out-of-control

[out-of-control]

i feel SICK seeing that tramp jax with jim. that should be me

[out-of-control]

SPILL

prev: FRIGID

next: MEMENTO

words: 1158

warnings: severe gore, explicit sex

summary: jim reveals another fucked up part of his past. jax has a normal reaction to it.

“Tell me something fucked up,” Jim prompts. Jax watches Jim’s throat as he swallows, watches his cheek as he grimaces from his spot cross-legged on the floor before passing the bottle back up to Jax on the couch, and then Jax watches the reflection of the ceiling light skip along the glass. “Fuckin, Bridgegate, man. Christie’s guilty as hell. Tell me something fucked up.” Jim tilts his head back and forth, considering. Jax takes a swig of his own during the pause, crossing and uncrossing his ankles as they hang off the armrest. Jim finally decides: “Joe Strummer was a grave digger before The Clash. Tell me something fucked up.”

“Literally not even fucked up. Just badass,” Jax argues, but lets it go just as fast. “There’s these– aargh, flies or something I think, and they lay their eggs inside live roaches so the babies have something to eat when they hatch. Maybe it’s not flies. Tell me something fucked up.” “You know too many vague weird bug facts.” Jim takes a long drag from his cigarette, the corner of his mouth quirking up. Jax grins stupidly, lolls his head on the arm of the couch. He’s about to retort with something senseless, just to make noise, when Jim exhales a cloud of smoke and takes his turn. 

“I killed a guy,” Jim says breezily, and it’s like the temperature in the room suddenly pitches down ten degrees.

Jax feels hyperaware of his head wobbling gently on his neck as he strains to hold it up, hyperaware of the sensation of freezing cold caterpillar legs skittering down his spine, hyperaware of his heartbeat buzzing against his rib cage like a dehydrated fly on a window pane. “What,” he says, and it comes out of his throat, not his chest.

Jims shifts a little on the floor, all of a sudden looking uncomfortable. “What.” 

And there's something about the set of his shoulders. About the way Jim’s past is kind of a terra incognita, something Jax can only sail around, mapping the coastline and hoping for a river delta. Something about how whenever Jax has asked Jim to hit him, Jim has never hesitated. So Jax doesn’t ask if Jim’s serious. Instead, he asks, despite a sense of danger uncoiling in his stomach: “Why?”

“He tried it first,” Jim says quietly, busying himself with another drag.

“Jesus Christ,” Jax hears himself say, a bit distracted by the somewhat acidic relief washing over his body, like a lukewarm rain of bile. Because that’s okay, then. Self defense and shit. No other choice. “Are you, uh.” His pause drags on for about twelve years, conservatively, because there’s no way in fucking hell that he’s going to ask Jim if he’s okay. Ever. “Are you, like. On the run?” Jax finally asks, and Jim actually snorts. “Christ, no. This was like…” He pauses, eyes going to the top left, top right, bottom right. “Eight years ago? Something like that.”

Jax does the math, and it’s ugly. 

A bead of sweat trickles down between his shoulder blades, and maybe it's the liquor or maybe it's whatever remaining brain damage he has from surely being dropped on his fucking head as a baby, because what comes out of Jax's mouth next is, unbelievably: “How?”

Jim eyes Jax, cautiously. “How I did it?”

“Nevermind,” Jax says immediately, turning his gaze to the faded upholstery. “I don’t– I don’t know why I asked that.”

“I’ll tell you if you want to know, I really don’t care. He had it fucking coming.”

Jax's eyes trace the frilly whorls of the fabric, sickly tan and faded puce; he deludes himself into thinking he can see the microscopic fibers peeling off every thread, see the dust mites marching along them like tightrope walkers. Dust mite parents walking their dust mite kindergartners to school. Dust mite marathon trainers getting their steps in. Dust mite murderers chasing dust mite victims in a straight and deadly line, until the quarry mite stops, reverses, and pulls out a tiny hatchet. “I want to know,” he hears himself say, and then, vaguely appalled, hedges pathetically with: “Kinda.”

“I bit through his jugular,” Jim says with a shrug, picking at a thread pulled loose on his jeans by a splinter in the floor.

“What?” Jax says, briefly shocked straight into lucidity. “No, you fuckin' didn't.”

Jim’s gaze cuts up to Jax, raising an eyebrow. Jim pokes a finger at his upper lip, peeling it back just enough for Jax to feel the ghost of freakishly sharp canines popping through the skin on his own neck. “I worked with what I had.”

–

The pain is both faraway and the deepest thing he's ever felt, sparking every cell in his body ‘til it's like there’s a brushfire raging over him. His brain is a balloon tethered tenuously to the lone tree standing in the blaze, even as flames lick up higher at the branches. Eventually the string will burn through and set him loose, he knows.

His eyelids peel back like singeing paper and he can see again. A droplet of sweat runs down the bridge of Jim’s nose; Jax feels it drop into the dip between his collarbones and settle there, a tiny pond for woodland creatures to shelter in from the blaze. 

The pain cuts out then, like a bad TV signal, and for a second the only thing Jax can sense is pressure, the absence of it, the crush and the suction as Jim thrusts in and out of his abdominal cavity, omentum dragging on every withdrawal. Jim’s palm slides on blood and he slips, knocking Jax forward with enough of a jolt to make him bite his tongue and just like that, it beckons the rest of the pain back in and he’s on fire again. His dick, trapped under ropes of smooth muscle, is the hardest it’s ever been in his life, though, so there’s that. Each jab of Jim’s cock sends Jax’s pain receptors into a fucking tizzy, overloading them so hard they apparently get to think they’re experiencing pleasure for one glorious millisecond before they are, of course, extinguished and the next unlucky batch gets to pick up the torch, as Jim drills deeper and deeper inside him. And finally there's the blunt thump that he feels as deeply as a heartbeat, impacting against something that he recognizes distantly as his lower spine, felt from within. 

There’s a second where he thinks he’s pissed the bed, but luckily for him, it turns out to be the slightly less humiliating option. 

Jax keeps his eyes shut as a droplet of semen winds its way around the cylinder of his thigh before absorbing into the cotton-polyester blend of the boxers he bought at Kmart probably seven years ago. He keeps his eyes shut as Jim shifts behind him, one knuckle absently digging deeper into Jax’s sternum, and settles again, still fast asleep. 

[out-of-control]

it's right romantically

[out-of-control]

HAUNT

PREV: DRIFTING

NEXT: PRESENT

words: 1368

warnings: n/a

summary: they drive from monmouth county into hudson. not much is said.

With the February wind jabbing into his skin like an overzealous body piercer, Jax can't remember why he thought this was a good idea. 

The free parking, he supposes. It's after Labor Day. He has a vague memory of coming here once as a teenager, piled into a too-small car with a bunch of his dirtbag friends, kicking sand into each others’ faces and daring each other to go to the nude beach. He doubts anyone's on Gunnison now, as he flips his hood up over his ears, wondering uneasily if all the metal is pushing him over the frostbite threshold right now. The sunny drive up to the point seemed perfectly pleasant (but then again, it's hard to account for windchill when you're behind automotive glass), weaving through a maze of skinny roads and empty barracks, some with porches beginning to collapse like old paperback novels peeling apart. Chain link fences everywhere and the vague threat of the Coast Guard, the only real proof of their presence being their signage. A weird amount of deer. 

Then when the Tercel could bring them no further, it was time to slog, floundering through what felt like an eternity of a long sandy trail (grains gradually sifting into Jax's boots through the eyelets or whatever the fuck until he felt he stood about a half inch taller, the world's worst shoe lifts). But finally it opened up abruptly into something that evoked the word ‘wasteland’ more than ‘beach’, and Jax had said “Ta-da,” and Jim had said nothing.

“Desolate” is the descriptor that comes to mind, like Utahn salt flats, like Antarctic valleys. Not even a fucking seagull. They stumble over damp sand and exoskeletons and tampon applicators, brutal wind scorching in its coldness, and maybe Jax would be able to appreciate the view of the skyline a bit more if he didn't have such a bad fucking attitude about everything lately. But he's always been the type to suck on a tooth when it's aching.

Jim walks up to the waterline, Jax dogging behind him (couldn't hang back if he tried; attached at the ankle like Peter Pan and his shadow).

The sun is low, real fucking low, because they've still got a ways to go before that spring equinox rolls around and Jax tries not to hate the sun for setting but it doesn't quite work out, and when it casts its hazy orange glow across Jim's cheekbones, slicing into Jim's irises and setting green afire, well that really only makes it worse, in a way.

Jax looks down and sees a dessicated dogfish gazing up at him through cavities. A white thread of foam creeps up to the very edge of Jim's high tops, then flees. It comes crawling back soon enough, though, and blandly Jax thinks, Same. 

The waves rustle in his ears. Suddenly, Jax notices the absence of the sun.

Immediately following that revelation, he realizes he can't see the mouth of the trail that had spat them onto the beach, and for one moment, he panics completely, distress spiking so fast that it just freezes his limbs and his gut all at once with the thought, You're fucked and you're going to have to squat overnight in a National Recreation Area– but Jim starts making a beeline for–well, something, presumably the trail and so Jax follows him without question.

–

They make it out of Gateway National Recreation Area alive.

It's just like every other aimless night drive, until it isn't. Until Jim speaks up, slicing blandly through the radio hum, and says, “I got hit by a car here.”

A mile marker sweeps behind them before Jax's brain has a chance to read and log it. “Um,” he says, at a loss. “The car?”

Jim scoffs, suddenly and sharply, like his body spat it out before his brain could intercept it. “There’s only the one.”

Jax swallows, and it feels like there’s a horse chestnut caught in there. Not just because he’s a dumbfuck who can’t ever say the right thing, but because he realizes, sickly, that they’ve passed that spot before. They’ve passed it so many times; has Jim, every goddamn time he drives this road, been reliving the worst night of his fucking life? Has he been going through that every time, not saying a word, letting Jax just exist obliviously next to him? Jax finds himself dissecting his memory of the day, trying to find a trigger, to understand why now, why Jim finally wants to tell him this shit, why he never did before. 

“Shit, dude,” he says roughly, because he can't think of anything else, not when the only image in his mind's eye is of blood mixed with crumbled glass. Jim just keeps staring ahead, the dotted lines of reflective paint flickering as they pass, jaw shifting slightly, for what feels like eternity.

“Sorry,” Jim says, finally. “I don’t know why I said that.” At least they're a pair, in that. 

–

Later on, Jax can't remember the exact spot Jim told him. He can remember the next mile marker, about how far it was, can guess in the range of a quarter mile, but between the time it took Jim to open his mouth and for Jax’s brain to catch up with the words, it was already out of sight. He’d be lying if he said it wasn't subtly driving him fucking nuts.

The next time they drive past that stretch, Jax tries to be subtle as he sits up a little, brow furrowing, standing at attention like an alert guard dog as he tries to spot it, trying to recognize something he’s never seen in the first place, something that he can’t know, something that he can’t ask. An object catches his eye, something bright and heart-shaped and probably, fuck his life, reading Rest In Peace.

Half of Jax wonders, what an odd coincidence, what is it about this stretch that makes it so accident prone. The other half catches the way Jim’s eyes cut up to the rear-view mirror, just a quick glance, expression blank as he turns his attention back to the road. 

In that moment, between plastic flowers and soggy ribbons hanging on by a thread against the wind, Jax realizes that a head-on collision is not a lonesome endeavor. And he thinks, whatever story he’s pieced together about Jim’s crash, the images in his head he’s stitched together from the scraps doled out by strangers and Jim himself, that suddenly there’s another man’s blood dripping onto the road that he never thought about until now.

The really rotten thing, though, is that he can't find any part of himself that gives a shit about that guy. He realizes, a little numbly, that there aren't even any parts that give a shit about the bandmates in the van. When Jax thinks of that crash, lets the nausea pool in his stomach, mental images of blood and bile swirling together in the toilet bowl that is his broken ass mind, there's only one face that ever floats to the surface, and it's the same one he's used to seeing in profile at his left shoulder, eyes trained carefully on the road.

It's lucky that he's never asked Jax to kill anyone for him.

–

Sometimes, Jax’s mind drags up the memory of the short drive back from the tip of the peninsula and pushes it quietly to the forefront of his thoughts. He remembers the near-pitch darkness of land protected from the light pollution of streetlamps. He remembers the narrow, winding roads, criss-crossing unexpectedly, the brief moments of edginess when another driver appears. And he remembers the way that the deer seemed to like to stand right on the very edge of the road to watch you drive past, as if they were ready at any moment to step out into the path of the vehicle, into annihilation. As if they believed, without question, that they would be able to come out the other side.

–

Years later, long after Jim leaves him, Jax will still pass that spot every once in a while. And each time, he will think how someone he loved nearly died there. 

[out-of-control]

nap

[out-of-control]

FRIGID

prev: PRESENT

next: MEMENTO

words: 385

summary: the nights feel even longer than usual this winter.

This band fucking sucks.

Or maybe they’re perfectly alright, and Jax is just bitter, because he tried to get out of this shift, he feels like shit, he's still hungover, his back is killing him, he doesn't wanna be here, but Barb said “No, you can’t, because Charlie booked this week off two months ago and Tom has food poisoning, so we’re already short.” But while he’s standing here pretending to stare off into space like nothing’s happening while the dumbfuck fan in front of him tries desperately to get the lanky singer’s attention, he thinks, maybe they suck and he’s bitter.

Honestly, it’s probably for the better. He could really use the cash, he laments, eyes flicking over to the bright red digital clock on the back wall telling the band exactly when they need to get the fuck off the stage, in compliance with noise curfew. Twenty more minutes. 

The wait for the bus feels so much longer once the winter chill starts setting in. The bus ride home feels so much longer when you’ve gotten used to hitching a ride.

The apartment is dead quiet. Jim must still be out, his bass is missing from its corner. He never leaves it in his car without him. He says he can live with anything else being stolen but that. Jax shrugs his jacket off, throwing it on the couch on his short journey towards self-interment in the cold pile of blankets waiting for him on his otherwise empty bed. He closes his eyes. 

In the morning, he'll find that he doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he remembers stirring from his dead slumber, god knows how much later, but his gut instinct says Shit, it must be like, four A.M. or something, when Jax feels someone gently crawl their way under the pile of blankets, when Jax smells the alcohol and cigarettes, when Jax feels the cold radiating off him when he brushes up against Jax, when his hand slips its way over Jax’s waist, when his forehead presses up against the back of Jax’s neck, when Jax feels Jim exhale against his skin. Jax remembers being awake now, blinking in the dark, at their faint lumpy silhouette against the wall, feeling the yawning, aching cavern open wider and wider inside his chest.

[out-of-control]

STRIP

PREV: WARMTH

NEXT: PRAYER

words: 2883

warnings: SEXXXXXXXXXX. and marijuana use.

summary: it's called slutweed. supposed to turn you into a rea

As the last notes of Suffer come to a close, Jim passes Jax the joint and lazily slips off the edge of the bed, impressively sluglike for someone so pointy. He crouches in front of the CD player, deftly pressing the lid so that it clicks and opens like a clam in a cartoon– it’s just that instead of a shiny round pearl, the machine spits out a shiny flat disc. Jim returns the CD to the correct jewel case, returns the case to the top of the menacing stack on Jax's floor, and runs his finger down the spines of the tower. Jax, splayed out on his back, tries to spy which ones Jim might be considering, but a good view would involve actually sitting up, and he's not really feeling that right now. Apparently finding one disc compelling enough at last, Jim carefully slips it out, feeds it to the CD player, clicks the lid back down, and squints at it from the floor. The opening ticks to Pretty Hate Machine begin to float through the speakers. Nice choice. Jax wouldn't have taken Jim for a synths guy. Jim nods at the CD player slowly, approvingly, and, once the synth kicks in, crawls his way back onto the bed, pressing his side against Jax’s. Jax blows smoke out of the corner of his mouth and reluctantly hands the joint back. 

Wordlessly, the two of them lounge on the bed together, as the album plays on and the smoke thickens. Wordlessly, that is, only until, “My head is filled with disease, my skin is begging you, please,” slips out of Jim's mouth, so pleasantly in sync with Trent Reznor that Jax’s brain takes a long moment to properly register what he just witnessed. One part of Jax wants to treat Jim like a rare bird that he doesn't want to spook: go quiet and hold perfectly still in the desperate hope that it will keep singing. The part of Jax that is high opens his mouth. 

“Whoa,” Jax says, eloquently. “Dude, that sounded so good.”

Jim snorts. “You don’t have to flatter me, you’ve already got me in your bed.”

“No, seriously,” Jax protests, squirming to try and sit up to see Jim, and nearly sending himself off the edge of the bed in the process, “You can, like, sing, man.” He gives up on verticality and just rolls onto his side to face Jim instead. Jim says nothing, simply looking down at him. Then, as Jax’s brain kind of struggles to keep itself on track with all the various goings-on in his bedroom, like the sound of Trent Reznor semi-rapping and the little piece of fire between Jim's fingertips and the movement of Jax's own chest as his lungs push it around and the hazy pairs of shadows on the wall, Jim reaches out a hand and tucks Jax's sidelock behind his ear for him.

Jax goes very still. A fluttery sort of warmth spreads throughout his insides. Jim takes advantage of Jax’s paralysis by delicately placing the joint between Jax’s lips and slouching some more. Jax gets it. He’s feeling pretty close to melting into the box-spring himself. A few more songs slide in one of Jax's ears and out the other. The joint burns out by accident, but both of them are too lazy to relight it.

Jim lurches up off the bed and for a moment Jax gets really scared that he's leaving, but then Jim’s shoulder starts to roll a certain way, with his elbows and hips following suit, and Jax realizes that Jim isn't heading for the door at all; he's dancing. 

Jax lies there, watches Jim, and feels insane.

Jim’s hair is swaying hypnotically in front of his face as his body moves, though Jax can’t keep his attention from shifting lower, to where Jim hooks a thumb in the hem of his shirt and slowly starts dragging it upwards, inch by agonizing inch. Jax barely catches a glimpse of Jim’s SLUT tattoo before he lets go, shirt dropping back down. Jim’s hand follows its trajectory, fingers splayed across his chest as it slides over the fabric, over his collarbone, up the side of his neck, and Jax can see the slightest smirk on Jim’s lips as he slips a finger in his mouth and playfully bites it.

He starts again from the top, this time with both hands picking up the bottom of his shirt, lifting slowly in a sort of rolling motion, back and forth with the beat.

And Jax, God help him, keeps staring. He feels frozen in place, curled up on his side like a comma, like maybe his brain is getting more fried with every progressive second. Maybe his dick as well. Because the way Jim's hip flexes as he sways has got Jax unable to say a word, unable to step into the role of either the smartass or the flirt. Right now, all he can be is the audience.

Jim's shirt clears his head, ruffling his hair before it's abandoned on the floor. His hands trail their way back down his torso, over his chest, over his hips, fingertips creeping under his waistband. They dip deeper, deeper, dragging his pants down until the first hints of hair slip into view. He pulls his hands back, grabbing the end of his belt and tugging on it until the buckle just barely releases. He pulls the leather the rest of the way through, letting it hang there, metal clinking. He pops the button on his jeans open. He pinches the tab on his zipper. He doesn’t move, staring at Jax, whose eyes are focused squarely on the trail of Jim’s body hair.

“Wow. No tip?” Jim remarks.

“Um,” Jax says. “I think my wallet’s in the kitchen.”

Jim shakes his head. “Clients in this place are terrible.”

“Well I can give you, um…” Getting a wisp of an idea, Jax flops over to the nightstand and rummages through the drawer clumsily. “A quarter.” He looks up at Jim, who simply raises an eyebrow. Jax turns back to the drawer. “...Some condoms. Safety pins…” He looks up again. Jim still seems unimpressed. Jax scrounges further in the back, retrieving a black elastic band. “...A hair tie? Thingy? I don't know why I have this,” he lies, even as he remembers the girl with bright purple hair unleashing her mane as she leaned over him. Can't have been more than six months ago, right? Feels longer. Feels like a lifetime ago. Why did he just lie about that? He's about to shake the thoughts free from his head and shut the drawer, when Jim sticks out his hand, urgently opening and closing it as he leans over the edge of the bed, saying, “Oh shit, gimme that.” Jax promptly hands it over as payment, relieved to have it no longer be his problem. Jim fusses with his hair a bit before ultimately tying it up in a little ponytail, the shorter wisps in the front falling free and framing his face. He puts his hands on his hips, fingers curling over bare skin, and looks down at Jax. “How do I look?” he asks.

“Pretty,” Jax says, because he isn't very good at self-censorship right now.

Jim simply repeats, “Pretty?”

And, for some fucking reason, Jax doubles down: "Um. Yeah. Pretty.” And the fucked up thing is he's telling the truth. With his hair tied back– save for those wispy tendrils floating around his face– leaving his high cheekbones and upturned nose on display, Jim does look disarmingly… delicate. Graceful. Pretty.

“Hm,” Jim hums to himself. “I like pretty,” he says, and sits down on the edge of the bed as the current song fades out and the next takes its place. He looks down at a hole in his jeans, and quickly gets distracted by a scab on his knee.

Jax blinks at the opposite wall for a few seconds. Then he clears his throat. “Um. Were you going to…?” He looks at Jim, who stops picking his scab in order to stare back blankly. “Nevermind.”

“What?”

Jax feels very sweaty all of a sudden. Also kind of frozen in place. “Um. I was just gonna ask if you were going to like. Finish.”

“Finish what?”

Jax is excruciatingly present in the current moment. “The um. The clothes.”

“Oh!” Jim says, “Yeah,” and he shifts onto his knees on the bed and hooks his thumbs into his belt loops and starts shimmying his pants down to the beat, centimeter by fucking centimeter.

Jax, lying on his back half propped up by the pillows to watch Jim, feels like he is falling through the earth and also getting a boner a little bit. This is, of course, exactly what he had hoped for, and yet he’s still a little gobsmacked. He has the feeling that maybe if he hadn't smoked so much weed he might have a little more game right now, but he can try his best. Wetting his lips, he rasps: “I would tip you again, man, but, uh. I don't have any more hair things.”

Jim doesn't seem too bothered by this. He tips forwards, onto his hands, crawling up the bed, crawling up Jax’s body, and settling into Jax’s lap. Jax finds himself struggling up onto his elbows, when Jim splays a hand over Jax’s chest. He reaches his other arm backwards, bracing himself on Jax’s thigh, as he starts to move his hips back and forth with the music, pressing himself down against Jax’s crotch. Jax feels a gasp force its way out of his throat and shuts his eyes, teeth fastened in his lower lip, arms beginning to tremble just a bit. 

Jim leans forward, both hands on Jax’s shoulders, breathing harder as he rubs himself against Jax. The song slows to a halt, and Jim exhales as he sits up. With an admirable amount of poise, he simply grabs one of Jax's hands from where they're resting on the bed, and places it against his own stomach. Right where it meets his extremely low waistband. 

A couple of seconds pass in incredibly stupid silence. 

Then Jax struggles up into a sitting position, lurches forwards on clumsy limbs, misses Jim’s mouth entirely, and ultimately ends up just sort of hanging out breathing shallowly onto the side of Jim's face for a few moments, two fingers having somehow managed to hook themselves into Jim's waistband. 

Jax is busy trying to figure out which body parts to move (and in what sequence) in order to most effectively proceed, when Jim turns his head ever so slightly and flicks his tongue against Jax’s cheek. 

This time, Jax doesn't miss. 

He’s still not exactly clearheaded; he can feel himself being messy and uncoordinated, graceless, but he tries his best, he really does, smoothing his hands all over Jim’s torso, pressing firm kisses against Jim’s mouth again and again like neither of them need to breathe. And the best part, the best part, is that he can hear Jim’s breaths and gasps getting all broken apart by smatters of giggles bursting through instead. The giggles especially are making Jax feel crazy. 

It’s like there’s a glitch in his brain that makes him need to double check that all it’s really happening; he keeps glancing from Jim’s eyes to Jim's mouth and back again and back again. He runs his fingers through Jim's hair and slips the hair tie out and it falls to the bed and is lost beneath Jax's knee. Jim's hair falls around his face, but then Jax smooths it back with his hand and presses a dry little kiss against Jim's cheek. Jax was already shirtless and now Jim matches and that's really, just really awesome right now. Jax is inhaling Jim's skin just as much as he's kissing it. Jim topples over and Jax, holding him tight around the waist, goes right down with him, barely even pausing his attack. Jax sucks bruises into Jim's chest and he really, really hopes it's good for Jim. He tries to restrain himself, keep things on track, cultivate some semblance of foreplay rather than give in to his impulse to just start clumsily humping Jim to death because the fact is that it's only fair. Jim gave him a little performance. Jim showed him his best. Jax wants to do the same in return. It's what Jim deserves.

Eventually Jax remembers that he’d had vague plans earlier regarding some possible actions to take in addition to the kissing. Wrenching himself back on track, he devotes himself to the task of peeling Jim's jeans down enough for Jax to fulfill his destiny for tonight and finally just fucking get his hands on Jim's cock.

Jim lets out a blissful sigh, shutting his eyes and leaning his head back on the bed. Jax keeps stroking, kind of tentatively at first, eyes trained on Jim's face, hoping for probably the first time in his life that he’s starting to sober up, because he desperately wants his fine motor control to be working as well as possible for this. He does his best anyway.

Jim stretches out on the sheets, in a way that would make a lot more sense on a satin-encased California king than on Jax’s shabby little twin. From both that and the way Jim’s eyelashes are fluttering against his cheeks, Jax feels reasonably confident that by now, his motor skills must be at least passable.

Eventually, there does come a point where he remembers he has a dick as well. Pausing, he scrambles to unzip his own jeans and shove them down as fast as possible, not wanting to have his hands away from Jim for even a second longer than necessary. The instant he has them together in the palm of his hand, he goes back to kissing Jim, neck and jaw and cheek and lips. His mouth moves slower, more carefully than his hand is working, making sure each kiss lands in exactly the right place. He keeps his other hand snug against the small of Jim's back, dragging Jim's spine up and away from the mattress, and Jim just goes with it, nearly boneless.

The CD finishes and neither of them are getting up to change it anytime soon, so now it's just the sound of them filling the room: Jax's gasps interspersed with whines, and Jim's giggles cut off by moans. Soft wet sounds and the whispers of skin against skin. The only thing going on in the whole wide world is the two of them moving on that little bed. Legs tangled together. Jax's one arm caught between them stroking Jim off. Mouth wet on Jim's neck, his jaw, his chin. 

Jax feels Jim's nails dig into his back and half-dreams of them going deeper, of Jim tearing him to ribbons. Even as his body speeds up, his mind seems to slow down, glacial pace, everything becoming crystal, refracted, hot and hyper-real. Jim's face is pink like a flower petal, like liquid soap in a bar bathroom.

Jim blurts, “Stop, fuck, I'm close, stop.”

Jax slows down at once, though not to a complete stop. “No,” he can't help but blurt out, and, worse, a pathetic little whine of, “Please, let me make you come,” spills out immediately after.

Jim's nails dig hard into Jax's thigh as a twitch rips through his body, and a small, achingly cute sound escapes his throat in his effort to keep himself balanced on the edge. Jax can feel him trembling, just a little bit. “Not yet, not yet, not yet,” Jim breathes hard, eyes shut tight, head tilted back against the bed, hair spilling onto the sheets. 

Still pretty. Maybe moreso. 

Jax lowers his mouth to Jim's throat, rolling his hips as slowly as he can bear. And against Jim's neck he whispers, coaxes: “Come on. Let me hear you.” Maybe even involuntarily, Jim whimpers in response, and Jax is struck by a blinding desire to eat him whole immediately. He settles for sinking his teeth into Jim's shoulder instead, and Jim gasps and bucks his hips up into Jax's hand. 

“Fuck,” Jim whispers, over and over again, between the tiny whines that Jax teases out of him. He slides an arm down Jax's back– slips his hand under Jax's jeans and gropes his ass and Jax groans so pathetically into Jim's mouth in response. But he keeps his pace slow for Jim, just right for Jim, just how Jim wants it. 

Because if Jim wants it to last longer, then it’ll last longer. If Jim wants Jax to press him down against the mattress with the crushing weight of his whole body. If Jim wants Jax to drag those fragile, precious noises out from between Jim’s ribs like it’s killing him. If Jim wants Jax to mark him up, sink his teeth into every inch of skin he can reach from jaw to hip and leave marks that last for days. If Jim wants Jax to kiss him ‘til he can’t breathe, ‘til he gets lightheaded from lack of oxygen. Then Jax is going to give Jim everything he wants. As if he could ever say no.

[out-of-control]

OOPS! communion has now quadrupled in length and grown sexual organs. check out its new look if you so desire

COMMUNION

words: 2051

warnings: unsanitary acts, injury, sexual congress

summary: jim gets injured onstage.

Keep reading

[out-of-control]

gay as fuck to get hit by a car

once again. may 15th. happy jim gets hit by a car day to all who celebrate

[out-of-control]

once again. may 15th. happy jim gets hit by a car day to all who celebrate

[out-of-control]

commission for @evidencelocker >:3 st sebasjim.

[out-of-control]

happy birthday jimothy piss

[out-of-control]

reverence has been cleaned up and expanded a little!

REVERENCE

words: 5793 (sorry)

warnings: explicit sex (sorry again), injury ment (past)

summary: They go to a show together again and Jim takes Jax home.

Keep reading

[out-of-control]

TONIGHT

PREV: RED

NEXT: BOUND

words: 1911

warnings: sex

summary: jax makes an inquiry about a late-night delivery.

With one hand down his waistband, Jax thinks about a few things.

He's fully clothed still, supine on top of the bedsheets. His boot heels hang off the edge of the bed; his cell phone lies discarded on the nightstand. The apartment is empty and Jax is thinking about how Jim's fingertips are tough from years of playing bass. He's thinking about Jim's fingers warped around a fretboard, about how funny it is that when you have to cling to something to survive, it clings right back to you, in a way. About dead skin cells in layers upon layers. And about how things can so quickly go from soft to hard. 

His hand quickens, and his teeth clamp together on the inside of his lip. He extends and contracts his muscles, undulating alone on top of the bed. And at the last possible second he stills his body entirely. 

He feels his breaths, forcing his ribcage up and down like the handle of a bicycle pump, but he doesn't hear them so well. For a few seconds, he just lies there, allowing the air to cycle through his lungs. 

And then he lunges for the nightstand. 

He has the number on speed dial, because he's a stupid piece of work who should probably be put down for his own good. “Hey,” Jim’s voice floats through the tinny speaker, “What’s up.” Jax doesn't know where Jim is right now, and he doesn't care.

"Hey," he rasps, hand still down his pants. "I hope you're not busy, because I really can't act cool about this right now–" his fingers twitch almost involuntarily; he holds in a groan and goes on "–so I'm just gonna ask. Can you come over." He takes a deep breath in and holds it there, just long enough to start to feel it burn, and then he exhales it all at once and breathes, "Can you come over and fuck me tonight."

–

In the twenty-three minutes between hanging up and Jim's arrival, Jax occupies himself.

First, he takes a minute to lie still on the bed after clicking his phone shut. His hand slides out from inside his pants and very briefly slips under his shirt to toy with a nipple ring. Just briefly. And then he rolls off the bed. In the bathroom, he washes his hands, then his face, and spends a little while trying to slick his hair back with water; it only makes him look bedraggled, and so he gives up and scrubs his head dry with a bath towel. He leaves the bathroom for the kitchen, checking the fridge to make sure he has at least two beers in there already. He finds he has five and closes the fridge door. Then he opens it again and removes one of the bottles. A few more minutes are whiled away by rooting through the drawers for a bottle opener. He brings the now-opened beer with him to the couch: an anemic, floral thing which he had liberated from the sidewalk about a year ago, not long after having shuffled all his worldly positions into the current apartment. A few applications of baking soda had banished the curb smell but left powder in the cushions for weeks. Whenever Anna visited back then, she'd insisted on sitting on top of her purse. Tonight, leaning back against the ratty, pilling fabric, Jax takes a drink from his beer. Then he takes another. And he waits.

When the buzzer goes off, Jax scrambles to push the front door button, preemptively unlocks the apartment door, hurries back to the couch, and spends several seconds, if not an entire minute, carefully arranging himself on the cushions so as to most effectively convey an air of highly attractive nonchalance. He then immediately ruins it all by reflexively jumping up and rushing over to throw open the door as soon as he hears a knock.

"You're here," Jax breathes, inanely. 

“I’m here,” Jim agrees, sounding a little cautious– probably a response to how incredibly fucking normal Jax is being right now. The desperate energy that had compelled Jax to pick up the phone in the first place seems to abandon him as soon as Jim steps over the threshold, and Jax finds himself awkwardly sitting next to Jim on the floral couch after supplying him with one of the beers from the fridge, not sure exactly how to proceed. He'd already asked his big question; isn't the ball in Jim's court now? Jax is pretty sure it is, but you wouldn't know that from looking at Jim. Fucker's scrutinizing the label on the beer bottle like an art historian attempting to authenticate a possible Bosch.

It turns out to have been a stupid fucking idea to have started in on his beer before Jim arrived, because Jax finishes it about two minutes after Jim opens his, and then finds himself sitting there on the couch with his legs crossed, feeling like a bit of a fucking creeper watching Jim drink and not saying anything, and he knows he could just get up and grab another beer and ordinarily he really, really just would, but there's something about the energy Jim is giving off right now that seems to penetrate Jax's skin and worm through his nervous system and keep him rooted right to his spot on the couch cushion. That same vibe also seems to be preventing Jax from jumping Jim's bones right now, no matter how bad he wants to (very bad). Something– some kind of primordial sexual instinct, maybe– is simply telling him to stay put.

Either unaware of Jax's turmoil or incredibly, exceedingly aware of it, Jim hefts the bottle in his hand, again closely inspecting the label. A garden of earthly delights, alright. He turns the bottle, tilts it, then brings it up to his lips. Slowly, agonizingly, he sticks his tongue out and runs it up the neck of the bottle, leaving a trail in the condensation, before casually taking a swig.

Definitely aware. Incredibly, exceedingly aware. 

A few more minutes pass. It feels like forever. Casually, Jim sets his beer down on the floor, and Jax feels his stomach clench. There's a beat, before Jim simply leans over and breathes against Jax's jaw. Jax's eyes fall closed, almost as if in order for him to better feel Jim's hot breath on the side of his face, he needs to turn off his vision. Jim's soft puffs of breath move lower, to Jax's neck, and then Jim's lips replace them. A palm slides slowly up the inside of Jax's thigh. 

Right when Jim's hand meets Jax's bulge, Jax exhales and blurts, "Finally," while battling the strangest sensation of his throat trying to strangle itself.

Jim freezes. Completely stills all motion. 

Distraught by the turn of events, Jax forgets about his pride. "Christ, Jim, come on, please," he whines, trying to rock his hips up a little into Jim's hand. 

Jim says nothing. But Jax feels him smile against his skin.

Jax brings a hand up and fumbles at Jim's shirt, grasping the fabric ineffectually. "Please, man, c'mon," he begs, as his breathing gets heavier and his face hotter.

Jim still doesn't move. Not acceptable.

Jax discards a shred of pride that he didn't know he still had, something thin and ragged at the dusty bottom of a drawer squirreled away in the back of his skull. Into the heady silence between them, Jax confesses, quietly. "Come on, man. I stopped myself from getting off just so you could make me come instead.”

For one long moment, it's nothing but Jim's breath on the side of Jax’s neck.

“Were you thinking about me,” Jim asks in a low voice, breaking his vow of silence. “Were you thinking about me touching you.” It doesn't sound quite like a question. Jax thinks this is because Jim knows the answer. He parts his lips anyway.

“Yeah," Jax says, and even to his own ears, his voice sounds wrecked. 

So fast Jax can barely process it, Jim is in Jax’s lap, pulling Jax's shirt over his head. Jim's mouth connects with his, Jim's hips grind against his, and Jax thinks faintly that Jim might actually be trying to eat him alive. 

One of Jim's hands finds its way into Jax's waistband, and he whines openly at the touch, at finally feeling Jim's hand, which is so, so much better than Jax's own, no matter how hard he fantasizes. After only a couple strokes, Jim undoes his own belt, shoving Jax's jeans down, until their cocks are rubbing against each other in Jim's hand, and Jax can't seem to do much more than dig his nails into Jim's thighs, pushing his tiny embarrassing noises into Jim's mouth.

Jax gets shoved down, flat onto the couch cushions, and then Jim's shirt is gone. He starts leaving bite marks all over Jax's skin, from his neck all the way down to his hip bones, and then Jax is naked on his ugly floral couch, Jim positioned between his legs with one knee supporting him from the floor. Jax feels lightheaded with the knowledge that he’s going to be marked up for days after this– so obvious, so undeniable, practically an autograph. Jim's teeth sink into Jax's thigh and he gasps, arching his back and fisting a hand in Jim's hair.

Jim lets go and wetly kisses the indentation; the switch from sharp and jagged to gentle and soft is so sudden it makes Jax's head spin. Jim licks a stripe up Jax's cock before taking him in his mouth, slowly bobbing his head up and down with his eyes shut, and Jax just can't understand how serene Jim can look while tearing Jax apart like this, atom by atom by atom. Jax hooks a leg around Jim's back and pants hard, watching Jim's hand where it's splayed across Jax's chest, the two rising and falling in sync, and at some point he can't seem to remember, his gasps started sounding a whole lot like Jim, Jim, Jim.

He feels Jim's hip graze back and forth against his shin, realizes that Jim is rubbing himself against the couch cushions as he sucks Jax's brain out through the tip of his dick, and maybe it's that realization which can be blamed for finally shoving Jax over the edge. He clutches Jim's hair hard as he jerks and shivers on the couch. 

Through his eyelashes, Jax watches Jim pull off, wipe his mouth across the back of his hand. His hair is all in his face, blocking his eyes; Jax wants to reach out and brush it aside but his arms feel too heavy, all shaky and weak from tensing them so hard. Jim’s face is flushed, his nose pink where it peeks out from all the hair. The lull doesn’t last more than a few seconds; Jim is scrambling up his body, knees digging into the couch cushions on either side of Jax’s neck. Jax watches Jim’s thumb and forefinger above him, grasping the tab of his zipper and dragging it down the rest of the way with a high-pitched buzz that may as well be a dog whistle for how well Jax has been trained to respond to it. Jim’s hand fastens in Jax’s hair. Jax dutifully drops his jaw open, curls his hands around Jim’s thighs, and lets Jim keep on calling the shots tonight. 

[out-of-control]

sometimes there's a girl. maybe even two

[out-of-control]

get the fuck out of there people need to piss

[out-of-control]

RUPTURE

PREV: POSSESSION

NEXT: DEATH

words: 447

warnings: sexual themes

summary: jax thinks about those nitrile gloves.

Don’t flinch, Jim says.

Jax doesn't, as Jim slides the needle into him. It pierces one edge, then the other. The middle of his back is getting numb from the cold tub. The string pulls taut, and the whisper of scissor blades echoes against tile.

Don't squirm, Jim says. 

Jax doesn't. The sting, again. The weight of Jim's body in Jax's lap. The curl of Jim's hair against his cheek. The tension of the thread through Jax's body. 

Don't wince, Jim says.

Jax doesn't. The smell of rubbing alcohol-- no, wrong, the smell of salt. The smell of metal? Of mildew? Of sweat? Blood, the smell of blood. So clearly the smell of blood.

Don't resist, Jim says. 

Jax wouldn't. Not a chance, not now, not like this. Jim stares at him, eyes hard, sharp, cutting, consuming. The thread is snipped, and Jax exhales shakily through his nose. 

A gloved hand snakes its way up Jax's arm, onto the side of his throat. Jax's chest heaves, and the stitches groan. Jim doesn't say anything, but he shifts in Jax's lap, just a little. Still staring. 

Jax presses his hips up, and Jim presses his hips down.

A sewing needle clinks quietly on the floor. When their mouths touch, it's perfect, and Jax can't help whimpering as Jim writhes and seethes on top of him, all over him. The porcelain is so cold it scorches.

Jim rears back: bare chest, tousled hair, shadows banished by fluorescence, white walls almost medical (institutional?), and blood, suddenly everywhere, on every surface. 

Jim presses a thumb in where his veins collect at his wrist, hooks it beneath blue nitrile-- or white? He can't remember, can't decide-- and Jax yelps, hiccups almost: Wait.

Jim pauses, and looks at him.

Keep them on, Jax rasps, throat arid, wounds throbbing. Just for a little bit.

I'm not touching your cock with bloody gloves, Jim says, unimpressed, impassive. He raises his left hand from Jax's shoulder and slips two fingers into Jax's mouth. So clean them off.

–

He tenses, and for a few seconds that tension is worth it all. Then he slumps, overbreathing, and he's not so sure anymore. The mirror is freezing against his forehead. The rim of the sink is cutting bluntly into his flesh. The hazy figure against the backs of his eyelids is fading already. 

There is blood soaking through the bandage hanging half-affixed to his chest, spilling over his index and middle fingers slipped underneath the adhesive edge, dripping down his ribs. There is come in the sink. 

He keeps his eyes shut for a few seconds more, then turns on the faucet, avoiding his own gaze in the mirror.