He's Not Holy
folder
My Chemical Romance › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
2
Views:
1,852
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
My Chemical Romance › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
2
Views:
1,852
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of My Chemical Romance. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Intro
He was sick. He FELT sick. No, it wasn't only that. To feel sick isn't exactly being sick. But he knew he was. He knew he was because of the shivers. Because of the shakes. Because of the sighs, and that fucking pink tongue. He was sick to his stomach. He felt red hot sparks spike at his skull as the gears in his head struggled to turn. Yes, he felt ill. And yes, he felt disgusting.
But perhaps disturbed was a better word for it? Uncomfortable? Or maybe, just comfortable but nestled in denial. Being wrapped in a thick blanket doesn't help when you're hurdling toward spike that could split you in two. He wanted to pop, that's all he knew. He wanted to stop this all, and to will it away as if it were just a dream or a memory. Because even though his fingers were moving, even though the pick was plucking, he wasn't thinking of his music. He wasn't thinking of the thundering heartbeat that was gushing from the amps. His eyes were fixed on the man in front of him, with the pretty eyes and wicked smile.
Don't make a scene.
Mikey wished he could be somewhere else as he felt his shirt being unzipped, moving his bass to the side along with his head. He closed his eyes. He didn't dare look.
But somewhere out of the corner of his vision he saw pink. The softest pink he'd ever seen in his life. Like the feeling of velvet or the sound of a violin at a funeral, if turned to a color. And it was followed by the softest touch on his collarbone, chest, ribs. He bit the insides of his lips to keep his mouth closed, and bobbed his head to keep himself busy. He felt the tongue slide up his skin for just a moment before he was alone again, on his own side of the island lost in the sea of waving hands and pumping fists, scattered with fish of peace signs and the cliche hand gestures for rock and roll.
The blinding lights from the suns suspended from wires and railings were blinding him, and began to make him nauseous. And he didn't even notice the crowd screaming and chanting as that man put the microphone in his mouth.
A sex symbol. No different than being a pseudo-pornstar. Pleasing the eyes of millions of strangers. Teasing the crowd with soft sighs and groping hands. His kisses were teases as well, a show to people that he was just as sexy as he put on. And he was. Oh god, he was.
Mikey couldn't help the frown that slowly weighed his face down, but quickly snapped it back to a look of focus as he noticed the cameraman was pointing his gun at him. He teased the others, too, that man. He teased his friends. Frank, Bob, Ray, all of them. He was something to bow to, to millions of men and women alike through the world.
But why him?
Mikey had often replayed tapes of their shows, from every angle, over and over again in a row, watching his brother taunt and tease the whole band. But why was it that, when looking at Mikey, Gerard got that spark of rebellion and lust in his eyes? Was it only him?
No, no, the tapes proved it. They proved everything. He couldn't see the fire when he kissed anyone else. It was hollow and empty. Just to please the strangers.
So was it alright for Mikey to be uncomfortable? Was it ok for him to shift his weight and bite his lip after Gerard was through toying with him? That, at night when everyone was asleep, he's abandon his Hustlers and Playboys and peer over the edge of the bunk to see his brother's sleeping, soft, peaceful face? Was it wrong that he'd touch himself to those memories of the sighs and sounds that he'd make onstage? The kisses? The gropes? The obscene comments that were played off as a joke?
He knew was that it wasn't fair. Once would be enough. Twice could be funny. Three times, it began to get uncomfortable. But for the longest time he convinced himself that hey! it was showbusiness. People liked what they saw. But. Why him? Now it just felt so different.
The innocence of playing was gone, and the halo on his little angel was beginning to melt into a cold golden liquid dripping on his features, beading on his eyelashes before drying metal with incredible luster. The worse it got, the more sensual it got.
It was an unpleasant mixture of displeasure and curiosity. Like a stomachache, or when your best friend decided to experiment on you when you were five.
He wanted answers. He needed answers.
But after he knew, what would he do with himself?
But perhaps disturbed was a better word for it? Uncomfortable? Or maybe, just comfortable but nestled in denial. Being wrapped in a thick blanket doesn't help when you're hurdling toward spike that could split you in two. He wanted to pop, that's all he knew. He wanted to stop this all, and to will it away as if it were just a dream or a memory. Because even though his fingers were moving, even though the pick was plucking, he wasn't thinking of his music. He wasn't thinking of the thundering heartbeat that was gushing from the amps. His eyes were fixed on the man in front of him, with the pretty eyes and wicked smile.
Don't make a scene.
Mikey wished he could be somewhere else as he felt his shirt being unzipped, moving his bass to the side along with his head. He closed his eyes. He didn't dare look.
But somewhere out of the corner of his vision he saw pink. The softest pink he'd ever seen in his life. Like the feeling of velvet or the sound of a violin at a funeral, if turned to a color. And it was followed by the softest touch on his collarbone, chest, ribs. He bit the insides of his lips to keep his mouth closed, and bobbed his head to keep himself busy. He felt the tongue slide up his skin for just a moment before he was alone again, on his own side of the island lost in the sea of waving hands and pumping fists, scattered with fish of peace signs and the cliche hand gestures for rock and roll.
The blinding lights from the suns suspended from wires and railings were blinding him, and began to make him nauseous. And he didn't even notice the crowd screaming and chanting as that man put the microphone in his mouth.
A sex symbol. No different than being a pseudo-pornstar. Pleasing the eyes of millions of strangers. Teasing the crowd with soft sighs and groping hands. His kisses were teases as well, a show to people that he was just as sexy as he put on. And he was. Oh god, he was.
Mikey couldn't help the frown that slowly weighed his face down, but quickly snapped it back to a look of focus as he noticed the cameraman was pointing his gun at him. He teased the others, too, that man. He teased his friends. Frank, Bob, Ray, all of them. He was something to bow to, to millions of men and women alike through the world.
But why him?
Mikey had often replayed tapes of their shows, from every angle, over and over again in a row, watching his brother taunt and tease the whole band. But why was it that, when looking at Mikey, Gerard got that spark of rebellion and lust in his eyes? Was it only him?
No, no, the tapes proved it. They proved everything. He couldn't see the fire when he kissed anyone else. It was hollow and empty. Just to please the strangers.
So was it alright for Mikey to be uncomfortable? Was it ok for him to shift his weight and bite his lip after Gerard was through toying with him? That, at night when everyone was asleep, he's abandon his Hustlers and Playboys and peer over the edge of the bunk to see his brother's sleeping, soft, peaceful face? Was it wrong that he'd touch himself to those memories of the sighs and sounds that he'd make onstage? The kisses? The gropes? The obscene comments that were played off as a joke?
He knew was that it wasn't fair. Once would be enough. Twice could be funny. Three times, it began to get uncomfortable. But for the longest time he convinced himself that hey! it was showbusiness. People liked what they saw. But. Why him? Now it just felt so different.
The innocence of playing was gone, and the halo on his little angel was beginning to melt into a cold golden liquid dripping on his features, beading on his eyelashes before drying metal with incredible luster. The worse it got, the more sensual it got.
It was an unpleasant mixture of displeasure and curiosity. Like a stomachache, or when your best friend decided to experiment on you when you were five.
He wanted answers. He needed answers.
But after he knew, what would he do with himself?