(no subject)
Title: Blood and Fire.
Author: androgynous_ken
Pairing: Ray/Gerard.
Rating Hard R.
Summary: AU. Ray reflects on the holy and the mortal aspects of living with Gerard. This is a sad one, kids, and pretty self-indulgent; forgive me.
Dedicated to my lady of sorrows, Amy Ray, whose song I built this around.
I’m crawling on your
I have spent nights with matches and knives,
Leaning over ledges, only two flights up.
Cutting my heart, burning my soul.
Nothing left to hold,
Nothing left but, blood and fire.
You like those paradoxes, and so we fuck in graveyards. It’s beautiful to feel most alive above what’s not. It’s not, as I once suggested, a mockery of poor sexless souls, but celebration of humanity: what is, what was, and what will be.
When we were children at Westminster while your mother took her vows, you’d lead us in dancing on graves in the floor. Our favorite was Darwin’s. So plain. He was our favorite scientist, because only evolution could explain the way we’ve always felt.
Children who’re raised together don’t harbor mutual sexual attraction, later. That’s why incest is a sign of insanity or extreme perversion. Your mother took me over when I was four and you were five. My own was just sixteen; a renegade lesbian trying to cure herself, and failing. A Catholic named Maria. Your mother was her lover. She took me when Maria left for Cuba, following some rebel star.
You have spent nights, thinking of me,
Missing my arms, but you needed to leave.
Leaving my cuts, leaving my burns,
Hoping I'd learn.
But you were wild. You are. Always bathed in purple from your own little blacklight, plugged in above your temple and facing inwardly. You had a disease. You have. The weary bohemians in our Southern heavenyard, with their cartographical faces and smell of thick nag champa, would thank Providence for the little girl they saw in me: one who did the laundry and truly cared about you. We grew up around acoustic guitars and the lonely scent of opium.
And now we fuck in graveyards, while images of seven-year-old you with smeary-gypsy eyeliner and bells strapped to your ankles haunt my halting orgasms.
Blood and fire
Are too much for these restless arms to hold.
And my nights of desire are calling me,
Back to your fold.
It wasn’t until you were diagnosed with bi-polar disorder that your mother took the vows of nunhood. Flew us to England to do it. Westminster. On the way over you frightened me by drawing pictures of smashed airplanes in the grass of Northern England. We were nine, ten years old. You said it was Northern England because that’s where your mom was destined to be for the rest of her life, in the convent near York Minster, and you never wanted to get there.
You were always trying to die with me. You are.
I am looking for someone, who can take as much as I give,
Give back as much as I need,
And still have the will to live.
Our years in York were better than you tell people. They were years of my life. Years in which we lived with all of the mothers I could ask for and you could possibly reject, where I scrubbed thick wool habits, happy for the the reality of lye against my centuries-old hands. Happy to realize the myth of sin as written on your mallowy back.
Sex for us was terminal and weird. It is. You played (play) me like a violin and threw (throw) me against walls; I shuddered (shudder), whispered amazing grace. But it was love. You’ve always loved me, and that’s all I’ll keep believing as I’m burned and powdered and pressed between the pages of your skin.
We used to fuck in confessionals.
And now we fuck in graveyards.
I am intense, I am in need,
I am in pain, I am in love.
I feel forsaken, like the things I gave away.
I haven’t told you yet. Told you that I’m leaving. Going home to York after a decade in this college town you picked off of a map because the name sounded like a wizard. Flagstaff. Arizona. There’s a graveyard on its campus. I’m going to be a priest.
And I’ll tell you when I go that I am not your promised land.
Author: androgynous_ken
Pairing: Ray/Gerard.
Rating Hard R.
Summary: AU. Ray reflects on the holy and the mortal aspects of living with Gerard. This is a sad one, kids, and pretty self-indulgent; forgive me.
Dedicated to my lady of sorrows, Amy Ray, whose song I built this around.
I’m crawling on your
I have spent nights with matches and knives,
Leaning over ledges, only two flights up.
Cutting my heart, burning my soul.
Nothing left to hold,
Nothing left but, blood and fire.
You like those paradoxes, and so we fuck in graveyards. It’s beautiful to feel most alive above what’s not. It’s not, as I once suggested, a mockery of poor sexless souls, but celebration of humanity: what is, what was, and what will be.
When we were children at Westminster while your mother took her vows, you’d lead us in dancing on graves in the floor. Our favorite was Darwin’s. So plain. He was our favorite scientist, because only evolution could explain the way we’ve always felt.
Children who’re raised together don’t harbor mutual sexual attraction, later. That’s why incest is a sign of insanity or extreme perversion. Your mother took me over when I was four and you were five. My own was just sixteen; a renegade lesbian trying to cure herself, and failing. A Catholic named Maria. Your mother was her lover. She took me when Maria left for Cuba, following some rebel star.
You have spent nights, thinking of me,
Missing my arms, but you needed to leave.
Leaving my cuts, leaving my burns,
Hoping I'd learn.
But you were wild. You are. Always bathed in purple from your own little blacklight, plugged in above your temple and facing inwardly. You had a disease. You have. The weary bohemians in our Southern heavenyard, with their cartographical faces and smell of thick nag champa, would thank Providence for the little girl they saw in me: one who did the laundry and truly cared about you. We grew up around acoustic guitars and the lonely scent of opium.
And now we fuck in graveyards, while images of seven-year-old you with smeary-gypsy eyeliner and bells strapped to your ankles haunt my halting orgasms.
Blood and fire
Are too much for these restless arms to hold.
And my nights of desire are calling me,
Back to your fold.
It wasn’t until you were diagnosed with bi-polar disorder that your mother took the vows of nunhood. Flew us to England to do it. Westminster. On the way over you frightened me by drawing pictures of smashed airplanes in the grass of Northern England. We were nine, ten years old. You said it was Northern England because that’s where your mom was destined to be for the rest of her life, in the convent near York Minster, and you never wanted to get there.
You were always trying to die with me. You are.
I am looking for someone, who can take as much as I give,
Give back as much as I need,
And still have the will to live.
Our years in York were better than you tell people. They were years of my life. Years in which we lived with all of the mothers I could ask for and you could possibly reject, where I scrubbed thick wool habits, happy for the the reality of lye against my centuries-old hands. Happy to realize the myth of sin as written on your mallowy back.
Sex for us was terminal and weird. It is. You played (play) me like a violin and threw (throw) me against walls; I shuddered (shudder), whispered amazing grace. But it was love. You’ve always loved me, and that’s all I’ll keep believing as I’m burned and powdered and pressed between the pages of your skin.
We used to fuck in confessionals.
And now we fuck in graveyards.
I am intense, I am in need,
I am in pain, I am in love.
I feel forsaken, like the things I gave away.
I haven’t told you yet. Told you that I’m leaving. Going home to York after a decade in this college town you picked off of a map because the name sounded like a wizard. Flagstaff. Arizona. There’s a graveyard on its campus. I’m going to be a priest.
And I’ll tell you when I go that I am not your promised land.