cold_clarity: (mikey black n white)
[personal profile] cold_clarity
new endeavors?

idk.  I wrote some pr0nz. sort of. I have never written porn "for real" before. it's for that one prompt over on the MCR kinkmeme. no one else filled it so I took matters in to my own (possibly inept) hands.

seriously guys. this isn't me bashing myself for fun. I am extremely dubious of my abilities in this department and I think that I'm being super critical of myself as a result....but my (wonderful) betas tell me it's not as bad as I think it is and so. I'm posting it for your reading pleasure. enjoy!


Title: The Kind of War We’re Having Lately
Author: [livejournal.com profile] cold_clarity
Pairing: one-sided Waycest? sort of? also, Mikey/Show Pony, if you squint.
Rating: Hard R
Warnings: physical abuse, bloodplay, graphic nonconsensual sex, angst
Comments: mostly, thanks to [livejournal.com profile] normalhumanbein , [livejournal.com profile] subcutis and [livejournal.com profile] the_alliterator for reading this and listening to me whine.



Withdrawal is one of those things no one warns you about before you go zonerunning.

He can remember BLI’s daily announcements, hologram-ads that smiled at him on street corners, reminding, gently, that he needed his medication. But BLI didn’t operate on fear-mongering. They never talked about what would happen if you stopped taking those drugs; they just promised that you’d feel better, think clearer, and live happier if you did.

And for a while, Mikey wondered if they were right. For awhile, it felt like he was going to be waking in cold sweats forever, that the whole world would never stop fracturing into vision trails.

He cried without knowing what he was doing on two separate occasions.

He doesn’t remember how long it took for the unhinged hysteria to pass. He can’t remember the number of days he walked around feeling like his tongue was too big for his mouth, or like his hands didn’t quite work. It wore off, eventually—but what came next still hasn’t.

He remembers asking Ray one time (because he was too embarrassed to ask Gerard, and Frank was nice and all, but…yeah) if this was what it meant to “feel things.” If everyone had static storms in their heads, screaming over everything all the time, always.

Ray considered the question for awhile, then answered:

“I…yeah. That sounds about right.”

And Mikey set back to fiddling with his new laser gun.

He’s not sure he’s used to it, still—the way things spark in the back of his head and explode into full-blown fury in the blink of an eye. Just today, he threw something at the wall before he even had time to realize he was angry. Despite that, he supposes he’s getting better at managing it all. Sure, he still always feels like something inside him has been rubbed raw (like the skin that separates his hidden mania from the rest of the world is going to dissolve at any moment), but he tries not to think about it too hard.

Three years in, and not thinking too hard about anything has started to look like a pretty good tactic.

.

He starts having nightmares again, after Gerard gets taken.

When he wakes, he can’t remember what they were about—and the impressions that he can retain make no sense. The city is a mouth or they’ve got Gerard back, but his hair is long (all the way down to the small of his back) and it crawls around like a living thing. Sometimes it’s Dracs eating—something. Meat, he can tell that much. It dissolves into pink foam as they gnaw and they chew, their mouths suddenly doubled (the rubber-mask mouth a clownish red crater collapsing and jerking above the human maw full of flesh).

Whatever the dream, he always wakes with a throbbing pain behind his eyes and his mouth gone dry.

A week after Gerard has been missing, Mikey starts wishing for the drugs again.

Since the withdrawal, it’s only the second time the thought has crossed his mind.

.

He met Show Pony sometime after escaping the city limits (it was after the withdrawal wore off, but not before Mikey had learned not to be such a goddamn open book about every little feeling that scattered his thoughts).

It was dusk when Show Pony skated up to the diner doorway, pulled off his helmet, and shook his hair out.

“You’re new,” he remarked.

“Yeah—uh—”

“Show Pony.” He skated closer, extending a hand.

“Mi—Kobra Kid.”

A silence fell between them. Mikey’s ears were hot (embarrassment, he had decided, was ranked third worst of the feelings he’d experienced without the drugs). Show Pony appraised him, mouth set in a crooked quirk, and Mikey looked away.

“Are you looking for Jet or someone?” he asked.

Show Pony disregarded the question entirely. “You’re Party Poison’s brother.”

“Yeah. I am.”

When he looked up again, Show Pony was smiling (smirking?). “Man, he wouldn’t shut up about you. Welcome to this side of the show.”

“Thanks.”

Show Pony tilted his head. “I’m looking for him, actually. Poison.”

“Oh. He’s out back, I think.”

“With the car?”

“Yeah.”

“Big surprise.” A roll of the eyes. “Him and Fun Ghoul should just fuck it. Or fuck in it. Maybe it’d help them get over their autophilia.”

And he pushed off the counter, roller-skating away before Mikey even had time to blanche.

.

It’s not like they left Gerard. It’s not like Korse got him because they all just gave up and gave in.

That’s what Mikey tells himself, anyway, hoping it’ll dampen the bitter taste in his mouth.

It’s been a week and three days and the moment still replays in his head, clear as the desert sky, if he lets himself think about it.

Gerard shoved Ray towards the car, snarling, get the fuck out before they ghost every one of us and Ray went without protest (but the look in his eyes said it all anyway). Mikey remembers the worn-out feel of Gerard’s jacket against his own palm when he twisted his fingers up into the hem of it, as if that would change Gerard’s mind. (A hint: it didn’t.)

It’s been a week and three days of nightmares and not knowing when the transmissions start coming.

With the first one, it takes them awhile to realize what’s happening. And then—

“Fuck. Fuck, Jet! Kobra! Get over here!”

A scramble.

“Is that—?”

“Shit, is this live? Do you recognize this?”

“What the hell—”

It’s over. A minute, tops. A glimpse of Korse and a hooded figure strapped to a table in a room as nondescript as anywhere else in all of Battery City. But Mikey knows—with a sick twist in his gut, he knows—there was red hair under that hood. That the last time he’d seen that figure in the flesh, he was growing smaller and smaller out the rear window of the car.

.

After three visits, Mikey started to get the sense that Show Pony was babysitting him (for lack of a better word).

It was weird because Mikey didn’t need babysitting in the ‘look after me’ way—but when he thought about it, he was always happy when Show Pony came gliding up out of the heat shimmers. He was always excited for whatever new thing Show Pony had to teach him or show him or help him experience out in the dust of the zones. It was something to do (and, truth be told, if you aren’t running for supplies or scrambling from Dracs, there isn’t a whole lot to do in the desert except find shade and wait for the blessed cool of nightfall).

Which was how he ended up outside the ramshackle—house?—squinting up at the neon letters mounted over the door.

“‘The Pleasure Shed’?” He made a face. “Really?

Show Pony smirked. “Best in the business.”

“What business?”

That earned him a slap on the ass. “Get inside, Kid, and you’ll find out.”

Porn was the business, evidently—and it wasn’t like Mikey had never seen or heard of it before now (Frank wasn’t exactly discreet with his magazines, and even Ray made jokes about making runs to the zine shops and the pleasure-bot brothels), but brief encounters weren’t the same as perusing. He picked up a magazine and flipped through it, trying not to glance at Show Pony (who, seriously, was probably smirking his face in half—the fucker). The pictures were alright. Some pretty girls and some pretty guys, all of them in various states of ecstasy. He tilted the magazine sideways, considering a girl’s breasts and wondering, vaguely, what they’d feel like in his hands.

“Wow, could you look a little more bored?”

Show Pony’s voice startled him. “Sorry—I…was thinking.”

“Thinking? Okay. This is clearly not your style.” He plucked the zine right out of Mikey’s hands, and nudged him farther down the racks. “Find something that makes it hard to think.”

Mikey stared at the selection, feeling a familiar heat diffuse in his face (stinging hot in his ears). He remembered, some weeks ago, not being able to fall asleep. The inside of his skin itched and some electric kind of energy had pent itself up between his ribcage and his diaphragm. He remembered a heat that concentrated in his groin for no reason whatsoever and he remembered that it wouldn’t go away until he wriggled his jeans down to his ankles and wrapped a hand around his dick and oh. When he worked his hand up and down, everything melted into the kind of ‘not thinking’ Pony was talking about.

It wasn’t like he’d been picturing anything in particular that time (or the times that followed), though. And now, as he flipped through more zines, he was starting to think that maybe there wasn’t anything worth picturing. The pictures were titillating, sure, but they seemed like different permutations of the same idea and he had the sense that they’d get old, fast.

“Here. Try these.” Pony pressed three different issues into his hands.

The first was full of burlier men in what Mikey could only recognize as clothing from before. Sharp uniforms, grey and decorated. Not like Dracs or the SCARECROW—this was full military regalia. They kissed each other and the uniforms came off and Mikey felt his heartbeat speed up a little at the sight of their strong hands and bare torsos and powerful legs.

The second zine was titled Murder. And if the military men got a reaction out of him, it was nothing compared to the prickling heat that crawled across his chest at the sight of animals fucking and people brutalizing each other’s bodies. There were limp figures hanging in restraints, eyes rolled back while men fingered and fucked every orifice they could reach. Crying burn victims scrambled away from cars disappearing into flames. Mouths fellated gun barrels and contorted bodies writhed in pain.

“Looks like we found a winner.”

Mikey jumped, swallowing hard. Show Pony glanced down. It took Mikey a minute to notice the tightness in his own groin, and then another to completely register what had just happened. When he did, he felt his face burn.

“Oh, come on.” Pony snagged the first and the unread third zines from his hands. “It’s not like you’re the only one with a dirty secret.”

He disappeared, leaving Mikey with Murder. The storefront guy smirked when he brought it to the counter for barter.

The next four nights, he jerked off to fantasies of nameless figures screaming and bleeding and bruising and twitching under his touch.

But when the fantasies turned into dreams and the nameless figure started taking on the recognizable shape of Gerard—well. That was the first time Mikey really wished he could have the drugs back.

.

It was Ray’s idea to mod the television to enable it to record all transmissions that came through.

“If Korse does anything else, we’ll have the video of it. We can rewatch it. Maybe we’ll recognize something about where they’ve got him.”

“And if it isn’t a live feed?” Frank pointed out. “If he’s already—”

Ray cut him off. “Do you have a better idea?”

The truth was, the answer was bound to be ‘no’.

.

He makes tick marks in the wall beside his cot.

There are thirteen marks. A week and six days.

A week and six days of waiting for nothing, all because they listened and let Gerard play fucking hero, like that was ever going to do anyone any good.

He’s out back, kicking up shimmering sprays of sand, when the second transmission comes through.

“Kobra!” Frank calls. “Kobra get in here!

The hood’s gone this time. There are oozing red incisions splitting open the pale skin on Gerard’s torso. They look days-old and deep, inflamed at the edges. As Korse works his fingers into them, Gerard bucks against the restraints that hold him spread-eagled to the table. The sounds he makes are ragged and hoarse and Mikey feels his gut twist up.

“That fucker…he’s killing him,” Frank snarls when Korse motions to someone offscreen.

Two Dracs appear, unlocking the restraints and clasping shackles around Gerard’s wrists and ankles. When Korse yanks him off the table, Gerard stumbles, collapses, legs giving out beneath him. Korse nudges Gerard with the toe of his boot and then nods to the Dracs.

“He’s all yours.”

It’s all the encouragement the Dracs need. They swoop in, planting booted feet into Gerard’s abdomen. He folds in on himself, blood and spit and bile spewing from his mouth. Another kick and he’s splayed on his back, groaning. On the third kick, ribs crunch and Mikey’s hands curl in on themselves.

One of the Dracs hauls him up by the arm, holding him in place while the other claps his ear hard enough to make it bleed. Gerard chokes on a broken sound and the Drac hits him again, splitting his lip this time.

Mikey’s breath comes in quiet, shallow bursts. He watches the abuse continue and his mouth goes dry. Hair-pulling. Slapping. Punching. Kicking. When they’re through with him, Gerard slumps back to the floor, the wounds on his torso reopened, bleeding fresh into new scrapes and abrasions. And something flutters in Mikey’s chest at the sight of Gerard shivering on the tiles.

“I can’t—I can’t watch this.”

He’s backing away before he realizes it. Stumbling over his own feet. Ray twists to look at him.

“Kobra—”

But he’s out the door before can hear anything else.

.

He’s torching all of his Murder magazines in a trash-drum fire the next night when Frank walks out the back door to join him. The paper blackens and curls in the belly of the flames.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Mikey mutters. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. Jet’s rewatching the transmission.” His mouth twists and Mikey doesn’t have to ask if the tenth try has been a more useful endeavor than the fourth or the fifth.

“Oh.”

Frank nods towards the fire. “What’s this?”

“I dunno. Penance.”

Frank touches his elbow.

“We’ll find him.”

Mikey doesn’t believe it, and so, without taking his eyes from the fire, he nods and says nothing.

.

He tells himself he won’t watch it. That he can’t watch it because this is Gerard and he doesn’t want to see it.

His resolve breaks, some two or three nights later.

It’s his turn to keep watch anyway, and Frank and Ray are asleep. He wanders to the front of the diner trying and trying (and failing) to come up with reasons for why this has to be done. He might see something Ray missed. He might notice something crucial. He might he might (but he knows, really, he won’t).

The TV is mounted on the wall behind the counter where people probably sat and drank milkshakes or whatever, once. Now, though, the formica is covered in a strewn-about mess of maps and plans and napkins covered in skittering scribble. Mikey tries not to look at it, tells himself don’t think about it (tries not to consider that the marks by his cot now number seventeen and there’s no way—).

He doesn’t remember turning the TV on (doesn’t really recall his hands moving to set the recorded transmission back to start), but suddenly he’s breathless again, watching the Dracs manhandle Gerard. When they’re through, they dump him, facedown, back over the table, doubled at the waist. And a familiar and prickling heat (the thing he’s since learned to take as a signal of want and a stand-in for shame) spreads up Mikey’s neck at the sound of Gerard’s wet sob.

He watches Korse lean over Gerard and whisper it doesn’t have to be this difficult, you know and his fingers twitch when Gerard snarls a hoarse Fuck. You. in response.

Korse cracks his arm against the back of Gerard’s skull, clangs Gerard’s head against the bright metal of the table. And when Gerard’s legs seem to turn to liquid, when his whole body lurches to slip right off the table, Korse knots greyed fingers in red hair to hold him in place and Mikey’s lips part in some wordless expression of it’s this, it’s this, yesyes this, his fingernails hooking into the fabric of his jeans.

Keeping Gerard pinned by the head and by the hips, Korse pulls something from his belt with his free hand. Mikey swallows at sudden gleam of a scalpel blade and at the way Korse touches the bright edge to each ridge in Gerard’s spine, as if to count them or caress them.

And then Korse shifts, cutting open a new red seam that crosses over Gerard’s scapula and twists down across the arcs of his ribs. Gerard spasms and gags as red blood bubbles over his skin. And when Korse dips his head down to the mess he’s made, lips parted, teeth bared—oh. Mikey’s hands find the fly on his jeans in a rushed fumble. Korse laps and licks and sucks at the wound and the way his jaw works makes Mikey’s palms sweat. And there’s a knot in his throat and something almost painful contracting and coiling deep within his gut. Gerard’s making noises like he’s trying not to scream (trying not to cry) and Mikey’s fingers curl around his cock. With a shaking hand he pulls, long and slow, heat flooding him at the sound of Gerard’s wet and garbled groans.

Korse lifts his head—strings of scarlet dripping from his chin—and all but croons against Gerard’s ear You must be so tired, Gerard and I can make it stop, Gerard, but all that earns him is a haphazard grab, Gerard’s fingers scrabbling against his thigh. Some futile gesture of rebellion, maybe. Korse brings the scalpel down again and Gerard recoils. Mikey pumps his cock, eyes fixed on the fresh gouge in Gerard’s upper arm.

When Korse speaks, Mikey hears the words as though they’re coming from a world away. Gerard. You know better than that.

Korse bears weight down onto his pinning arm and Mikey picks up a rhythm to the sound of Gerard gasping (like a drowning man barely breaking the surface, like a man whose lungs are filling with foam). Korse glances to the Dracs and orders Hold him down before backing up. They pin Gerard by his arms while Korse folds the scalpel into some slot on his belt. Gerard slurs something. Korse chuckles, reaching around to undo Gerard’s fly (and Mikey’s heartbeat picks up, his hand sliding up and down up and down, his cock slick with precome). With a violent motion, Korse wrenches Gerard’s jeans down and works two blood-slick fingers between his cheeks. Gerard's cry is stuttering and throaty and he squirms against the table, twisting and wrenching with a strength that seems to be fuelled purely by panic.

“Don’t touch me,” he snarls.

At the sound of Gerard’s voice, that sense of something painful—that dark and red and organically soft thing—hooks tendrils of itself to the insides of Mikey’s abdomen and the sinews in his thighs. It pulls and tugs and twists (tighter, tighter) with every twitch of Gerard’s shoulders, every broken inhalation. And when Korse sinks in another finger (and makes Gerard go taut, eyes screwed shut, hands curled into white-knuckled fists) Mikey stops breathing. Gerard has his forehead pressed against the table and his mouth hangs open in a broken groan and oh, all of it, all of it makes Mikey’s hips jerk.

Korse smirks, working his fingers in and out and in and out—and oh, the way Gerard jerks and arches against the motion is enough to flood Mikey’s torso with a helpless kind of ecstasy, enough to make him lean back against the countertop to better buck into his own hand. And when Korse slides his free hand up Gerard’s back, when he forces bloody fingers so deep into Gerard’s mouth that Gerard gags and drools over his knuckles (and still, still squirms against the hand thrusting, rough and rhythmless, in and out, in and out), Mikey’s hips snap one last time and he comes all over his hand and his shirt.

He sinks to the floor, suddenly unable to support himself and, for a minute, he feels lightheaded and very far away. Eventually, the screen comes back into focus, still glowing bluely some few feet above his head. He cranes his neck to see Korse withdrawing, to see the Dracs releasing Gerard who slides from the table, smeared in a mess of his own blood and come.

And Mikey goes cold, seeing his brother in a pile on the floor, not even trying to curl in on himself, to hide or to escape. Bearing his teeth in a sharp, red-rimmed grin, Korse works a toe under Gerard’s chin, forcing his head up. He kicks hard enough to make Mikey cringe at the sound of bones collapsing under flesh—and then the screen goes black.

.

Outside, Mikey stumbles to the TransAm and vomits until nothing comes up. And when the dry-retching finally stops, he braces a shoulder against the car, shivering, because holyfuckingshit where the hell does he even start.

There are no drugs to make this go away, he realizes. There is no medication to erase this.

He closes his eyes, pressing his head against the cool frame of the car and tries to breathe deep. And the car smells of metal and paint and rust, and his hand is still sticky with the residue of his own come, and he swallows hard (and to no avail) against the sour taste of acid in his mouth.

Date: 2011-01-03 06:51 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] violin-road.livejournal.com
I WOULD JUST LIKE TO REITERATE HOW GREAT YOU ARE ♥__♥

Date: 2011-01-03 07:42 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] cypress-smile.livejournal.com
Wow, this is really awesome!

Date: 2011-01-04 05:06 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] weekendgothgirl.livejournal.com
Umm wow! *_________________* I really liked this, I love everything about it.
UNF. There are no words for how amazing this is!

I want more like this :D

xxx

P.s Memmed ;)
Edited Date: 2011-01-04 05:06 am (UTC)

Date: 2011-01-06 11:00 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] xx-anarchy-xx.livejournal.com
Fuck that was badass and dark as hell. Loved it

Date: 2011-01-06 11:07 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] enimsaj-2.livejournal.com
dude... whoa...

i find it um... interesting that as i read more and more of this i slowly got closer to my computer screen. Have a diagram of what i did:
0 = my faaace =D | = computer screen
start of read - 0-----|
continuing - 0----|
reading farther - 0--|
end - 0|

um... anyways.... I really liked it. It was kind of disturbing and really well written. ^.^

Date: 2011-01-07 07:14 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] so-many-fandoms.livejournal.com
Hon, there is NO REASON you should doubt your writing abilities. This is AMAZING. Let's start with the clinical stuff: the sentences are well structured, and you use all the right grammar and spelling.

But then let's go to the creative stuff. This is WONDERFUL. You describe the scene so well, with vivid sights and colors and FEELINGS. You do a great job of showing the angst that occurs in the space between Mikey's arousal and his guilt, his need and his self-hatred. This is not a simple PWP, not just porn for the sake of porn. This is fucking EMOTIONAL, with motivation and a backstory and continuity and meaningfulness.

You did such a great job with this, hon. I'm really proud of you!

(And I miss you on AIM.)

Take care,

Case

Date: 2011-01-10 08:53 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] xfakestarx.livejournal.com
So sick and so good at the same time. I have no words to describe how amazing this fanfic is. You left me speechless.

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