4Author's Note: Hey guys! I haven't updated with a slashy post in a while, but I have one for you now, thanks to the fabulous Underoath concert I went to last night that this story is inspired by. I am still on a buzz, I swear, I can't stop thinking about the show. Fuckin e, ugh. Underoath (whose new album, Lost in the Sound of Separation, is the greatest thing since, well, ever) The Devil Wears Prada (words cannot describe) and Saosin (who I've already seen, twice, but they get better everytime). You probably don't care about any of this, but I can't help myself, I've been on a brag-sesh since like, 12:30 last night. Anyways, this is kind of a song!fic to "Desperate Times Desperate Measures" by the fantastical and orgasmical Underoath, off their new album. I saw threesome spooning (girl-guy-guy) and it inspired this fic. The Underoath band members mentioned are Spencer, the lead vocalist, Aaron, who provides the clean vocals, and Tim is one of the guitarists. Sorry for this super long A/N that no one is probably reading anyways, but yeah, I hope you enjoy, and please tell me if you do or don't, aka send feedback. Thanks for reading. Oh, and this is just a standalone/one-shot.
Desperate Times Desperate Measures.
"I've been crawling around in the dark for a while.
Sprawled out across the floor, not collecting dust anymore.
Define me a parasite. Define my host.
Trapped beneath the floor, I slowly waste away.
Now I pull my frail body into the chair.
And look me in the face.
Oh, disappointments, so disappointing."
The crowd explodes. It's two parts caustic mayhem and one part pure sexuality. A flash of leopard print, scene queens, v-necks, hair extensions, flying limbs, and sweat-embedded chests, and Spencer's throaty bellow – "I'm afraid that this is really happening" – parts the sea of shrieking fans like Moses, and a mosh pit erupts out of the shaking wooden floors, a few brave souls to grind and growl and swing their hair, chins tucked somewhere by their bare abdominals, muscles straining and aching beneath skin-tight, sweat-slicked jeans.
"This may be my last one
It's gonna be good and hard.
It might be a touch out of key, a touch out of key."
The venue is set up like a Medieval ballroom, minus the double bar, brick walls plastered with band promos, and a merch table that envelopes the entire back wall, the rough scarlet surface masked by a carnival of color and logos. I read the titles – Saosin, The Devil Wears Prada, and of course the majestic headliner, Underoath. Wooden beams riddled with used gum and maybe vomit stains tremble under the force of the speaker discharge and roaring, animalistic fans. Spencer and Aaron soar into the chorus, and the crowd's sanity and composure clips and slithers away between the cracks in the wooden floor, a volcanic eruption of anarchy. Some perverse sort of bliss crawls through my veins; it's beautiful. I inhale another gulp of acidic fire – maybe it's Jack Daniels, maybe its just plain beer, but it feels thick and sweet when it sinks to the pit of my stomach, and my brain melts to a mushy, muted buzz.
"When this thing breaks. I will be you, you will be me.
I'm afraid that this is really happening.
Let's hope this is short lived and riddled with dizzy"
I feel but I cannot show. Ashton says it makes me mysterious – and I called him a faggot, but that's normal. Ashton and Robin keep flashing me weird looks because I'm so into this show – because apparently, I am usually "monotone." Robin tells me to head bang more, because I've "got the perfect hair for it" – long and wild. Ashton gave me these odd half-dread locks last week, specifically for this show. I took them out though; I felt like Bob Marley. I don't even like Bob Marley.
There's a girl on my left who keeps pushing into my side. She sings along with Spencer, every lyric, every drawn-out moan scream and shriek, and her foot taps exactly in tune with Aaron's drum beat or Tim's stroke of guitar. Sometimes she taps her index finger against her blue dress-clad hips, sometimes she pumps her right hand in the hair, but her fingers don't curl into a fist. Instead, she points them like a gun, but real loose. A bead of sweat trickles from her hair – hair that was probably straight once, but the sweat that seems to pour from every nook cranny and crevice of the room has transformed it into a mass of wild curls, the strands of which slap my face every other second she whips her head in musical frenzy.
She's fucking hot.
Robin and Ashton rock against each other. I should turn away in disgust – my best friend and his girlfriend being all lovey-dovey when I'm in full-on, drunken, brutal mode.
"Oh God, the noise! Is ringing in my ear.
It's so unclear, so unclear.
I hear them talking, but can't make out the words.
Speak up! Speak clear!"
B-r-u-t-a-l, goddamnit, and I twitch all over – Hot Girl next to me shivers a body-wracking spasm – and Robin and Ashton are kissing now. Ah, fuck 'em. I dive into the mosh pit – the fringes of which have been hammering into my side for the past minute or two – and I feel like God. Maybe it's the religious undertone that aches and crawls deep within Spencer's throat, the music in general, or the fact that my shirt is off and my chest is sun-kissed and sweaty and it makes me feel powerful, I don't know. I ram and I wrestle and I scream scream scream. All us sweaty boys rubbing against each other makes me feel really gay, but then Spencer screams, and I'm God again.
I must be really drunk now.
I escape the pit before I get too brutalized. Plus the look on Robin and Ashton's face – they hate when I get really drunk and stupid – and I'm horny now too. Robin must've hid my beer bottle. It's a very Robin-y thing to do, always looking out for everyone's "best interest." Wild-Curly Hair Girl hasn't moved, she's still rocking and still seemingly alone. I sidle up beside her, wedged back between her and RobinAshton.
"I saw you in the pit, dude. Fucking brutal," Wild-Curly girl shouts into my ear, standing up on her tippy toes, her arm smooth and warm against my pulsing, muscled side. The soft material of her dress brushes against my shoulder, and her wild hair tickles my cheek. Her breath is hot and spills into my earlobe like smoke, licking at my insides. I'm warm all over, and my jeans seem to tighten.
She returns to normal height, smiling up at me. Her forehead is too shiny and her wispy little black hairs curl into her flesh, stuck with sweat. Her teeth dazzle against her dark tongue and the freckled pits of her cheeks. "I'm Lainey," she yells, her voice lost in a crescendo of amp fizzle and stomping feet.
"Dallas," I yell back.
And then I lose her. The mosh pit has grown like a forest fire, roots crawling along the wooden floors and snagging its victims by the ankle, yanking them deeper into the pit. Ashton presses closer to me, swiping a hand through his straightened, girly hair, probably more worried about its ruin than his girlfriend, who has pressed her back tighter to his chest in fear of being swallowed by the pit.
He kisses the back of Robin's hair, that little blue patch amidst the fountain of pitch-black, and she takes his wrists and pulls them around her curvy stomach. Robin yanks her stretchy headband further down her forehead, the thin pink strap digging a long, red welt into her forehead.
The crowd shifts again, and then – shit. Ashton. Someone tries to push him in, but I catch his tiny wrist at the last minute and heave my shoulder backward, naked biceps stretching against the resistance of the crowd. His ass would be annihilated in that mess – Ashton is the anti-me. Where I am blunt strength and lean-but-powerful muscle, he is skin-and-bone. He breaks easy, and that mosh pit is fit to kill.
All of a sudden I've got a got a crotch-full of Ashton. His body is curled within my chest, his scrawny, still-clothed back pressed flush against my sweat-laden chest, his stupid, girly hair ticking my chin. But he can't move, and neither can I. We're locked on all sides, and no no no - fuck.
I'm hard again. And I'm itching to get out of my stupid, tight pants.
Ashton looks up at me, and the crimson veins in his eyes seem heavier amongst their pearly, white background. He blinks and presses tighter against me, and Robin presses tighter against him. Great, now we're were like some perverted little threesome.
My back and sides can breathe a little again, but something in my subconscious tugs at my limbs, and my crotch remains pressed against Ashton's ass – which is so nonexistent its practically concave, I might add. Ashton must be piss-drunk too, because the hard object pressing into his ass doesn't even seem to register on his radar.
While I sink to the bottom.
I'll sing out as it fills with water.
I hope I've done enough.
My fingers dig little crescent-shaped graves into Ashton's skeletal arms. His skin feels white-hot, but he doesn't sweat – but then again, I sweat enough for the both of us. The thin sliver of cheek that peeks out from his curtain of hair is flushed pink. My fingers trail from his arms, down his sides, and curl into his hips. The bone slices into the pads of my fingers, his hips are sharp and needy, and maybe this is Jack Daniels speaking, but I kind of want to hold them. So I do.
Ashton tips his head back against my chest, the fine, dark hair splayed across my naked collarbone. My hips inch forward, deeper into the small of his back.
Robin removes herself from Ashton's arms and spins around, fixing her olive eyes on his lips, and presses her mouth to his. It makes me feel weird – like an outsider spying on a moment of intimacy, which I technically am – so I let him go, and hunt down my bottle.
Lainey – Wild-Curly Girl – is leaning against the wall, oh-so-cool. The neck of a green bottle is pinched loosely between her fingertips, and she takes a swig, her throat undulating with every swallow. I touch her arm lightly, and she hands the bottle to me.
"You look hot when you do that," I slur, taking a gulp of my own.
"Do what?"
"Drink."
She smiles and rips the bottle from my iron-grip, and drinks again. She keeps her eyes open this time, trained on mine, and drinks and drinks and drinks. The neon lights that blare from the stage are reflected in her pupils, and I watch them move, dance, interchange, and then my eyes flicker back to her throat.
When she's done, a drop still sits invitingly on her glossy, parted lips, and I lick it away. She smiles against my teeth, and pulls me closer by my belt loops. I'm caught between her legs, and her cold palms, wet from the sweating beer bottle, dig into my hips. My hand rests on her shoulder, anchoring myself, before I lean down to capture her mouth. Her tongue is too aggressive, and she tastes like cigarettes and acid waste, but I'm so horny that I convince myself that its hot. I thrust my tongue against hers, drag it along the roof of her mouth and take her bottom lip between my teeth. She presses against me, shuffling forward, reaching up on her tippy toes again, and her arms move from my hips to curl around my neck.
"Whoa, Dallas, what the hell – "
I break away from Lainey, the sound of Ashton's hoarse voice burning in my ears. She furrows her brow, irritated at the interruption, and I turn to find Robin whispering in Ashton's ear, something about him being a cock block.
"Since when do you make out with random girls?" Ashton says loudly, ignoring his girlfriend and turning to me, accusing and annoying. Lainey takes my wrist and digs her thumbs into my knuckles.
"Her name is Lainey. There, she isn't random anymore."
"Whatever, dude. C'mon Rob, let's check out the merch."
It's now that I realize Underoath has stopped playing, in fact the lights have come back on, but the hall is still buzzing with activity and post-show excitement.
"Who the hell was that, your boyfriend?" Lainey huffs after Ashton's retreating back, eyes fixed in a cool glare. I squeeze her arm and she looks back up at me, jealousy intermingling with lust and an alcohol-haze.
"Nah, my best friend."
"Eh, same thing," she smiles now, and her lips crash back into mine. Her tongue tangles with mine – wait, 'same thing'? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Guys can have best friends too. Hell, I've known Ash since I was like, three. We used to take baths together, actually. We haven't done that in forever though, thank god, that would be really gay. Well, wait, we did shower together like a year ago, but we had swim trunks on, kind of. And guys can shop and be inseparable and still be totally heterosexual. Actually Ashton admitted that he's kind of bi-curious, but I chose to ignore it. He's a little emo boy, he just wants attention. Although he didn't seem to mind my crotch pressing into his –
What. The. Hell. I'm being choked by this sexy girl's tongue – why the fuck am I still thinking about Ashton?
She breaks away, and looks back up at me with sparkling eyes – or is she glaring?
"Still thinking 'bout your boyfriend?"
What is she, Ninja Mind Reader?
"Um, no," I say shortly. "I want more beer."
Ashton is leaning against the bar, with Robin tucked in the crook of his arm. They look stupid together. If you're drunk enough, Ashton and a twig are virtually interchangeable, and Robin just had all this extra chub pooled around her belly button and hips and arms, the crooks of her naked knees and elbows laden with sweat and a layer of extra fat. Her boobs were huge though, and her face was pretty enough, which is probably why Ashton liked her, but there was still something missing about her. Ashton liked mean girls, he told me this himself, and Robin was the farthest thing from mean. She was sweet and big and very snuggly and huggable, but she didn't have depth, she didn't have heart. She's nice, but that was different than having heart. When God was doling out passion and grit, she was either skipped or absent, probably in the back room eating cake.
Ashton just deserved better. He doesn't love her. I'm his best friend, I'm allowed to think shit like that.
"You look so lost." And there's Lainey again. She tries a little too hard, I'm starting to think. She wants my mind and heart and soul-place, and I just want her smoky mouth, maybe her fine, strong legs. She was wearing these weird gray legging-things before, but she must've taken them off.
"Nah, just drunk," I correct her, still trying to approach Robin and Ashton, who look bored out of their minds. Scratch that – Ashton looks bored out of his mind, while Robin combs his hair out of his forehead. He rests his head on her shoulder.
"Oh. Well then maybe you should stop drinking…it makes you taste less yummy."
Taste less yummy? Who the fuck says that?
"Uh, sorry. But I like drinking. Yeah. So bye, me and my buddies have to go." Wow, I am such a bitch.
"Wow, okay –"
She probably kept talking, but I had already turned away. Robin stood up when she saw me approaching, which knocked Ashton's head off her shoulder. He whimpered loudly, and eyed me with a pout. "Carry me?" He asked, with his stupid puppy doe eyes and girly eyelashes and pouty bottom lip. Ah, fuck.
"If you want your ass to be splattered on the cement, then sure. I'm so drunk I can barely carry myself right now, dude."
But he jumps on my back anyways and whacks the back of my head. "Giddy up!" he giggles into the back of my head, his warm breath disrupting my hair's brilliant state of not-so-purposeful disarray, and locks his bony legs around my hips.
"I hate you, ya skinny bitch," I mutter, stumbling forward slightly, but I carry him nonetheless. He buries his head into the knots of spine at the back of my neck, and I can feel his teeth snag the skin where my neck meets my shoulder. He kisses the bite lightly.
I stumble again.
Robin walks behind us, quieter than usual. "You drunk?" I ask her as we hit the asphalt and drudge to the parking lot. Her eyes find mine, laced with veins and glassy like marbles, and I mutter, "Eh, stupid question." She just nods.
When we finally reach my trashy, black Civic, Ashton is snoring lightly into my shoulder, the skinny hairs at my neck rising and falling in tune with his little puffs of breath, and Robin falls into the back seat, sprawling across the suede surface and leaving no room for me to put Ashton. "Put him in the front seat," she orders, her eyes already closed.
I open the door and scrunch down so that Ashton can fall into the seat without hitting his head. He wakes up and whimpers again, loud, and pouts too, mumble-whispering something under his breath, but I don't care enough to ask what.
I stumble over to the other side and fold my lanky legs into the driver's seat. Oh, fuck. I really have no brain. It's quite possible that I was supposed to be the designated driver for this show, but of course the call of alcohol was louder.
And then Ashton's head falls into my lap, his pale neck exposed where his hair parts and spreads onto my thigh. Next thing I know I'm stroking his hair, and he stirs a little. "Mm, Dallas," he mumbles.
"Mm, what?"
He turns onto his back, but his head is still in my lap, and his eyes pierce straight into mine. "You look hot."
"I know," I say, because I do.
"No, I mean like, you look really hot. Your hair is yellow today."
"And you're really drunk and look like a girl, what else is new."
He pouts when I say this. His bottom lip is wet and something dark slips out from the trembling part of his lips, and suddenly he's turned on his knees, his face pressed into my upper thigh, and there is a red stain on my jeans, and it's not my fucking period.
"Shit, Ashton, what the hell is wrong with you?"
The burgundy liquid keeps spilling from his lips, some of it clinging to his teeth like a rotten spider web, and then he begins to cry. He is so wasted it's sick and what the fuck do I do?
"Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck…" I mutter, because I definitely do not know how to handle this. He whimpers into my crotch, staining my jeans with more of his dark, sickly blood and salty tears. He doesn't sob – he's never been one to sob – but he cries quietly, little whimpers and little moans punctuated by little tear after little tear, and I hold him awkwardly, and I wonder why his girlfriend hasn't woken up yet.
"Robin, help me," I hiss, craning my neck, and then trying to catch her gaze through the rear view mirror, but she is sound asleep and snoring like an old man.
"No no no, please don't wake her up," Ashton cries, looking up into my eyes with those round, wet eyes, and okay, so maybe my heart breaks a little bit.
"What? Why not, Ash, I'm sure she can help a lot bett—"
"No no no…" he whispers, rising up onto his knees, and crawling so that he is straddling my hips. In my lap. Where my hard-on is.
"She doesn't help. I thought she would help, that's why I asked her to be my girlfriend, she could make it go away, but she just makes it worse, she makes my fucking heart hurt…"
His tears pool in the dip of my collarbone and his sharp little chin digs into my shoulder. He sinks further into my lap, and I am so confused I could cry. Drunk people should not have to deal with emotional crises on behalf of their best friend.
"Ash, you're not making any fucking sense."
And there it is. His mouth is wet and dark and still sticky with blood, and pressed so hard against my own mouth that I think some of that metallic taste might belong to me. His hands bury themselves in my wild mass of hair, and his scrawny thighs tighten their grip on my hips.
This 'kiss' – if you could even call it a kiss – doesn't last more than five seconds. I yank my head away and he stares at me, wasted and terrified. He sits in my lap like a broken doll, a dark slice of blood still trickling from the corner of his lips like a Joker's cut, and his eyes are ingrained with horror and a thin veil of lust. His face is frozen in a waxen distress, his mouth a dark, open cave, and his lips chapped and cold.
"Oh my fucking god." He whispers finally, and his lips crack and sing when they finally twitch into movement. His face contorts horribly and he is probably going to cry again, and I let him.
"You are so drunk, Ash. Get off me and let's go home."
"B-but –" He stutters for a moment, and searches my eyes as he searches for the right words.
"But what?"
"But I l-like being drunk." He isn't looking at me anymore. He lowers his eyes to his lap, and twirls a loose string on his hoodie between frail fingers and bitten nails.
"Why?"
He is quiet for so long, maybe he isn't even breathing, and the only thing that shatters this silence an especially loud snore from Robin.
"Because it makes me brave," he whispers, and another fucking tear crawls down his thin cheek. He has baby cheeks – they're soft and thin blue veins crinkle beneath the surface and strengthen when he gets cold – and snowy white.
I feel so cliché and lame when I curl two fingers beneath his chin, lifting his face so that his eyes will meet mine.
I feel emo and I hate it. Where the fuck did the brutal go?
My thumb digs into his cheek, maybe a little harsher than I need to because he winces a little, and I wipe away the leftover blood.
"Ash, what's wrong, what is it – why do you need to feel braver?"
His eyes flicker between my eyes and my lips. "Because if I wasn't drunk or brave, I could never do this –"
And he kisses me again. It's slow and deep and sensual, like a slow dance, instead of a dirty grind like the last one. He sinks deeper into my lap, and my hands inch down his back to cup his concave little ass. He moans a little, like a girl, and tosses his arms around my neck.
I break away again, frazzled and dazzled and so horny but – "Ash, I'm not gay."
He winces and puddles in my lap, and flashes me the broken-doll look. "Neither am I. But I like you."
"For how long?" I bite, and he winces again.
"Since you kissed me at the Chiodos concert," he whispers.
"…the fuck? I kissed you?!"
He nods shyly, and I blanch and pale a little. "You were really drunk," he says softly. "I knew you wouldn't remember it, but I do. I think about it all the time." His voice sinks closer to a whisper with every word he speaks, and he lowers his eyes again, eyelashes choking his insecurities.
"Oh." Yeah, I'm so fucking eloquent, and once again, Ashton looks ready to crumble.
"I'm sorry for kissing you. And throwing up blood on your favorite jeans. And being a mess in general…fuck it, can we just go home now?" Ashton says, and lifts his hips like he wants to crawl back to his seat, but I hold him place, and he remains cradled in my lap on my command.
"I liked the kiss, Ashton," I say quietly, holding him by the chin again. He looks up at me with the most tortured eyes ever.
"I wanna go home," he cries and tries to pull away from me, but I pull him back, I don't want him to fucking leave.
"I wanna stay right here and kiss you some more."
"Don't fucking lie, Dallas! I want to go home, take me home take me home…" And now he sobs. He seems to wrench every particle of his soul and wash it from his body in a flood of more tears and even more blood, a steady stream continuing to trickle from the corner of his lips.
I place my lips to the corner of his mouth, and my tongue snakes from my mouth and laps of the blood. The taste is intoxicating, like poison, and actually kind of disgusting, but somehow not because it's Ashton and Ashton is pretty. He presses his hands to my chest like he wants to push me away, but his hips are grinding almost fitfully into mine, and I know he loves this too.
"I'm not lying to you, Ash," I whisper into the corner of his mouth. His cheek feels like velvet against mine. His eyes are stained with heartbreak and inky, bittersweet lust.
"You know it's kind of hot doing this with your girlfriend right there, in the backseat." I want him to smile, and it works.
"Mm, ex-girlfriend," he giggles into the shallow dip of my collarbone, and I dig my thumbs into the small of his back.
"Thank god for Underoath concerts," I whisper into his ear, biting the rather succulent-looking tip when I feel a shiver course through his skin, rooted deep within his delicate bones.
"This may be my last one, it's gonna be good and hard. It might be a touch out of key, a touch out of key," he whisper-sings, and it's so cliché and so perfect and I can't help but shiver a little too.
"When this things breaks, I will be you…you will me. I'm afraid that this is really happening," I sing.
Let's hope (fear) is short-lived and riddled with dizzy.
Fin.