glasspaperclip (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
glasspaperclip) wrote2007-08-29 03:04 pm
glasspaperclip) wrote2007-08-29 03:04 pm
Entry tags:
Solar Eclipse [1/?]
Solar Eclipse - [1/?]
(1.781) // (R.)
Bob Bryar/Ray Toro
He cuts you off and motions for you to come closer, something you do with the same caution of an EOD technician drawing near an unexploded bomb. Is there any way to get ready to receive a punch right on your face? What if you drop on your knees and beg him to spare you?
Prompt #61 Nervous @![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
bandom_100
Not mine. Not at all. No, no.
Betalove to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sorrowful_eagle
*
It all starts with a loud noise, a heartfelt curse and the typical crash of something fragile being smashed against a harder surface. It’s a combination of sounds that catches you completely off guard and makes you spill your soda all over your lap.
"Oh fuck! What the...?"
Another fit of curses comes and it’s far more elaborated than the first one. The swearing guy – you can’t tell his identity yet, you’re only sure that it’s a male - is obviously going for it. The bits and pieces that could be heard involve the moral code – or rather, the lack thereof – of various mothers, sisters, cousins, aunts and other relatives of the female kind, and a certain, but not specified, 'fucking son of a bitch'.
Again, you can’t tell who it is, but you surely feel a pang of sympathy towards them. Whoever 'they' may be.
Casting aside the crosswords you stole from Mikey's bag - boredom strikes hard during tours – you get up and head towards the bus' doors, determined in finding out the reason of such a fuss.
Besides, you kind of want to suggest Cursing Boy a way or two to improve his skills. As imaginative as his swearing is, he starts repeating himself after a while. Those guys in the crew are a bit too young to know better, you think and you shake your head, amused. Some of them aren’t even Jersey kids. According to Frank’s theory, it would take them a bit longer than usual to learn about how to do important things of life the proper way.
Your convictions get shattered to pieces just few moments later, together with your amusement. The one you see once you get out the bus is indeed younger than you and doesn’t come from Jersey, but he surely is someone who knows better. At least, he should.
Bob.
You blink once or twice but your bandmate’s still there, standing among the flight cases that contain his drumset and staring at something in his hand. You have no clue about its nature yet, as it’s way too small to been seen from there, plus his palm is covering it all... no, almost. If you squint, you can spot the tiny tip of a yellow something peeking up from between his fingers.
Shit. Shitshitshit.
Suddenly, you aren’t curious anymore. Suddenly, you feel the unmistakable urge to duck and take cover on the bus. Images of the night before, of you and Frank being pretty wasted and barely making it to the bus are filling up your mind and you don’t know how to handle them while dealing with a nearly homicidal Bob Bryar. Oh fuck.
Okay. Just breathe. Breathe and think.
Common sense is telling you that the best thing to do would be to turn on your heels and walk the fuck away from there with all the nonchalance you can muster. You could always pretend you only went outside to breath some fresh air, and thus you blindly missed him. Okay, it’s kind of hard to miss a tall blond dude who’s cursing the shit out of everything and anything at once, especially if said dude is standing less than three meters away from you, but it’s still worth a shot. You have your hangover to blame. No one needs to know it’s already gone.
Slowly you turn, giving him your back. Chances are he didn’t even notice your presence, as you didn’t make any sound and he never raised his gaze from his yellow thing. Why should he? The parking field is almost empty and no one’s yet around on this early afternoon. He thought he was alone and you aren’t going to shatter his illusion. No, no.
He lets you take two, perhaps three steps before calling your name out, freezing you on the spot with your left foot still up in the air.
“Ray.”
“Ah...”
Okay. Keep breathing. It’s fine. You can face it, right?
Right. Oh shit, I’m so dead. Right.
You turn again, putting together the world’s most awkward smile. With a bit of luck, he’d believe it to be the result of an evening spent with Frank and some cans of beer, so he’d take pity of the state you’re in and go easy on you. Perhaps.
“Hey. Bob. Hi. I didn’t see you, man. I’m...”
“Yeah. Come here,” he cuts you off and motions for you to come closer, something you do with the same caution of an EOD technician drawing near an unexploded bomb. Is there any way to get ready to receive a punch right on your face? What if you drop on your knees and beg him to spare you?
“Uhm. What? Because listen, I’ve got this headache from hell, which is crap and I don’t...”
“Look.”
He’s making a habit of interrupting you, it seems, but before you can start complaining about it, he shoves his yellow thing under your nose. It’s a sticky note, a bit torn at the edges and with a nice sample of your own handwriting on it, in black and capitalized letters. You made them big, just in case he suffered of momentarily blindness and couldn’t see them. Better safe than sorry, you thought, and now you really feel sorry. For your ass that is about to be kicked, that’s it.
“Eh.”
Damn those eyes he’s got, they make him look angrier than he is. You close yours and start counting. You’re damn sure you won’t go further than five - he’d knock you out before. It’s only when you inwardly spell ‘seven’ that you realize you’re still standing, still in one piece, so you dare to open an eye.
He’s staring at you, his expression full of pity. He’s thinking you’re a poor, feeble soul... and is it possible that he has no idea about the author of that sticky note yet? Yes, it is, or you would already be handing him your teeth in a can of Red Bull.
“Ray.”
You throw in a tiny ‘uh yeah?’ and cross your fingers.
“You shouldn’t drink if you can’t take it. Have you seen this shit?” he rants and his eyes won’t let you go. “‘Hey, sexy’. Who’s the fucktard who leaves crap like this on my drumset? Assholes. Do I look sexy?”
“Yes! No! Eh… I mean, yes, but… screw it, man. It’s just a sticky note, not a fucking graffiti featuring your name, flowers and little pink hearts. Why are you getting so worked up about it?”
“Because, breaking news! It isn’t funny when people make fun of you, Toro,” he answers, his eyes narrow and you take a small step back. Just for safety purposes. Just now that you were about to let a sigh of relief go.
“But I…”
“Yeah?”
Again with the interrupting game. You shrug.
“Nothing. Throw it away and be done with it then.”
“You bet I will,” he growls, already making a little ball out of it. The enthusiasm he’s putting in this task suggests to you that if he knew, he’d make you swallow it, together with the pen you used, the other sticky notes and Frank, too.
You sigh. Not that you want to, but whatever, it still puts you a bit off the fact that you can’t tell him that in your eyes, he’s freaking gorgeous – or, what was what Frank told you to write? Fucking lickable piece of ass? Well, something along those lines anyway – and that you weren’t making fun of him. Well, perhaps Frank was, you can’t really vouch for him, but you were dead serious.
True, you were heavily on the tipsy side but alcohol never made you blind or brain dead. Even when you’re drunk, you can still tell a fuckable dude from an ugly one, and sure as hell Bob’s name is top of the first list.
You tilt your head on your side and scratch your neck. Those are dangerous thoughts, better if you reinforce in him the idea that you know nothing, that you have nothing to do with it.
“Perhaps it wasn’t even for you, perhaps it was for... I don’t know, Gerard? What if it fell from the place it was attached?”
“There’s only my drumset here. Gerard doesn’t even know that this part of the bus exists, I think,” he replies, casting the sticky note near one of the tires. There goes the closest thing to a love letter you’ve ever written in your life, you think with a bit of regret.
“Uhm, Ray?”
“Yes?”
“If I were you, I’d get my pants all the way down next time I jerk off. To avoid letting everyone know I was jerking off, I mean. There are some things a man needs to keep to himself, don’t you think?”
“Eh?”
You look down and indeed there are fresh, wet stains on your jeans...
Ah, right. Of fucking course. With all the commotion caused by the sticky note you had the stupid idea to write, you pretty much forgot about the earlier soda accident. You pinch the dark fabric between two fingers and pull at it.
“It’s soda, you pervert. Your cursing startled me and I spilled half a glass on myself. Blame it all on yourself.”
“Uh-uh.”
“Don’t ‘uh-uh’ me, it is. Want to have a lick, so you can make sure it tastes like soda and not like... ah. Uhm, yeah. Okay. Forget about it.”
“Okay,” he nods and he looks so solemn you’d want to slap that damn expression off his face. Or kiss it off. Or whatever. Did he have to point that out? Did you have to suggest him to go licking you between your legs? Because you’re getting images now, interesting ones of your bandmate giving you the blowjob of the century, and they’re making you hard. As always. Bob is your wet dream for a reason.
You pull at your jeans again, trying to readjust them without making it too obvious. Quite hard a task, since his eyes are still on you. Damn him. Why doesn’t he have brown eyes? They would be less intimidating and can’t he look elsewhere anyway?
“Stop staring at my crotch. I’m going to change,” you state, making it sound more like a declaration of war rather than a slightly pissed off comment and he nods again, sparing you the ‘if you need any help’ tease. Every once in a while, Bob decides to show some mercy.
As you rush into the bus you can hear his earlier question echoing in the back of your mind.
’Do I look sexy?’
“To me, you do,” you whisper and shake your head.
(1.781) // (R.)
Bob Bryar/Ray Toro
He cuts you off and motions for you to come closer, something you do with the same caution of an EOD technician drawing near an unexploded bomb. Is there any way to get ready to receive a punch right on your face? What if you drop on your knees and beg him to spare you?
Prompt #61 Nervous @
bandom_100 Not mine. Not at all. No, no.
Betalove to
sorrowful_eagle*
It all starts with a loud noise, a heartfelt curse and the typical crash of something fragile being smashed against a harder surface. It’s a combination of sounds that catches you completely off guard and makes you spill your soda all over your lap.
"Oh fuck! What the...?"
Another fit of curses comes and it’s far more elaborated than the first one. The swearing guy – you can’t tell his identity yet, you’re only sure that it’s a male - is obviously going for it. The bits and pieces that could be heard involve the moral code – or rather, the lack thereof – of various mothers, sisters, cousins, aunts and other relatives of the female kind, and a certain, but not specified, 'fucking son of a bitch'.
Again, you can’t tell who it is, but you surely feel a pang of sympathy towards them. Whoever 'they' may be.
Casting aside the crosswords you stole from Mikey's bag - boredom strikes hard during tours – you get up and head towards the bus' doors, determined in finding out the reason of such a fuss.
Besides, you kind of want to suggest Cursing Boy a way or two to improve his skills. As imaginative as his swearing is, he starts repeating himself after a while. Those guys in the crew are a bit too young to know better, you think and you shake your head, amused. Some of them aren’t even Jersey kids. According to Frank’s theory, it would take them a bit longer than usual to learn about how to do important things of life the proper way.
Your convictions get shattered to pieces just few moments later, together with your amusement. The one you see once you get out the bus is indeed younger than you and doesn’t come from Jersey, but he surely is someone who knows better. At least, he should.
Bob.
You blink once or twice but your bandmate’s still there, standing among the flight cases that contain his drumset and staring at something in his hand. You have no clue about its nature yet, as it’s way too small to been seen from there, plus his palm is covering it all... no, almost. If you squint, you can spot the tiny tip of a yellow something peeking up from between his fingers.
Shit. Shitshitshit.
Suddenly, you aren’t curious anymore. Suddenly, you feel the unmistakable urge to duck and take cover on the bus. Images of the night before, of you and Frank being pretty wasted and barely making it to the bus are filling up your mind and you don’t know how to handle them while dealing with a nearly homicidal Bob Bryar. Oh fuck.
Okay. Just breathe. Breathe and think.
Common sense is telling you that the best thing to do would be to turn on your heels and walk the fuck away from there with all the nonchalance you can muster. You could always pretend you only went outside to breath some fresh air, and thus you blindly missed him. Okay, it’s kind of hard to miss a tall blond dude who’s cursing the shit out of everything and anything at once, especially if said dude is standing less than three meters away from you, but it’s still worth a shot. You have your hangover to blame. No one needs to know it’s already gone.
Slowly you turn, giving him your back. Chances are he didn’t even notice your presence, as you didn’t make any sound and he never raised his gaze from his yellow thing. Why should he? The parking field is almost empty and no one’s yet around on this early afternoon. He thought he was alone and you aren’t going to shatter his illusion. No, no.
He lets you take two, perhaps three steps before calling your name out, freezing you on the spot with your left foot still up in the air.
“Ray.”
“Ah...”
Okay. Keep breathing. It’s fine. You can face it, right?
Right. Oh shit, I’m so dead. Right.
You turn again, putting together the world’s most awkward smile. With a bit of luck, he’d believe it to be the result of an evening spent with Frank and some cans of beer, so he’d take pity of the state you’re in and go easy on you. Perhaps.
“Hey. Bob. Hi. I didn’t see you, man. I’m...”
“Yeah. Come here,” he cuts you off and motions for you to come closer, something you do with the same caution of an EOD technician drawing near an unexploded bomb. Is there any way to get ready to receive a punch right on your face? What if you drop on your knees and beg him to spare you?
“Uhm. What? Because listen, I’ve got this headache from hell, which is crap and I don’t...”
“Look.”
He’s making a habit of interrupting you, it seems, but before you can start complaining about it, he shoves his yellow thing under your nose. It’s a sticky note, a bit torn at the edges and with a nice sample of your own handwriting on it, in black and capitalized letters. You made them big, just in case he suffered of momentarily blindness and couldn’t see them. Better safe than sorry, you thought, and now you really feel sorry. For your ass that is about to be kicked, that’s it.
“Eh.”
Damn those eyes he’s got, they make him look angrier than he is. You close yours and start counting. You’re damn sure you won’t go further than five - he’d knock you out before. It’s only when you inwardly spell ‘seven’ that you realize you’re still standing, still in one piece, so you dare to open an eye.
He’s staring at you, his expression full of pity. He’s thinking you’re a poor, feeble soul... and is it possible that he has no idea about the author of that sticky note yet? Yes, it is, or you would already be handing him your teeth in a can of Red Bull.
“Ray.”
You throw in a tiny ‘uh yeah?’ and cross your fingers.
“You shouldn’t drink if you can’t take it. Have you seen this shit?” he rants and his eyes won’t let you go. “‘Hey, sexy’. Who’s the fucktard who leaves crap like this on my drumset? Assholes. Do I look sexy?”
“Yes! No! Eh… I mean, yes, but… screw it, man. It’s just a sticky note, not a fucking graffiti featuring your name, flowers and little pink hearts. Why are you getting so worked up about it?”
“Because, breaking news! It isn’t funny when people make fun of you, Toro,” he answers, his eyes narrow and you take a small step back. Just for safety purposes. Just now that you were about to let a sigh of relief go.
“But I…”
“Yeah?”
Again with the interrupting game. You shrug.
“Nothing. Throw it away and be done with it then.”
“You bet I will,” he growls, already making a little ball out of it. The enthusiasm he’s putting in this task suggests to you that if he knew, he’d make you swallow it, together with the pen you used, the other sticky notes and Frank, too.
You sigh. Not that you want to, but whatever, it still puts you a bit off the fact that you can’t tell him that in your eyes, he’s freaking gorgeous – or, what was what Frank told you to write? Fucking lickable piece of ass? Well, something along those lines anyway – and that you weren’t making fun of him. Well, perhaps Frank was, you can’t really vouch for him, but you were dead serious.
True, you were heavily on the tipsy side but alcohol never made you blind or brain dead. Even when you’re drunk, you can still tell a fuckable dude from an ugly one, and sure as hell Bob’s name is top of the first list.
You tilt your head on your side and scratch your neck. Those are dangerous thoughts, better if you reinforce in him the idea that you know nothing, that you have nothing to do with it.
“Perhaps it wasn’t even for you, perhaps it was for... I don’t know, Gerard? What if it fell from the place it was attached?”
“There’s only my drumset here. Gerard doesn’t even know that this part of the bus exists, I think,” he replies, casting the sticky note near one of the tires. There goes the closest thing to a love letter you’ve ever written in your life, you think with a bit of regret.
“Uhm, Ray?”
“Yes?”
“If I were you, I’d get my pants all the way down next time I jerk off. To avoid letting everyone know I was jerking off, I mean. There are some things a man needs to keep to himself, don’t you think?”
“Eh?”
You look down and indeed there are fresh, wet stains on your jeans...
Ah, right. Of fucking course. With all the commotion caused by the sticky note you had the stupid idea to write, you pretty much forgot about the earlier soda accident. You pinch the dark fabric between two fingers and pull at it.
“It’s soda, you pervert. Your cursing startled me and I spilled half a glass on myself. Blame it all on yourself.”
“Uh-uh.”
“Don’t ‘uh-uh’ me, it is. Want to have a lick, so you can make sure it tastes like soda and not like... ah. Uhm, yeah. Okay. Forget about it.”
“Okay,” he nods and he looks so solemn you’d want to slap that damn expression off his face. Or kiss it off. Or whatever. Did he have to point that out? Did you have to suggest him to go licking you between your legs? Because you’re getting images now, interesting ones of your bandmate giving you the blowjob of the century, and they’re making you hard. As always. Bob is your wet dream for a reason.
You pull at your jeans again, trying to readjust them without making it too obvious. Quite hard a task, since his eyes are still on you. Damn him. Why doesn’t he have brown eyes? They would be less intimidating and can’t he look elsewhere anyway?
“Stop staring at my crotch. I’m going to change,” you state, making it sound more like a declaration of war rather than a slightly pissed off comment and he nods again, sparing you the ‘if you need any help’ tease. Every once in a while, Bob decides to show some mercy.
As you rush into the bus you can hear his earlier question echoing in the back of your mind.
’Do I look sexy?’
“To me, you do,” you whisper and shake your head.
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It shouldn't take me much to have the second chapter ready *crosses fingers* my Muse is actually behaving :D
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Thank you! <33
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I really really like this so far ^-^
I can't wait to see more, I think this is gunna be interesting and humorous =3
xxx
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Nothing is as it seems ;) - well, almost :D
Thank you! ♥
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I'm glad you like it, thank you :D next part soon :)
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Quiet.
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Thank you :D <3
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that was nothing you see around here everyday. you're an exellent writer and im glad i read your fic
this is going in to my memories for sure, because your style of writing and ray/bob totally pwns.
♥
Ida
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:D :) <3
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Ray è troppo cuccioloso e Bob è troppo... uhm BOB? XD
No davvero... è splendida Twin *______________________________________________*
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Ray non è cuccioloso, è solo impegnato a mantenere tutto della sua forma originaria, specialmente le parti che contano XD
:***** *manda un po' d'amore in più*
[Non riesco a spegnere iTunes btw. Fai qualcosa XD]
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*LOL* povero Ray XD Me lo vedo già sudare freddo ogni volta che Bob gli passa di fianco XD
:*****************
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I've been hoping to stumble upon a well-written Ray/Bob and HUZZAH! Here it is. I really hope you write more soon, because this was faaabulous!
XD
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Next part up soon :D <3
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OH HOW I LAUGHED!
I have to say, I feel so sorry for Ray though. I can easily imagine being in his position, and I am sure I have been too, I just refuse to think about it, so it kind of hurts my heart a little bit.
Which really mean: Ten points to you. Because obviously you wrote well enough to get a reaction :D I really liked this story, even if it makes me want to run and hide.
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Thank you :) I tried to go for a bit of humor just to balance the tension, but I wasn't entirely sure about the result. Messing up with fics is easy, especially when you want to stick to reality as much as you can.
Hugs :) ♥
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