London’s Home

Shoulders are so tense that its causing massive amounts of pain. Its all from stress and distress. No love.

He had no idea what kind of welcome he’d have here. He’d been gone three years with almost no contact.

He should have been sending out invitations to his wedding, instead he stood on the doorstep of a three story apartment above a nightclub. A place he had once hidden away in when the world was too much. Where he had cried, laughed, loved, fought and eaten the best damned curry around… and fucked on the couch far too often.

His green hair was faded out, his skin paler than normal and his eyes red from crying. He was afraid to knock. He could walk away and no one would ever be the wiser, they’d never know he had been here, he thought. He’d not have to face the hard questioning eyes, or deal with any accusations or rejections from the family he had abandoned. He stood there frozen with indecision.

Behind him boots started up the stairs. Heavy. Loud. London’s heart sank in his chest. Chance gone. He took a deep breath and turned to face whomever was behind him. He stared at his feet as he waited for the expected words. The vitriol and anger to flow from whichever member of his family he was refusing to look at. There was a pregnant pause, during which tears began to fall yet again, and then it was broken…

“Fucking well trust you to show up in time for curry night. Looks like you could fucking use the feed too. What the hell you been doing with yourself, you look like shit, babe!”

His head jerked up as she spoke. Bright orange and pink hair, sparkling brown eyes, and the cheekiest, most loving, grin around. Sara. Den mother extraordinaire, best friend and confidant to all of them. He tried to reply, to just say hi, and all that came out was a choked sob.

And then they were sitting on the stairs, her arms around his shoulders and his around her waist, as he cried and she murmured soothingly that everything would be just fine.

She was right, he knew. She was right because this was home, and they were his family, and all the things he’d been told, that he’d allowed himself to believe, were lies. They weren’t going to turn him away. They weren’t going to hate him or hurt him or be disgusted with him.

He was home with his family and everything would be fine.

Fuck everything. If people act like morons tell them to go hang themselves.

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Dead Boys Calling

Life.

Without it you’re dead.

With it you’re either permanently stressed out or wanting to stab people in the face. Or creating things, which encompasses both of those options and then some.

The Dead Boys have occupied my brain with their drama and laughter. They are light and laughing, sexy and violent and perfectly distracting from the world at large.

Sara’s making curry in the kitchen, from scratch, in her underwear. She has pornovision going and Concrete Blonde up loud. Her hair is orange and pink today.

Bast is curled up on the couch allowing Concrete Blonde to over ride the noise from outside. He’s reading with his fingers, and is glad he is blind and can’t see the pornovision. He’s sure Sara’s taste in porn hasn’t changed in the past 9 years.

Juk is upstairs tending to the rooftop garden. The city lights play across his sweat dampened skin enticingly. He doesn’t notice this, he just wishes it would rain all fucking ready so it would cool down.

Sass is watching Juk, appreciating the play of light and wondering if he’d let her lick him. She wouldn’t bite. Honestly, she wouldn’t. Juk wouldn’t like that. She’s wearing panties, nothing else, because she can do that here.

London is standing on the street. A cigarette dangles from his lips. He is tall and attractive. He is also dangerous, as the men surrounding him are shortly going to discover. He smirks confidently as the rain finally begins to fall.

The Dead Boys have demanded attention. Its going to be a fun ride.

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