosened grip this time. “Don’t you think that a good boyfriend would notice these things?” he snaps. “Don’t you think he would notice a fucking cutter throwing up everything he eats?”

“Don’t you think that a good boyfriend would trust his boyfriend enough to tell him what’s wrong?” I scream hysterically.

”I don’t know what’s wrong!” Bam breaks, falling against me and bursting into tears. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Ville. It just . . . it happens and I can’t control it. I can’t get rid of it. It just has to . . . play out.”

“It’s happened before?”

“Do skateboards usually leave scars in lines across your arms, Ville?”

That’s how I know that I always knew. I knew it was bullshit. I knew that scars wouldn’t be identical, that they wouldn’t look like they were the mark of a razor blade, that they would resemble scrapes and not outlets of pain.

But I’d my own closet of demons. I couldn’t bear to think that Bammie, my Bammie, felt that hopeless, that empty, that fucking desperate.

My own scars told the story.

No one needed to tell me how this would play out.

I’d written the script two years before.

Titled it in my blood.

I was startled out of my thoughts by Bam storming out of the bathroom. I turned to follow him. Nothing could have prepared me for this scene. The curtains pulled back.

Bam pulled the gun out of his dresser drawer, pressed it to his temple, and pulled the trigger.

It didn’t work.

Fucking safety.

And in the two seconds it took him to reach for it, I’d knocked the gun from his hand. My fist connected with his jaw, his with my side.

The scene ended with us holding each other and crying.

The play ended with a bottle of pills.

-Finished-

hostility & romance

Sat, 02 Dec 2006 06:30:48 GMT

Title: Hostility and Romance
Author: obvious_garden or druscilla_way
Rating: PG-13 now, will probably change.
Pairings: Ville/Bam; Druscilla/Andie, aka druscilla_way/allwoundup7
Disclaimer: Don't own them. Own me. Kinda own Andie. Andie gave me permission to use her [in all sorts of ways, but let's not get into that.]
Author's Note: Yes, it's kind of SI. But there's no Ville/me or Bam/me or anything. It might be a bit Mary-Sueish, but ... it's necessary somewhat.
Summary: Ville meets girl. Girl and Ville hit it off. Bam doesn't like girl. Bam, Ville, and girl get on a plane. Bam, Ville, and girl go to Castle Bam. All hell ensues.

Hostility and Romance

I.

Bam walked into Ville’s house as soon as he opened the door. “So you left her? Again?”

“Actually,” Ville began, “she left me this time. She thinks I’m fucking Druscilla even though she’s engaged. And gay.” he added as an afterthought.

“Who the fuck is Druscilla?” Bam demanded, almost hurt that he didn’t know something about Ville’s life.

As if on cue, a green-haired girl in a bathrobe entered the room, a carton of ice cream and a spoon in her hand. “Ville, babe, you’re out of beer.”

“How would you know? You don’t drink it.” he said without turning around.

“I just broke your last two bottles.” She looked at Bam. “Hey. I’m Dru.”

“You live here?” he asked, bypassing niceties.

“Until I go back to the States after my fiancé’s internship, yeah.” she answered, sucking on her spoon.

“How long have you—“

“Four weeks.” Ville answered. “So you can shut up now.” he said, giving Bam a pointed look and flicking his eyes toward the stairs.

Bam ignored the hint, pushing past Ville to glare at the younger girl. “Four weeks and you already wrecked his engagement?”

“I didn’t wreck shit, Margera.” Druscilla said, poking him in the chest with her spoon. “And I don’t answer to you. Fucker.” She turned and left the room, leaving the skateboarder seething.

“That was brilliant.” Ville said, surveying Bam almost amused. “Although I almost wish she’d spit on you.”

“So, you just take in random girls off the streets now? What was she doing when you found her? Hooking?” Bam demanded, hands on his hips as he stared at his best friend.

Ville rolled his eyes and grabbed Bam’s arm, dragging him upstairs without much protest from the other. “I met her at a club, if you need to know. And what the fuck is your problem?”

“I just think you’re stupid.” Bam snapped.

“This doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that you flew out here and bought a plane ticket for me to go back to West Chester with you, does it?” Ville asked, raising an eyebrow.

Bam bit the inside of his cheek and stared at the ground, suddenly feeling like an open book. “Yeah, well . . .” He shrugged. “You do it every time, you know?”

“I know.” Ville said quietly, letting Bam kick at the floor.

“How long ‘til she leaves?” Bam muttered, finally looking up at Ville’s green eyes.

“Two weeks.” Ville said. “That’s when her fiancé gets back from . . . Maine, I think it was. She and Dru live in Jersey.”

“So . . . what? Her fiancé goes to Maine and she decides to spend six weeks in Finland?” Bam asked, trying hard to hate the girl he hadn’t know more than ten minutes.

“It was supposed to be two days.” Ville said. “Just long enough to meet a friend and decide if this was a good place for a vacation. I met her and got her to stay for a few extra days. Few days turned into a few weeks.” He shrugged and lit a cigarette. “I like her. You would too if you’d dig your head out of your ass.”

“Fuck you.” Bam said. “I’m not the one with a green-haired brat living in my house.”

Ville quirked an eyebrow. “You know, love . . . I could go back to West Chester with you tomorrow . . . if . . .”

“Oh no.” Bam said, holding his hands out and shaking his head. “No fucking way. You’re out of your mind, Valo. There is no way . . . fuck you.”

* * *

Bam was clearly not thrilled with being bested by the boy sitting next to him on the plane. The girl was sitting behind them, listening to an iPod and staring out the window, pen hovering over a notebook.

“Bastard.” he said without looking at Ville.

“Pussy.” The older of the two grinned. “So true, darling. It took you, what, two hours to cave in?”

“Fuck you.”

“Maybe later, if you’re good.”

Bam kicked him.

II.

“I love you too, angel.” Druscilla said into her cell phone from the backseat of the Hummer, ignoring the open glares from it’s driver. “It’s only two more weeks, baby . . . I know it’s forever, sweetie . . . I miss you, too . . . I miss you more . . . Yes, I do . . . Do, too . . . Oh, fine. You win.” She giggled.

The all-too-affectionate—for Bam’s taste—conversation continued until the girl’s cell phone died fifteen minutes later.

“A month’s not that long.” Bam said after a pause, glaring at Ville. ‘What?’ he mouthed.

“Yeah, well . . .” Druscilla shrugged. “We went six months until our first kiss because we lived half a country apart. We don’t like to be away from each other.”

Bam opened his mouth again, but Ville smacked him in the back of his head. “Don’t hit the driver.” he snapped, giving his friend the finger.

Ville smacked him again, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a box of cigarettes. He rolled down the window slightly as he lit one. Bam reached over and took it from him, taking a drag and passing it back, exhaling his smoke directly into Ville’s face.

“Fucker.”

“Bastard.”

“Bitch.”

“Pussy.”

“Fuck you.”

“Eat shit.”

They both seemed to shrug in unison before Bam turned to look at the road silently and Ville stared out the window, still smoking. Druscilla said nothing, just noted the sexual tension and smirked inwardly.

* * *

Bam pushed a door open, made an indistinguishable noise, and left. Rolling her eyes, Druscilla tossed her two duffel bags on the floor and inspected her surroundings. Purple wallpaper, H.I.M. picture on the wall, framed Haggard picture on the opposite one. Boring alarm clock, black bed stand, wooden four-poster bed. Purple sheets, wooden floor, wooden dresser in one corner, TV and such in the other. Adjoining bathroom.

She allowed herself a girlish giggle and a bit of what one would call a ‘squee’. She threw herself back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. She was in Castle Bam. She had been living with Ville Valo for the past month. She had flown on a plane with Bam Margera and H.I.M.’s lead singer. And, to top it off, the sexual tension between the two was so thick one could cut it with a dull knife.

The door opened, startling Druscilla out of her thoughts. She sat up and all but winced at the man in the doorway: Brandon Novak. “So you’re the new bitch, huh?”

“Not your bitch.” she answered, quirking an eyebrow.

“Well, we could change that.”

“I’m engaged.”

“Aw, come on, baby.”

“And gay.”

Brandon’s eyes had just widened as though he had won the jackpot.

“Whatever you’re going to say, don’t.” Ville said from behind him, pushing him out of the way and beckoning Druscilla toward him with an outstretched hand. She took it, making a face at Brandon as Ville lead her down the hallway.

The Finn picked her up, quite literally, and set her down on a counter in the kitchen before opening the fridge and pulling out a beer. Bam entered the room, looked at Druscilla and immediately walked over to Ville and pulled the beer out of his hand.

Druscilla glared right back at him, raising her eyebrows and letting him know—in no uncertain, though not verbal—terms that she wasn’t going to take his shit.

Bam let her know—in the same way—that he wasn’t going to be any nicer because of it.

Ville stepped on Bam’s foot and lit another cigarette.

the boy who looked like a girl

Tue, 28 Nov 2006 04:40:57 GMT

Probably my best & best known Vam fic.

Title: The Boy Who Looked Like a Girl
Rating: R
Author: druscilla_way or obvious_garden
Disclaimer: I hold no ownership except the story itself. And any banners I made.
Warnings: Extremely dark subjects, random religious discussions
AU: Ville is only one year older than Bam and has been sent to school in America as a last resort. This isn't set during the time frame when Ville and Bam would have actually been in school. It's present-day. Mostly because I don't want to research the time frame.
Summary: His adrogynous looks fuel lustful looks and he's grown accostumed to it, but when the annoying boy from his new school gives him a look full of everything but . . . his life becomes even harder to control, to understand.

Prologue. | Part One. | Part Two. | Part Three. | Part Four. | Part Five. | Part Six. | Part Seven. | Part Eight. | Part Nine. | Part Ten. | Part Eleven. | Part Twelve. | Part Thirteen. | Part Fourteen. | Part Fifteen.

that sunday in april

Mon, 18 Sep 2006 05:30:15 GMT

Title: That Sunday in April
Rating: R
Genre: Extreme drama, with angsty elements
Pairing: Vam
Warnings: dark!Ville
Summary: "I hate you for loving me." Ville confesses his sins.
Disclaimer: I don't own shit.
A/N: The line just popped into my head and I had to run with it.

That Sunday in April

I hate you for loving me.

I know it's wrong what I do. I know that I should shoot myself and leave you to your own devices. You'd be better off on the street than with me, your blue eyes staring at me like an innocent.

"I just want you to love me, Ville. I'll do anything you want."

And you've stuck to that promise way past the point of necessity. When I slap you, you agree with whatever bullshit reason that spills from my drunken mouth. When I force you onto your knees and take you too fast, tearing you and making you bleed, you just bite your lip and remain silent knowing I hate your tears.

You always curl up next to me afterward - if I'll permit it - and whisper how much you love me. You'll hold tight to my hand and plant light kisses to my skin. And your eyes show no anger, only fear of me leaving you.

"I know I don't deserve you, Ville. I know it's hard to love me. I know I'm just a fuck-up slut, but I'd just die if you left me, Ville." And because I'm always better after I use and abuse him, I promise to never leave him. It's a selfish promise.

I should leave you. I should turn myself into the fucking police or give myself the death sentence. But when we're not in the bedroom, when it's not the witching hour, when your eyes aren't shining with tears . . . it's fine. It's kisses and laughs and smiles. Sometimes there's even sex I don't force you into.

And sometimes that's enough to ease my guilt for a moment. When I see you smile without the thought of me leaving you and whatever imaginary trespass I'm accusing you of.

But days always end in nights. Nights when I leave bruises on your hips and thighs where no one will see them. Nights when I insure you won't be able to move the next day. Nights when you cry as I call you a slut and accusing you of flirting with everyone when I know it's bullshit. Nights when kisses taste like liquor, blood, and hatred.

Nights when I hate you for loving me.

And then came that Sunday in April. The night I snapped. The night no one was in the house except us. The night I screamed continuosly, hitting you over and over before I turned you on your stomach and pushed into you harder than I thought was physically possible. When the lube I was fucking you with was your own blood running down your thighs.

The night you whispered apologies over and over through choked sobs.

I hit you, Bammie. I hit you over and over and when my hand got sore I picked up the first thing I could lay my hands on and hit you with it over and over. When you stopped moving I only hit you harder.

Then I grabbed your car keys and left the house. I couldn't drive the car and I didn't know where I was going. All I knew was that you could very well be dying alone on your bed because of me and I should have been the one lying in that bed.

* * *

They say the last thing you said was "tell him I'm sorry". Then you took a shaky last breath. Was that your last thought, Bammie? How evil and guilty you were because of the lies I poisoned you with? Were you praying that if there were a hell you wouldn't end up there because I told you how much I hated you and what a worthless shit you were over and over? Was that a track playing on repeat in your mind?

I put the pistol in my mouth, closing my eyes.

I hate you for loving me, for not screaming at me when I hit you, for not leaving me.

But not as much as I hate myself for loving you.

Click.

suffocation

Mon, 18 Sep 2006 05:29:46 GMT

Title: Suffocation
Rating: R
Genre: Angst
Pairing: Guess
Warnings: Extreme angst

Suffocation

You lied to me. You whispered lies. The lips you kissed me with were poisoned with lies. You poisoned me.

SKIN BRUSHES COOL METAL.

You told me just me forever. Just me and you. You told me you'd never love anyone else with those eyes and your lips bruised from kisses.

HAND CLASPS METAL; GOOSEBUMPS FORM.

Eight months since September, since that kiss in the hotel room after you left her. I cried when you pulled away. I thought I was your reboard and that you'd hate me because I kissed back.

TREMBLING FINGERS OPEN A BOX.

Love me. That's all I ever wanted you to do. You sang to me, you held me, you stared at me. You made me cry to sleep. I made my wrists ache over you.

TREMBLING FINGERS DROP COOL METAL.

You turned away from me for moments. I could see her in your eyes. It didn't matter which one. You were ashamed of me, ashamed that I loved you. I know what I saw in your eyes.

FINGERS SPIN COOL METAL.

And even then I pretended I didn't. I played the role of your stupid whore. I saw everything, the lipstick marks on your shirts, the bruises on your neck. I worshipped you, I loved you. All I ever wanted was you. But it wasn't enough.

COOL METAL BRUSHES SKIN.

You pulled away more and I held on harder, fingernails tearing your flesh. I saw her, I knew her. I hated her for breathing, for sharing the same oxygen you and I breathed when we were together. Oh, those times were so rare but when they existed, when time froze for us . . . I forgot I wanted to hate you.

And then I would remember again. When your phone rang or when you put the ring back on. When you left without your lips brushing my cheek, taking care not to leave behind a single artifact that might expose you, save the smell of liquor.

TONGUE LICKS CHAPPED LIPS.

You stopped calling and I stopped caring. At least about anything other than your existance. I locked the door and someone would lock the door to the cabinet where precious glass bottles of dark colored liquids could make me forget how she was stealing our air straight from our lungs. How she was killing us by simply living. Suffocation through her very existance. A born killer.

MOISTURE FORMS ON COOL SKIN.

When I opened the door I saw a world I didn't remember, faces I couldn't match names to, people who claimed to be so happy to see me. Yet I didn't remember anything but your name, your face . . . and our suffocation. Every second I felt the oxygen leaving the atmosphere. Soon she would kill you and you would forget me entirely.

FINGERS SLIP ON COOL METAL.

I got a phone call, your number on the device. Her voice pouring into my ear. I don't know what she said. All I heard was the sound of metal breaking under my four hundred dollar shoes. I was starving for oxygen. I cried, I screamed, I tore at my skin with fingernails painted black in mourning for you. You were dying. And no one could save you. No one knew. A cancer eating away at you from the inside, invisible and deadly.

EYES CLOSE.

I refused to be her victim. I refused to watch her kill you slowly, painfully, my eyes unable to stare into yours, unable to hold your hand as you took your final breaths. I couldn't bear to watch it happen, couldn't bare the thought of you gone, deprived of oxygen.

FINGER PULLS TRIGGER.

Suffocation.

TWO ARMS CATCH HIM AS HE FALLS.

*

I screamed. I kissed him on the lips, the cheek, the forehead, his bloody temple, crying through the blood on my face, wiping away nothing with the blood on my hands, the hands that may as well have pulled the damn trigger.

I tried so hard to kiss it better, like I did the night he came to me crying. All the nights he came to me crying. Desperate feverish kisses fueled solely by the love you feel for someone else. No thought of yourself, of carnal pleasure. I only wanted you better.

But kisses couldn't fix shit this time.

FINGER PULLS THE TRIGGER.

I kissed his lips one last time.

. . . blue eyes close forever.

selfish

Mon, 18 Sep 2006 05:29:20 GMT

Oneshot

Title: Selfish
Rating: PG-15
Genre: Angst
Summary: Ville accuses Bam of being selfish and Bam confesses his selfless sins. (Weird summary)
Disclaimer: I don't own shit and you don't either.

Selfish

"This is so fucked up." Ville said, staring at the bed between him and his boyfriend. Bam refused to look up, refused to look at what Ville's eyes were fixed upon. Refused to see the look of repulsion and disgust. Refused to see anything. "Bam . . ." Ville shook his head as words failed him. "This is so fucked up."

"You said that already." the other replied tonelessly, even though inside he was screaming and tears were pricking his adverted eyes.

"There's nothing else I can say." He looked up at the boy who was staring at the floor. "It's a suicide cocktail."

"Was." Bam said. "It's obviously not going to be." he added cuttingly.

"How could you be that selfish?" Ville snapped. "You'd be gone. No one else would be. You'd just be leaving everyone here to clean up the mess."

"It would be the last one."

"You're fucked up."

Bam's blue eyes stared straight into Ville's then, glittering with malice and hatred. "You don't think I know that?" he yelled. "You don't think I wake up everyday not realizing what a fuck-up I am? What a mistake I am? Do you think you're that much smarter than me?

"I know how fucked up I am, Ville. But you . . . you don't even know the half of it. Do you know that I've been locked up in mental institutions six times? Six fucking times? All before I turned eighteen. This isn't a little overnight development. It's not the 'he has everything and he's happy and he just wants more attention' syndrome.

"I'm so fucked up on the inside that the only way to get rid of it is to either bleed it out through a cut or vomit it into the fucking toilet. All I wanted to do was make it better so no one would have to deal with my mistakes again. All I needed to do was smile for you people and you'd think everything was fine. I never wanted you worrying over me.

"I've been doing this since I was fourteen, Ville. Fucking fourteen years old. I was covered in cuts and scars until I started puking up my mistakes.

"Sometimes I don't even know if people are around me because they want to be or if they think they have to be. I don't understand how someone could want to be around someone like me. I'm not that good of an actor, am I? 'Smile for the camera, Bam.' 'Laugh at the stupid jokes, Bam.' 'Drink like you just didn't take half a bottle of pills, Bam.' 'Pretend like you're not planning fifteen ways to kill yourself, Bam!'

"And I do all of this so that you don't know what's going on. So you don't worry about me. So you don't have to deal with everything I wake up to every fucking morning. So don't you dare call me selfish, Ville. You don't have the fucking right to call me that. I did all of this for you!"

The green eyed boy should have ran after the blue eyed boy when he ran out of the house. He should have followed him when he got into the car. He should have held him back. But he didn't. He just sank onto the bed, picking up the pills and letting them fall through his fingers.

Just like he let his best friend slip through his grasp.

No one ever knew what really happened to Bam. They never found his car, never found a body. No phone call, no letter in the mail. No pictures from the private detective. No drunken boy showing up on the steps.

After months and then years, they started to give up.

Except Ville.

He knew somewhere Bam was living with everything he had screamed, was living with the guilt of making his family and friends worry about him, was living to live, bleeding to bleed.

And one day, Ville knew, he would make another suicide cocktail and lay down where ever he was and fall asleep forever.

One day he'd lay red roses on a fresh grave.

But until then he just took another shot of vodka and ran his fingers over the worn picture in front of him, glancing at the clock and waiting for a phone call that would never come.

the raven & the writing desk

Mon, 18 Sep 2006 05:29:00 GMT

Title: The Raven & The Writing Desk
Rating: PG-13
Author: druscilla_way
Genre: Comedy/Romance
Summary: How is The Raven like a writing desk? The age old riddle is solved!

The Raven & The Writing Desk

“Call me at seven.” Bam said, pulling a black jacket out of his closet.

“Do I need to check in with Daddy?” Daytona teased, reaching over to wipe a bit of lint off the lapel of her best friend’s attire.

“You’re an idiot.” Bam said. Grabbing his cell phone off the bed and pocketing it. “I just need to tell you what’s going on later.”

“Why don’t you call me then, you ass?” Daytona said.

“Because you know I never remember anything when I’m out with Ville.” Bam leaned forward and kissed the redhead softly on the lips before heading toward the door. “Seven!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Daytona waved her hand in a way reminiscent of his trademark ‘hand wave’, for lack of a better word.

***

It was eight thirty when her phone rang. She was sitting in the living room drink a beer and watching three very drunk friends arm wrestling each other and trying to watch some half naked bitch on TV at the same time.

“’Lo?” she asked, opening the phone and cutting off her ‘Wings of a Butterfly’ ringtone.

“I told you to call me.” Bam said into the phone, laughing in the sick sort of way that let Daytona know Ville was right there and doing something borderline on the edge of dirty.

“Yeah, well . . . I forgot.” Daytona said. “So what did you need to tell me?”

“Well, we ended up at your house.” Bam said, referring to the house Daytona’s parents had left her when they moved to Switzerland and which was only used as a place to have drunken parties or to shack up people when Castle Bam overbooked.

“Lucky me.” the girl said sarcastically.

Ville leaned into the phone. “Guess where we had sex?”

“The five thousand dollar leather couch?” Daytona guess, taking another drink of beer.

“No. Your writing desk.” Ville said laughing.

“That writing desk belonged to Poe!” Daytona shrieked, leaping to her feet. “And you had sex on it!? You rape my writing desk!” she shrieked in scandalized tones, ignoring the looks of three very confused and entertained men wondering how you actually raped a writing desk.

“That was an innocent writing desk and you perverted it!”

“Poe wrote about cannibalism and necrophilia, Dayta.” Ville said, using the nickname that enraged her most and not helping his position in the argument.

“Yeah, and Poe married his cousin.” Bam added, laughing. “Hey, didn’t your dresser belong to Marilyn Monroe?”

“I will kill you, Brandon Margera.”

“Calm down.” Bam said. “Don’t get your underwear in a twist. It’s not like we’ve ever had sex in your bed or anything.”

“There was that one time—“

“Shut up, Ville.” Bam hissed. “That wasn’t sex and I thought it was the guest room.”

Daytona screen and hung up the phone.

“Hey, Tona? What’s the difference between ‘The Raven’ and a writing desk?” Raab asked.

Daytona flipped him the finger and stormed into her bedroom, seething.

pretty things

Mon, 18 Sep 2006 05:28:07 GMT

Title: Pretty Things
Author: Me
Rating: R
Genre: Extreme angst
Disclaimer: Don't own.
Summary: Ummm ... extreme angst, emotional fuck up. Not much else to say.

Pretty Things

I hate it here. I locked myself in this pretty box to keep away from anyone else. I don't want to see the light, I just want it to be dark. I don't want to hear their happy voices, their comforting voices, their pretty voices. I don't want to hear anything. I don't want anything.

I want it quiet and dark. I want to be alone. I hate it here but all I want is in this stupid box. I want it. I live with it. At least for now.

I had to be stupid. I had to fall for the one person I couldn't have. I had to walk in there and act like everything was normal. And then ... you're gone. I can't be with you, can't have the addiction that is you, can't feel completely. I left. I ran.

I saw headlights, saw people gently help me to a car. Felt the tears pouring down my face like a thunderstorm that I could never stop. I want you. I want you so bad. I can't have you. Went away, never coming back. Hate you for leaving me. Hate me for loving you.

I hate. I just hate. I hate me. I hate you. I hate life. I hate the clock on the wall. I hate the telephone that won't stop ringing. I hate the bottle of nail polish he left on my dresser. I hate the pretty lines on my arm and the pretty blood dripping from them. I hate. I just hate.

And then they came with words. And I cried. I screamed. I begged. I clawed at the hands that grabbed mine. I watched them cry from helping me. I watched them refuse to flinch despite the blood I brought to the surface of their skin from the ragged edges of fingernails I couldn't stop biting.

I felt the needle in my arm. Saw everything go dark. Woke up and couldn't move. I screamed over and over and over until I felt another needle in my arm.

I wanted out so bad. I wanted pills to swallow to make me never wake up. Just darkness forever. Nothing sees in the dark, nothing to hurt me. Nothing. Just me and darkness.

No needles, nothing holding me down, no words, no ugly white uniforms, no nametags, no visits from faces I forgot.

Just me and darkness.

And then all I wanted was you. You me and darkness. You me everything and nothing. You me and everything we had once. You me. You me.

Screaming out for you, crying for you, wanting to claw at myself for you. Wanting to scream, wanting to hate, wanting to love, wanting to have, wanting you. Wanting you wanting you wanting you.

Promised me I could get better if I tried. Promised to let me move if I didn't scream. Promised me no more needle if I didn't fight.

No one promised me you. No one. All the promises were for me. Nothing for you. I wanted you. I didn't want them. I didn't want what they promised. I wanted you. Just you. You and me. You me you me you me you me.

Pretending. Played pretend like when I was a kid. Smile pretty, talk pretty, laugh pretty. Act pretty. Play a game. Smile, laugh, talk. Pretend. Pretend. No more needles, no more locks, no more visits. Sunlight. Daylight. Freedom. Pretty.

Run away. Darkness. Me and darkness. Me and darkness. Couldn't find you. Ran and couldn't find you. Planes and cars and running into hotels and running back to a cab and running to an empty house and running back to a cab. Running everywhere to find you. Running to find you.

Never found you.

Found an ugly rock we all had to visit on the day whenever wore black. You never showed up. I kept waiting for you. You wore too much black. Maybe I lost you in all the black clothes. Why were they crying? Why were they staring at the ugly box and the ugly rock and the stupid flowers.

You used to buy me flowers and I used to throw them on the bed. And then we'd laugh and kiss and you'd push me down and I'd feel you, all of you. Just you and me. You me you me.

I kicked the stupid rock. Kicked it and screamed at it. Tore up the ugly flowers, pulled up the ugly grass, came back with a marker and crossed out the pretty name on the ugly rock.

Ran away and got on more planes and cabs and rented cars and trains. Ran down streets, ran into house, ran away from people with the ugly look I saw when they sent me to the place where they kept giving me the needle.

I kept running. I wanted you. Nobody could find you. I should have been able to find you! We were the same person. You should have been there. You were always with me until the day you got in the car and then we had to go visit the ugly box and the ugly rock without you.

Why didn't you ever come back? You said you just had to go get cigarettes. I watched you and ran back inside and the phone rang and someone answered it and they all cried and lied to me and I ran upstairs and hid in the closet and she came in and hugged me and tried to lie to me more and I screamed and I visited the stupid rock and saw all the black and screamed and ran some more and hid in the back of a car and found a pretty pill and took it and ran away some more when they would stop lying and then the found the ugly people with the stupid fucking needle.

And now I'm running and running and can't find you still and I'm still running and they run after me and I run faster and harder. I want my box. I left my box and now they found me and they run harder and faster and lie some more. I don't like it when they lie to me. I hate it. I hate it. Why would they lie to me like that?

Running running money pretty things you always hated make me better make me forget make the lies not really pretty pretty things I see you when I take them pretty things.

I hear yells, run and hide in the closet again. Too many pretty things.

You hold me, you kiss me, you cry but you can't help smiling. I smile and laugh, touch your pretty face. I found you. You were just hiding from me. Hide and seek.

They put another rock next to your rock and they all wore black again. We watched them do it, but they couldn't see us. They didn't cry as much.

No more running and no more needle. Just you and me and the pretty light.

You me you me.

past tense

Mon, 18 Sep 2006 05:27:18 GMT

Title: Past Tense
Pairing: Vam
Genre: Angst
Rating: PG-13
Summary: I loved you once. I used to hold you, used to kiss you, used to count the minutes until I saw you again.

Past Tense

I loved you once. I used to hold you, used to kiss you, used to count the minutes until I saw you again. I worshipped you, idolized you. You were perfect to me.

Past tense.

You weren't afraid of us, of what people would think, but you kept your silence for me. You were always thinking of me, of what I needed.

Past tense.

I could be so fucked up, especially if I didn't take my med. You were the only one who could talk me down.

Past tense.

I guess I was too much and not enough for you at the same time. So you found her. Her. You acted like what we had was a mistake. The phone calls stopped. The visits were less frequent until they were nonexistant. You became a memory.

I lost it. I stopped taking my medication. I rarely left the house. And then it changed. If the things I did were dangerous before, now they were steps from deadly.

You called me in tears, begging me to forgive you. She left you. You promised you'd never leave me. Again. I hadn't said a word yet. You said three words and then I said three of my own.

"I hate you."

And you cried harder and whispered an apology before you hung up.

I got another phone call the next day. I didn't know you cared that much.

I took my medication again, all the medicine I hadn't taken since you left.

I promise I'll see you soon.

Present tense.

i'd love you but . . .

Mon, 18 Sep 2006 05:26:29 GMT

It's a poem. I got a line stuck in my head, but it was more poetic that . . . prose-etic? Well, it's a little Vam poem I put together.

I'd love you but I don't have the strength.
You broke me one too many times
With the beauty in your lies.

I'd love you but I don't have the strength
To try and make you fall in love with me
One last time.

I'd love you but I don't have the strength
To break the heart of the helpless girl
Standing across from you today.

I'd love you but I don't have the strength
To even wipe away the tearstains
From the love you promised yesterday.

I'd love you but there's been one too many times
With one too many lies
And one too many people
Broken once upon a time.

I'd love you but I don't have the strength
To kiss the lips of a liar and a sinner
Who's marrying his unknowing lover today.

I'd love you but I have to look away
When you press your lips to hers
And I remember all our days.

The days before loving you wasn't a chore.
The days before loving you wasn't a sin.
The days before loving you didn't break my heart.

I'd love you but you've broken my heart one too many times.

But when I fall back in love with you
And you make me cry more tears
My heart can't possibly break anymore
Because it's faded to dust.

I'd love you but I don't have the strength
Anymore than I have the strength to fight it.

So just kiss your pretty bride
And ignore these tears I cry
And come find me some other night
And weave to me another lie
And we all know I'll play the fool
And share a deceptive bed with you
And promise once again
To never fall back in love with you . . .

. . . but I don't have the strength.

not just pictures

Mon, 18 Sep 2006 05:25:23 GMT

Title: Not Just Pictures
Rating: PG-13
Author: druscilla_way
Genre: Drama/Romance
Summary: Bam shows Ville a slideshow his friend made and realization hits. (Suckiest summary ever)

Not Just Pictures

"No, seriously. Dude, you've got to check this out." Bam said, grabbing Ville's hand and dragging him up the stairs and into the living room where Daytona was spread out on the couch, working on her laptop. She glanced up to see Bam and Ville walking toward her. Well, Bam walking toward her. Ville was being dragged, more or less. Quickly, she closed out of her present window and stared blankly at a game of solitare she didn't remember starting.

She sat up, pulling the computer into her lap as Bam sat down, tugging Ville with him. "Hey, 'Tona?" Bam tapped the back of the laptop. "You've got to show Ville that slideshow thing."

"You mean the slidewhow you found after hacking into my fucking computer?" Daytona said with a furious glare. "No chance in hell, Bambi." She met the blue eyed glare with her own.

"You better." Bam said.

"Give me one good reason." the girl said, closing her laptop.

"I'll give you two." Bam said with a smirk. "Reason number one: I'm going to tell Ville anyway. Reason number two: I'll tell everyone about New Years' Eve 2003."

Daytona gave her friend the finger, but grudgingly hit a few keys. Her embarassment was much worse than everyone finding out exactly which four people she had slept that night. She thrust her bright pink laptop at Bam as the opening notes of HIM's 'Bury Me Deep Inside Your Heart' started to flow from her speakers.

"I'm not watching this." she said, standing up and marching determinedly from the room.

Laughing, Bam turned the screen so Ville could see the slideshow unveiling. Two lips turned upward not noticing the green eyes scrutinzing the pictures of the two of them in various locations, touching or locking eyes, laughing or just existing for a moment with the other.

Hold me tight
And bury me deep inside your heart.

When the two blue eyes finally lighted on the other man fixed on the changing images, his smile faltered. Quickly he turned back toward the electronic device, wondering how something so mechanical could be the culprit in unleashing so many fucking emotions. Almost involuntarily, Bam's head leaned against Ville's shoulder.

He stopped breathing for a moment when an arm automatically snaked around his shoulders without the green eyes ever leaving the screen.

You're all I ever wanted, just you.

"I guess we're kind of affectionate, huh?" Bam said, trying to break the silence.

"Maybe." Ville said, his fingers tracing across the skin uncovered by the sleeves of Bam's tee shirt.

"Vil?" It was a nickname Bam didn't use often. In fact, he could count on one hand the number of times he'd used it and not a single one of those times had it been spoken through a smile.

Ville turned from the screen at the sound of that syllable. "Yes?"

"It's just pictures." Bam said, knowing that Ville knew that. He knew the words were spoken for his own comfort. He just wanted Ville to confirm that he was being stupid.

"You know they say pictures speak a thousand words, right?" Ville asked, smiling slightly as Bam turned away, a light blush staining his cheeks. "Bammie?"

You . . . all I ever wanted is you, my love.

"It's just stupid pictures." Bam said, moving the laptop to the couch and standing up, walking calmly to his room as if nothing were wrong. He knew those two green eyes were watching his every move, pierced with worry and confusion. "Just pictures." he repeated softly, shutting his bedroom door behind him.

He had a minute, maybe two before Ville came walking in wanting to know what was wrong and offering to help, saying words he always used that would now leave Bam wanting them to be spoken with another connotation. Two blue eyes fluttered shut as a handful of deep breaths sounded like an anchor dropping in the silent room.

The blue eyes flew open as the door opened and Ville swiftly sank onto the bed, reaching forward and clasping Bam's hand with his own, laughing as the cloth brushed against his skin. "You and those damn gloves." he said.

A smile existed for a second on Bam's chapped lips. "Ville . . ."

"Yes, love?"

That word hit Bam like a slap against the face. "N-Nothing." he stammered. "I . . . I'm just tired's all."

Ville held his gaze for a moment longer, squeezing Bam's hand and giving a small smile. "I'll leave you to it then. If I'm not here when you wake up, call me." Bam nodded as he watched the older man walk toward the door, eyes widening when Ville turned and ran his fingers across the doorframe. "Bammie . . . it's all right if they're not just pictures." he said before disappearing.

That's the way it's always been.

Bam buried his face in his hands, confusion running over him like a waterfall. He hated himself for this. Not for falling in love with his best friend, but ignoring it so fucking long. He'd known. He'd known all this time, but he'd never . . . never thought it could actually be love, just a fanatical obsession stemmed by becoming emotionally connected to the man. A longing to be him had be come a long to be with him.

Maybe it was knowing Ville might be seeing what he saw every night in his dreams. Ville would never suppress something for that long, trick himself into thinking it was something else. Ville knew better, Ville was better. Ville was perfect.

And he . . . he was so far from it.

That's when he started to cry. Silent tears at first, then the hiccups, then heart wrenching sobs he knew were echoing through the hallway. The door opened, not to show the idolatrized object of his affections, but April. “Bam?” she asked softly.

Without a word, the twenty-five year old held his arms out and sobbed into his mother’s shoulder when she took her son in her arms. “Oh, Bam, honey. What is it?”

”I’m so stupid.” he managed through his tears. “I’m so stupid, Mom. I love him. I really, really l-love him.”

My heart stops beating only for you, baby
Only for you, darling

He walked down the stairs slowly, counting them in his head. This was it. All or nothing. Just don’t let all of them hate me. Please.

Ville turned away from his conversation with Raab to look at Bam with a smile. “You’re up.”

”I couldn’t . . .” Bam stumbled over the words. “I couldn’t s-sleep . . . God dammit, they’re not just pictures, Ville!” Bam yelled. “And you know it.” he half-whispered.

The entire room stared at each other, save Ville and Daytona, the latter who stared at her hands and the former whose green eyes were fixed solidly on two pools of blue.

”And?” the accent-laced voice asked, pushing the other to his limits. There was no other way for the words to get spoken, the step to be taken without the anger that had been formed.

”You God damn son of a bitch.” Bam said, taking two steps and grabbing the back of Ville’s head before bringing the taller man’s lips crashing onto his own in a kiss that was already bruising their lips.

For a moment they were frozen like that, neither responding to the other until two arms wrapped around Bam, lifting him off the ground momentarily into the safety of the kiss shared between the two bodies.

When they pulled apart and Bam’s feet rested against the floor again, a whistle was heard followed by applause and several more catcalls.

Daytona snickered quietly before giving in and clapping along with the others.

”Not just pictures?” Ville asked, pressing a kiss to Bam’s forehead.

”They’re never just pictures.” Bam replied. “Because a picture’s worth a thousand words, right?”

”At the moment,” Ville said, “I can only think of three.”

You’re all I ever wanted, you, my love.

---Finished---

perfect angel

Mon, 18 Sep 2006 05:24:48 GMT

A three a.m. ficlet

Title: Perfect Angel
Rating: PG-13
Author: druscilla_way
Pairing: Duh...
Disclaimer: I don't own the song. It's the property of Trisha Yearwood and Garth Brooks (sue me, I listen to country).

Perfect Angel

In another's eyes
I'm afraid that I can't see
This picture perfect portrait
That they paint of me

And when I kiss you, I fall in love again, staring into your deep green eyes. Please don't look away from me. Please don't cry. Those tears of glass that slip down your face break to shards and cut my heart into little pieces. Your pain is the only thing that can reduce me to nothingness, a black hole.

You're not scared of anything . . . except for me. What is it that I do to make you turn away in fear? Don't you know I love you? Don't you know that I would give my life for you in an instant, sell my soul in a heartbeat?

Can't you see it?

* * *

Your eyes are so intense, pools of blue that turn a brighter hue when you look at me. Please don't look at me like that, like I'm some sort of angel that you waited your entire life for. Please don't wipe away the tears that slip down my cheeks with your fingertips that are somehow soft despite the callouses. You're the only one who can break me.

I'm so afraid of you, so afraid of the day you'll wake up and realize I wasn't worth the time, wasn't worth the four a.m. kisses, the Thursday dances in the rain, the midnight rendezvous in the pool. I'm so terrified of the day those eyes look at me and retain their color, see right through me. Don't you know that I'm not good enough for you? Yet, I stay. Because I'm selfish enough to want you despite.

I'm sorry.

* * *

He writes songs about gods and demons and a false angel loved through lies and flaws to great to forgive. And I sit there with a piece of paper full of scribbles and teardrops. His soul on paper. Just looking at this confession I found in his dresser is a rape of sorts. I'm raping his soul.

But I had to know and now I do. He sees right through me. He's seen everything I've tried so hard to cover up, all the past mistakes and lies I told to spare him. He knows.

I'm so sorry.

* * *

"Ville, I can explain!"

"Explain what? Explain the fact that you completely broke my trust in you? Explain the fact that . . . that . . . why did you do it, Bammie? Why would you do that?" Tears fall down my face. What is he going to say to me now that he knows? What will he do? I'm so scared. I'm fucking terrified.

"You were so depressed." His blue eyes shone with tears. "I just wanted to know what was going on. I wanted . . . I just wanted to help, Ville. Baby . . ."

"And now?" My bottom lip begins to tremble and I turn and look out the window at the dead leaves blowing in the September wind.

"I . . . I'm so sorry, Ville. I never meant . . . I only lied because I didn't want you to know what I'd done before. Before I met you. They were just mistakes. They were all mistakes."

I looked at him in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"The . . . the angel? The pretend angel? Th-That's me, right?"

Does he . . . could he possibly think that he's anything like me? How could he mistake himself for me? I'm so far from him. I'm just this person full of nothing, just a lie. I'm nothing but a lie. And he's everything. He's perfect. How could he think . . . how is it possible . . .

"Bammie . . . I'm the angel. You know that. Quit pretending."

He took a step toward me, laying the piece of paper on the bed. "Ville . . . what do you mean you're the angel? Of course you're not. You're my angel." He reached out and grabbed my hand. "You're my perfect angel."

"No, I'm not." My voice cracked and the tears spilled out of my eyes. I tried to pull away from him, but he just pulled me to him and held me. I felt his lips brush against my skin and I felt so dirty for contaminating him.

* * *

How could he think he was anything but perfect? But maybe . . . maybe he's only perfect to me. Maybe that's what love is. Finding the perfect person, the one without a flaw, because even their flaws are perfect to you. Like the way he can't do the dishes without breaking at least one. And the way he has an infinite supply of toothpaste for God knows what reason.

Maybe that's all love is. Our idea of perfection no matter how distorted or fucked up.

"Ville," I whisper, "I love you so much. You know that, right?"

He nodded into my shoulder. "I love you, too." he whispered, although the words were muffled.

"You're perfect to me, Ville. You're everything to me. I don't know what I'd do without you."

He pulled away slightly and pressed his lips to mine. It was perfect.

Or, at least my idea of perfect, anyway.

---Finished---

I just sat down and decided I wanted to write a story and this bullshit thing popped out. Comments?

eldorado

Mon, 18 Sep 2006 05:24:19 GMT

Title: Eldorado
Author: Myself
Genre: Drama, romance
Explanation: There is none.
Disclaimer: Poems are property of the God I call Edgar Allen Poe.

Eldorado

"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary . . ."

You always liked to say things like that. Quote poems and lyrics. I could never figure out why you'd whisper a line from 'Annabel Lee' to your reflection after you stepped out of the shower or why you'd hum a few bars to a song I wished had stayed in the 80's while we drank on the balcony.

But that was you. That was my Ville.

You laughed at me when you found books of poetry hidden in the sock drawer of my dresser, lines that you had quotes underlined in pencil. I told you I just wanted to understand why you said things like that and you just smiled and quoted some line from a play by Shakespeare.

Eventually I hated it when you quoted lines, after I realized you'd never quoted a damn thing that wasn't depressing. I wanted to ignore what was inside of you, what could have defeated my vision of a perfect, happy life with you. I wanted to ignore what I knew now were sad smiles.

My Ville.

It was getting harder to ignore spots of blood on the wrists of your shirts and your crying in the shower. It was getting harder and harder for me to ease my guilt at allowing you to hurt so badly. And then I just couldn't anymore.

It was strange what loving you did to me. I grabbed one of the poetry books I bought online and opened it, preparing to tear the pages out fistfuls at a time.

And then I stopped.

My Ville.

You were there on a page, marked with precision. You'd never quoted this piece. But I saw you in it, a perfect picture.

You never saw the goodness in yourself, just what you hated. You never quoted anything happy because you never saw it in yourself.

I grabbed a piece of paper and a pen out of another drawer and scribbled out the words quickly and left it on the bathroom counter silent, pausing for a second to hear your tears as you scrubbed away all the sins you felt you had committed.

It was a real smile and a real kiss, no tears hidden or forced back. No thoughts of anything but what I'd scribbled out for you to see. "You sentimental fuck."

"You know you love me."

You nodded seriously and kissed me again.

My Ville.

And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow-
"Shadow," said he,
"Where can it be-
This land of Eldorado?"

"Over the Mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,"
The shade replied-
"If you seek for Eldorado!"

---Finished---

Sometimes I write strange things to poems. Usually Poe. I've written Dickinson once and Richard Corey twice, but The Raven is one I usually use. I found El Dorado though and I wanted to write it ... so ... what do you think?

he was thirteen ...

Mon, 18 Sep 2006 05:23:32 GMT

Title: He Was Thirteen
Rating: PG-13
Author: druscilla_way
Genre: Angst/Romance
Disclaimer: I don't own them.

He Was Thirteen . . .

He was thirteen . . . thirteen when he let the sixteen year old boy across the street hold his hand and kiss his cheek before his mom called him in for dinner. Thirteen.

He was fourteen . . . fourteen when he let the seventeen year old boy across the street give him a handful of stolen kisses. Fourteen when he kissed back and fourteen when he ran away from it. Fourteen.

He was fifteen . . . fifteen when he let the eighteen year old boy kiss him all over at his graduation reception. Fifteen when he gave his first sloppy handjob and fifteen when he cried himself to sleep. Fifteen.

He was sixteen . . . sixteen when he drove to the Homecoming game to see the nineteen year old boy who had moved out of the house across the street. Sixteen when he got pulled over drunk and without a kiss on his lips. Sixteen.

He was seventeen . . . seventeen when he met up with the twenty year old boy at a party. Seventeen when he lost his virginity in the back of his mother's car. Seventeen when he whispered 'I love you' and seventeen when he ran away from the boy again. Seventeen.

He was eighteen . . . eighteen with the twenty-one year old boy stole him from his graduation reception and drove him to a bar. Eighteen when he leaned in for a kiss and eighteen when he had sex in the back of another car. Eighteen.

He was nineteen . . . nineteen when he ran away again, ran away from his life to be with the twenty-two year old boy. Nineteen when he started working in the bar to make ends meet and nineteen when he started drinking to forget. Nineteen when he spelled 'love' wrong on a cocktail napkin. Nineteen.

He was twenty . . . twenty when he saw his mother on his way to meet the twenty-three yar old boy before work. Twentyw hen he let her hug him, then ran downt he street in tears. Twenty when the twenty-three year old boy decided he needed to migrate south with the birds and twenty when he followed the twenty-three year old boy again. Twenty.

He was twenty-one . . . twenty-one when he sat crying in an apartment two months behind on the rent. Twenty-one when he celebrated his birthday with his friend JD. Twenty-one when he spent three months waiting for the twenty-four year old boy to come home from running errands. Twenty-one when he gave up. Twenty-one.

He was twenty-two . . . twenty-two when he packed a duffel bag and hitch-hiked his way to the place where he had met the twenty-five year old boy, a place he used to call home. Twenty-two when he knocked on the door of a house he used to know across from a house he'd like to forget. He was twenty-two when one look reduced his mother to tears. Twenty-two.

He was twenty-three . . . twenty-three when the letter from the twenty-six year old boy found him. Twenty-three when he burnt it without opening it, watching the purity of the white dissolve into dark and dirty ash. Twenty-three when he took the test and twenty-three when he burnt the results with the same lighter he had burnt the twenty-six year old boy's letter with. Twenty-three.

He was twenty-four . . . twenty-four when the twenty-seven year old boy knocked on the door. Twenty-four when a single looked reduced him to tears. Twenty-four when he started to dot his 'i's with hearts and twenty four when he waited from the crash & burn. Twenty-four.

He was twenty-five . . . twenty-five when he took the ring from the twenty-eight year old boy. Twenty-five when he murmured a 'yes' and twenty-five when the crossed borders for another 'yes'. Twenty-five when the crash & burn finally awoke. Twenty-five.

He was twenty-six . . . twenty-six and pawning the ring to make ends meet. Twenty-six when he turned in his two weeks notice. Twenty-six when he was placed in the white box that shut forever. Twenty-six when he gave up on the twenty-nine year old man.

Twenty-six.

---Finished---

I like the beginning, but I'm not sure about the end. Reviews?

waiting

Mon, 18 Sep 2006 05:22:17 GMT

Title: Waiting
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Hmmm...sexiness beyond imagination? Must be Vam.
Disclaimer: I don't own them. And HIM owns the song.
Genre: Drama, romance

Waiting

You are my heaven tonight

I waited for you. I waited outside under the stars, staring up at the constellation we named ours when I was fifteen and you were eighteen, when you lived with me during your senior year. When you slept in my bed and locked the door so my parents wouldn't know. When they were innocent touches and innocent whispers. A promise of forever.

I waited outside and laughed when you asked how Orion was. Our warrior. I called you that after you beat the shit out of some guy who 'initiated' me into the new skatepark a town over.

You laughed back and kissed me on the cheek, pulling me to your car and flipping off the people on the deck giving catcalls.

I waited for fifteen minutes that time.

***

I waited for you. This time it was cloudy and raining. This is the scene in all the movies when there's a stupid romantic kiss between two lovers who either don't know who the other is or who haven't seen each other in years or when they forgive each other for some trespass they know they should have long forgotten.

I drove off when you didn't show. I got in the car and drove and screamed.

I waited fifteen years that time.

I waited fifteen years before I pulled out a gun and covered your gravestone with my blood.

I got sick of waiting.

---Finished---

Comments are greatly appreciated.