||[May. 23rd, 2009|11:10 pm]
Oy vey, Mikeyway!
Emma picked six of my icons and I am giving her six drabbles in return!
If you want to play, drop me a line.
actually this has been sitting here for a week in a tab, half-finished, so i am giving up on the abstracty ones and just posting what i have.
keywords: GCH;; clap
The flash goes off right in Gabe's face.
"Oh, fuck that noise," Gabe groans, waving the camera away from him. Bill grins at him from behind it.
"Come on!" he protests happily. "I just want a couple pictures of us all together. We never get all together." Gabe rolls his eyes.
Travis tickles Gabe's ribs from behind. "Come on, Gabriel. We want something to jerk off to when you leave for tour."
Bill kisses him over Gabe's shoulder. "Haven't we learned anything from Pete about photographic evidence?" he groans, but Bill slips an arm around his waist and keeps kissing Travis. Okay, Gabe can admit it- if they weren't so close he'd go cross-eyed trying to see, he'd be watching.
Bill pulls back. "You'll let me take your picture, won't you, Shlep?" he says, teasing Gabe on purpose.
Travis grins at the camera, baring his teeth. "Naw, c'mon," Bill complains. "Look cute."
Travis looks off-kilter for a sec, and then claps his hands, smiling adorably. Bill crouches and snaps a picture of him all floppy-haired and grinny. Bill looks at the little LCD display and grins at it. "Shit," he laughs at the picture, and Travis crowds his space to see. "I love you."
Travis kisses his temple. "Love you too," he says indulgently, and turns to Gabe
Gabe eyes the camera. "Oh, fine. But they have to be naked pictures. If we're doing this, we're doing it."
keywords: TK;; energy
NO IDEA WHAT TO WRITE moving on
keywords: STOCK;; happy now
LET'S ALL PRETEND I WROTE SOMETHING COOL EITHER ABOUT PETE WENTZ BEING MISERABLE AND GENUINELY WISHING FOR THEIR SAKES THAT THE AUDIENCE HAS A BETTER LIFE THAN HE DOES OR ELSE ABOUT... IDK SOMEONE GETTING EMBARRASSED ONSTAGE AND BEING LIKE "FINE! I HOPE YOU ARE ALL HAPPY NOW! BECAUSE YOU ALL SUCK!!!"
keywords: SM;; childhood
He doesn't know where he is, but it isn't the shelter and it isn't anywhere he's been begging- he doesn't recognize the room and the details are all fuzzy anyway. Latika's there, though, and her details aren't fuzzy at all. Every stitch on her yellow dress shines gold. He can't tell what he wearing mostly because even in a dream he can't take his eyes off her.
"I should go," Latika says, but Jamal reaches for her hand.
"Don't," he says without a voice. He just feels it. Latika feels it too. "Don't go."
"I'm already gone," she says sadly, and her eyes are all he can see, shining black, shining back. That's all there is of the dream for a moment, her eyes.
"Dance with me?" he asks, and Latika shakes her head. He takes her hand anyway. "Dance with me," he says, and it's not a question. She smiles slowly, warming up, and steps to him. Her feet are bare like all the other orphans' are but she dances like she can't feel the hot coals they're burning them with, the glowing embers on the ground. He laughs and the skin is burning right off the soles of his feet and he picks her up so she won't feel it. She giggles.
"Let me go, Jamal!" she laughs.
"I'll never let you go," he giggles back, thinking of the future, of the house they'll have together.
"You're right," she laughs; it sounds like the tinkling beads on the edge of a sari. "Don't let me go."
Jamal wakes up inside a bush on the beach, and runs his eyes. "Eh!" Salim grumbles. "Time to go?"
Jamal think about it. "Yeah, actually," he says with determination. "I think it is time to go. Let's go."
keywords: GS;; on a dime
Bianca's on her fifth martini of the night and Gabe's already had enough to pass out, which in his case is a lot. He's got an iron stomach. Bianca would be jealous if she didn't hate him so much tonight.
She sighs, looking him over- at least he looks clean, not covered in puke or lipstick, and sits down in chair besides him. At least when he's awake, he can bullshit with the best, make unreasonable excuses seem totally necessary, lie and finagle and charm his way back into her arms. He has a fake "I'm sorry" face and a real "I'm sorry" face, like he as a fake and a real most things, and she's known him long enough to be able to tell the difference. Thing is, he's always genuinely sorry to have made her mad (she can tell his fake "I love you" from his real "I love you," too, and the one she gets is real)... He just can't ever seem to drag himself up by his bootstraps enough to change anything.
He has a reputation to keep up, after all. It's the Cobra way. Party, party, party.
No, when he's awake and being all endearing it's easy enough to forgive him at least partly, enough to let him crawl back into her bed and touch her waist with his huge hands and whisper that it's his fault, it's all his fault, he's sorry that he's such a piece of shit. It's when he's asleep that's the problem, when he's there but can't be all charming because he's unconcious and she can just look at the mess he's in and ask herself for the five billionth time why she loves him. Why does she love him, anyway? She looks at his sleeping face, bored with this, and swirls her drink. If she thinks about it any more, she'll cry- she's pretty drunk.
She slips her shoes off and sets her drink on the nearest table, lifting his stupid heavy sleeping arm and knocking his tie out of the way. She pet his cheekbone and smiles sadly, then lies down beside him and tucks herself against his body, thighs together so no-one can see up her skirt. She can feel him breathing down her neck and wishes they were home already, sleeping besides each other naked and close like they are every night after he fucks her into the sheets and tells her that he loves her again. He can never stop saying it- he's making up for other things he does that would make it seem like he doesn't so he says it all the time, at the end of every thought and every sentence, leaving it written all over random days of her tear-away day desk calendar so she finds them all the time when he's gone, texting it to her even when he's drunk, all the time, all the fucking time. She just wishes they were home and he was awake again...
But this'll do.
keywords: HSM;; hold on
chad/taylor, troy/gabriella, chad/wat, troy/puddin' cups
"I AM STILL SORE FROM THAT SEVERE DILDO ASSFUCKING LAST NIGHT," CHAD GRUMBLES AS HE AND HIS BEST B-BALLIN' BUDDY BOY TROY HAVE A SEAT IN THE THEMATICALLY COLORED CAFETERIA OF EAST HIGH. "TAYLOR IS A SERIOUS BEAST IN BED. I HAVE BLUEBALLS."
"I KNOW HOW YOU FEEL," TROY LIES AS HE STARTS HIS MEAL BY SNARF-A-LARFING HIS PUDDIN' CUP. "ACTUALLY I DON'T. GABBY NEVER TOUCHES MY DINGDONG."
"WAT," SAYS CHAD, MOUTH DROPPING COMICALLY WIDE. HIS JAW ROLLS OFF INTO THE CORNER WHERE IT GET TRAMPLED BY THE
STONERS SKATERS, WHO MARTHA WAS TEACHING TO BREAKDANCE.
"DON'T MAKE ME TALK ABOUT IT," TROY SAYS GLUM-A-LUMLY.
"WAT," SAYS CHAD.
"I SAID DON'T MAKE ME TALK ABOUT IT CHADDERS!!!" TROY SNAPS. HE QUIVERS SO VIOLENTLY THAT HIS PUDDIN' CUP SPILLS ONTO HIS LAP, CAPPING HIS PERMA-BONER LIKE SNOW ON A MOUNTAIN.
"WAT," SAYS CHAD... BECAUSE CHAD HAS NEVER BEEN THAT BRIGHT. HE MAY HAVE MAJORED IN VACATION, BUT HE DROPPED OUT AFTER THREE WEEKS.
"I HAVE TO GO SING ABOUT MY FEELINGS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" TROY ANNOUNCES, AND LEAPS UP ONTO THE TABLE WITH A TRIPLE-BACKFLIP HANDSPRING. "NOTHING MAKES ME FEEL MORE LIKE A LONER, THAN WHEN GABBY WON'T TOUCH MY BONER, IT REALLY MAKES ME WANT TO GROAN-ER... PLEASE TOUCH ME GABRIELLA-ELLA-ELLA-EY-EY-EY-EY-EY-EY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
MARTHA HALTS HER BOOTY-SHAKING ABRUPTLY. SO DO THE
PUDDIN' DRIPS OFF TROY'S LEAKING ERECTION.
"LIFE IS PAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIN!" HE HOWLS, AND FLEES THE SCENE.
"...WAT," SAYS CHAD.