#1

i want mornings

bathed in the warmness of a newborn sun.

i want daylight washing my bare legs

i want to be forever a laughing child.

i want to have the innocence to think

that it’s possible to fly away

just by stretching one’s arms.

i want afternoons

full of laughter echoing in the back of my throat

i want summer breeze shaping the curves of my body.

i want to have the confidence to believe

that i am all i need

and that it’s possible to fly away

just by wishing it.

i want evenings

cold enough to have a reason to call you.

i want coloured grass tangling between my toes

as the sun dies.

i want not to get sentimental.

i want nights

warm enough not to need you.

i want to lie on the coldness of the green ground.

i want the shadows of the trees to paint my body

like moving ghosts dancing over my skin.

i want to have enough happiness

to ask myself

why would I ever want

to fly away.

Realization

046. Realization (Writer's choice)

Word count: 131

prompt

John Lennon will never know who fired the shot that killed him. He will feel the bullets burning and shattering through his skin but he will never hear the sound of the gun. Yoko’s scream will fill his ears as his body falls to the concrete floor and, while he uselessly tries to crawl away, he will think of Sean’s hand holding tightly his forefinger. He will also remember Julia’s sweet smile and the way her strawberry blonde hair used to dance freely in the wind. And, with a last painful attempt to breathe before falling unconscious, he will think about Paul, about how he deeply misses the sound of his voice; and he will wonder, for the last time, why people always realize things when it’s already too late.

fine figure of a man.

- Clasificación: ¿R? Muchas 'malas palabras'.
- Advertencias: ^
- Parejas: John & Paul (Mi primer pseudo intento. Give it a chance?)

- Capítulos: Único.

- Notas: “Mr. Darcy reminds me of you.”

“Paul?”
“Mm?”
“Want a kiss?”
“Mm. Not now.”
“A blowjow? ...At least answer, you bugger.”
“…No, thanks.”
“Sex…?”
“I’m reading, John.”
“I can bring the handcuffs and that big—“
“Doesn’t sound appealing.”
“…”
“…”
“…Paul?”
“Fuck, John. What do you fucking want?”
“…Will you marry me?”
“Mm…No, too talkative. Now shut up.”
“Oh, well, that was it! Go ask that writer to stuck his dick inside you, we’ll see whose name you scream while—“
“It’s Jane Austen, you twat.”
“—having a fucking well-narrated orgasm!”
“…”
“…”
“John?”
“What now, Paul McCunty?”
“Jane Austen’s a girl.”
“…When I thought you couldn’t be queerer.”
“When I thought you couldn’t be more idiot.”
“Me? ...Hey, git, come ‘ere! Where do you think you’re—“
“Ringo’s room. At least he’s silent.”
“Oh, no, no – you’re staying, little bookworm. Come…No, don’t...Caught it!”
“John! Give it back!”
“Don’t think so. Let’s see what we’ve here…”
“GIVE ME THE BOOK!”
"’…The gentlemen pronounced him to be a fine figure of a man. He was looked at with great admiration for about half the evening ’… Fuck, Paul, this is queer, even for you.”
“Lennon, I swear—“
“’Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original intention as atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?'…Who wrote this shit? A dinosaur?”
“It’s from 1800. Didn’t expect you to understand it. Now give it back, John.”
“…Didn’t expect me to understand? What do you think I am, Paul, a fucking three-year-old?”
“No. No. I didn’t mean that. Give me the book.”
“You well fucking meant that! The bloody intellectual git thinks he’s better because he reads a prehistoric book for menopausal women—“
“I read it because of you.”
“…What? Oh, c’mon, Paul, don’t try to change the subject here. More or less culturized you know I’d fuck you anyways; don’t act smart when your mouth’s too busy swallowing my dick to form any intelligent word—“
“Mr. Darcy reminds me of you.”
“—and when it’s my turn you can only scream John! John! Joh… Wait, Danny who?”
“Fitzwilliam…Darcy. The…fine figure of a man…”
“…You gotta be kidding me.”
“No. No. We’re… we’re actually a lot like them. You know, Elizabeth and Darcy.”
“Elizabeth.”
“Stop laughing already!”
“ELIZABETH.”
“Fuck you, Lennon. I don’t even know why I bother on telling you—“
“Shushhhhh, Paulie. Quiet. Give us a kiss.”
“…That filthy habit of yours, always thinking that everything can be mended with kisses.”
“Well, love, they don’t say I’ve a quick tongue just because of my witty talking.”
“You whore.”
“Look who’s saying.”
“I wasn’t the one who interrupted his boyfriend’s reading because he needed sex.”
“Oh, Mss. Elizabeth…!”
“—you’re an idiot.”
“…I am utterly sorry, light of my days, warmth of my soul, if I ever gave you that wrong impression! My intentions couldn’t have been more naïve, more innocent, more disinterested—“
“More horny.”
“More decent, more honest!”
“More randy.”
“More cast, my dear Elizabeth, more pure! I was just longing for one of your crimson kisses; as I live with the constant need to feel you near, my lady, to be close to your body in the most unadulterated form!”
“…How do I know if they are sincere, Mr. Darcy, those beauteous words? For I don’t think I deserve them, as I don’t deserve such a magnificent feeling as the passion you profess.”
“You really like this, don’t you, Paulie?”
“I like to make you struggle with your own language.”
“Bitch.”
“C’mon, Johnny! You owe me this one!”
“What? Do you really get horny with…?”
“I promise I’ll let you use the handcuffs.”
“Oh well then! You deserve, dear Elizabeth, even more than my passion! I could not have bestowed it on a more admirable being, not after having met you, my graceful beloved! …Okay, that’s it. This is seriously one of the stupidest things you ever made me do, Paul. What kind of freak fantasies with a character from the fucking 17th century?”
“Okay, don’t do it. But I probably won’t want to suck your bloody dick the next time you--”
“Oh, dear Elizabeth! You bewitched me and I happily fell on your divine spell!”
“…Do you conceive, Mr. Darcy, the impediments of your feeling? Being us from a different social stratum, our union being recognized as unsuitable by our surrenders!”
“Oh, my love, my darling, how it hurts to be incandescently in love! How it burns the ardent flame of the elusive passion! But you are perfectly aware, dear Elizabeth, that our stratums play a lower role, that the reason of the inadequacy of our love is deeper! For well you know that is your hidden dick what’s tearing us apart!”
“…John!!! You were doing it just fine…!!!”

Melody

005. Melody

Word count: 116

prompt

Paul’s lips were plump and red, like a strawberry cut in half. One of John’s favourite activities was (of course) to kiss them. He’d slid the flesh between his teeth, recognize their texture, and then he’d bite them carefully, pressing enough for Paul to let go a little, almost inaudible cry of pleasure. The fragile melody would vibrate over John’s mouth, warm, unnoticed, muffled by the sound of husky whispers and loud breathings, by a belt being loosened and fingers tracing skins. It’d stay there, Paul’s sinful sob, lingering between them for just a second, and then it’d vanish in the same spot in which both mouths would violently smash.

And so John would bite again.

john&paul prompt

001.	First kiss	002.	Final	003.	Numb	004.	Broken wings	005.	Melody
006.	Rules	007.	Chocolate	008.	Nostalgia	009.	Heartbeat	010.	Stranger
011.	Confusion	012.	Bitter	013.	Afterlife	014.	Daybreak	015.	Audience
016.	Sorrow	017.	Fireworks	018.	Wishing	019.	Happy Birthday	020.	Tomorrow
021.	Oppression	022.	Agony	023.	Return	024.	Protection	025.	Boxes
026.	Hope	027.	Preparation	028.	Beautiful	029.	Lies	030.	Underneath
031.	Hide	032.	Diary	033.	Unforeseen	034.	Conditional	035.	Gone
036.	Clear skies	037.	Heartache	038.	Wired	039.	Insanity	040.	Foolish
041.	Words	042.	Study	043.	Punctual	044.	Piggybank	045.	Shooting star
046.	Realization	047.	Writer's Choice	048.	Writer's Choice	049.	Writer's Choice	050.	Writer's Choice

Every little thing.

- Clasificación: R
- Advertencias: -
- Parejas: Frank & Gerard

- Capítulos: Único.

- Notas: Life will show you even the most insignificant flaw of your lover, for you to find out if you can really love him in spite of everything. That’s what proves are for, after all, aren’t they?

·

Sooner or later, your lover becomes boring.

It always happens. No matter if you’re in a long-term, loving, sensational relationship; if you’re travelling around the world; if you’re the fucking Queen marrying a King or if you’re really, really in love. In fact, the more sentimentally involved you’re, the greater will be your disappointment. It isn’t a known equation, but it’s truly predictable, thought no one wants to find it out: in a certain point of your oh-so-perfect relationship, the romanticism becomes disgusting and you start to discover every little flaw, every unpleasant habit, every defect that the excitement of the first months didn’t let you see. And that’s, my friend, when you have to start worrying.

You’ll find out that your lover (yes, that one that seemed so clean and tidy) is actually a walking mess. That’s usually what happens. The little boy leaves his dirty underwear on the floor, because “He knows how to find them in his own disaster” (are you kidding me), and every time he takes a shower (if he does!) it looks like fucking Katrina struck your bloody bathroom. Wet towels all over the floor, shampoo and toothpaste covering the sink, and don’t make me start with the soap and the hair. Just yesterday, I found one of Gerard’s socks inside the toilet. No, I can’t understand how they got there, either.

He says I’m too obsessive. I say he’s too messy for my own comfort.

But no, my friends, the issue doesn’t end there. Things get worse. Life will show you even the most insignificant flaw of your lover, for you to find out if you can really love him in spite of everything. That’s what proves are for, after all, aren’t they? To show you the obstacles you’ve to go through, shake you up a little and, if you’re good enough, carry you to the lovely goal (…that, if you date someone like Gerard, will wait for you naked and eager to have happy sex).

Now, I would like to show you how the human mind works under the influence of love and its inevitable consequences. I wrote the following text in my travelling notebook, during a short tour around U.K., the first weeks I dated Gerard. Here’s what it says:

I could spend my entire life with him. It had only been thirteen days and a half, and I already know that I’m completely, devoutly, irrevocably in love with Gerard. He’s everything anyone could ever want – smart, caring, fluent and (why deny it?) sexy.

Plus, he always smells good. He wears that big, fluffy sweater with little llamas on it, and I swear it’s the cutest thing I have ever seen. And his music! He has a lot of discs I’ve never heard before, and he knows a lot of weird facts about musicians.

Every morning, he wakes me up with a banana milkshake and a pack of cookies. He’s always worrying about my health, telling me to put on a scarf and enough coats to make me look like his “chubby little snowman”. I know, lovely.

I’m lying on the bed now and he’s kissing my ear. I hope we can make this last forever.

Ah, almost forgot. Sex is awesome, too.

I know, I know, don’t start laughing and throwing tomatoes at me. I was an idiot, okay? I was suffering the first symptoms of deep love. It’s something no one can handle right, so stop mocking already.

Now, the second part of this lovely text. This was written only a few days ago, after finding the outrageously corny statement above, and also after a year of dating Gerard. Here it goes.

(Quick note, just for the record: I know I’m not perfect. Nobody is. I’m just giving my point of view here, so don’t judge me. I’m aware that my boyfriend must complain a lot about me, too.)

Okay, I can’t stand at this anymore. Seriously. We’ve been living together since half a year, for Christ sake, and the man didn’t even unpack his stuff yet. I’m tired of him; my ears are tired of his constant nonsense. I’m tired of washing his socks and his fucking underwear. Most of all, I’m tired of washing that horrible sweater. One of these days, it will “get lost in the dryer”, I swear. It’s ridiculous, it itches and it has llamas on it. Bloody llamas. Why would someone wear a sweater with CAMELIDS?

And forgive me here, but if I hear just one more fucking curiosity about Michael Jackson’s life, I’m going to kill myself. Nobody cares if the boy’s favourite character was Pinocchio. NOBODY GIVES A FLYING FUCK. And maybe Paul McCartney’s and bloody Rod Stewart’s CDs are going to drown themselves in the dryer, too. Good music at first, but I’m already feeling like a menopausal woman. This house needs Metallica.

Oh, this house also needs to stop buying some fruits. I’m currently throwing up at the smell (or the simply thought) of banana and milk mixed together.

And Gerard, please, if you read this, would you be kind enough to stop dressing me? I’m not your baby, so don’t treat me like I am. I’m begging you here.

So, I’ve to run away now because Sir Way is almost setting our kitchen on fire (and he’s only making pasta.)

…

…By the way, some things never change. Sex is still awesome.

I guess that gives you, little grasshopper, a clue of what I’m trying to say. I don’t want to spoil the party or anything – but it always happens, the advent of fucking reality. You discover that what seemed sexy is actually a little gross, or sickly romantic, or oh-my-God-how-did-I-even-like-this. And no, my friend, I’m not being all grumpy here, I don’t need a good shag (I have those frequently, thanks Gerard, he’s good at getting into my underwear), I’m certainly not in that time of the month nor I’m thinking on dumping my lover away.

Nor I’m thinking on dumping my lover away.

Yes, you heard right, fritters. The stage where flaws start to come up is probably the hardest, but, after that, everything becomes easier. You don’t need to assure your partner that you’re in love with him all the time, fights are almost inexistent and, the best part (being, as Gerard says, an ‘insensible jerk’) is that you don’t need to say oh-so-romantic things to carry your lover to bed. You just say ‘I wanna fuck’ and he’ll answer ‘Wishes are orders, my captain’.

At least, that is, if you’re dating someone as gorgeous as Gerard.

daddy!

- Clasificación: R
- Género: ¿Humor?
- Advertencias: -
- Parejas: Frank & Gerard

- Capítulos: Único (drabble).

- Conteo de palabras: 225.

- Notas: Mi primer Drabble. No tiene exactamente 100 palabras, pero intenté hacerlo lo más corto posible.

 • 

“They would rule the world, with your looks and my brain.” Whispered Gerard, smiling sleepily, and rolled over the warm sheets to face his lover.

“I’m more than just a pretty face, you know?” Frank complained, as he stood up. “I also have a fuckin’ awesome body!” He giggled, while crossing naked the hotel room. He sat down in a little chair and grabbed his guitar from the floor.

“What are you doing?” Gerard asked, frowning, as his lover started to pluck the guitar strings. “Hello? ‘Boyfriend eager to make wonderful babies’ means anything to you?”

Frank chuckled.

“We’re making babies since yesterday, mommy! Daddy needs some rest!” He said, amused by Way’s whimsical expression, and he blew him a kiss. “C’mon, don’t be dramatic. We don’t even have a uterus.”

“Speak for yourself.” Gerard complained, and Frank laughed again. He was pretty sure that his lover didn’t have feminine parts. “Go make love to your guitar, you selfish bastard. Neither I nor my uterus want you here. Men…”

He gave back to Iero and covered himself with the sheets.

“Silly boy... You know I would never choose anything over you!” Frank said, lovingly, and left his guitar aside. He walked to the bed and threw himself over Gerard, which growled under his boyfriend’s weight. “And then you want our babies to have your brain…”