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[17 Jun 2007|03:52pm]
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[20 Jan 2006|11:45pm]
Title: Spanish Bombs.
Rating: PG-13.
Pairing: Ray Toro/Bob Bryar.
Summary: They are actors.

Thespians!Collapse )
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[20 Jan 2006|11:41pm]
Title: One Great City!
Rating: R.
Pairing: Ray Toro/Gerard Way.
Summary: Ray is an enigmatic but devoted housewife.

Maria.Collapse )
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[20 Jan 2006|11:37pm]
For pookiechick.

Gun powder

there are angelsCollapse )

in your angles.
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[20 Jan 2006|11:34pm]
For tinkerbellteddy.


If it’s curtains for the damned, I’ll make curtains out of you. Stick one of those fancy fluted poles up your tight ass straight through to the darkly hollowed throat. I know that you’re not scared of me.

The beach I’m writing from sizzles with the scent of cinnamon, leftover from the fire you made with Shannon last night. You little terrorist slut. That wasn’t okay. You swore when you made the oath with me in the forest that you wouldn’t fuck her fancy on our very makeshift doorstep. Well.

Now you’ll pay in the blue-black of your face after I inject it with the agreed upon poison from frogs that hop around the forest. Was she worth the sacrifice? Will she ever be the same after you’re found dead and bloated in the waves?

This is how we hate ourselves.
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[20 Jan 2006|11:30pm]
For prettyboyeyes.

Neon pink
Cooking (oh the vagueness...)

Eight.Collapse )
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[20 Jan 2006|11:25pm]
Title: Waltz In A Flat.
Rating: R.
Pairing: Ray Toro/Gerard Way or Usher Raymond/Gerard Way. Doesn't really matter, anyway.

Poppy-headed.Collapse )
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[30 Sep 2005|03:21pm]
[ mood | tragic ]

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 shores.Collapse )

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[22 Jul 2005|12:17am]
Title: Synthesized Okay.
Pairing: Gerard Way/Frank Iero...if I continue, it will be Gerard/Ray.
Author: androgynous_ken.
Rating: Soft R, I guess.
Summary: AU. Journalist Gerard Way conducts a disastrous interview with pop star Ray Toro before meeting a mysterious Frank Iero. Probably one-shot; set in San Francisco.
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to these men and am not in any way affiliated with Spin or Rolling Stone magazines. Or Dave Eggers, or McSweeney's.
Author's Note: Gerard is about thirty. This is the first time I've ever attempted writing sex...it was going to be more graphic, but I'm really inept.

Gardenias.Collapse )
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[19 Jul 2005|02:31am]
Tell yourself (that) you don’t want him.
Organdy fingers curved over your throat like they’re curled around that bottle, no;
Ubiquitous eyes all height, light, and unity (no);
Sand dune thighs, fishwife belly, no;
Acanthinely cherubic face (no, no, no);
Probable smell of leather and tongue, no;
capitol weapon, no.

Your hands feel like bats
curling over, pressing into a lady’s face (eye)
You think of the flesh on his chest, his clavical heaving like wilde (NO!)
bat claws on his fat shoulder, mallowy skin under your mouth
Make believe that you don’t want him.

My lover was built like a cathedral:
tall, for God to live in.
His flesh was carved into three levels: a clarestory (the heart), an arcade (the lungs), and a nave wall (the liver).
His head is in the apse.
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[22 Mar 2005|10:04am]
I paint my face black before you can say don’t. I review last night’s poleroids. I take the keys from the hoop in your navel, still tight with yellow youth; you can’t stop me, your antibodies frozen with cancer, your hair stained with disinfectant. We smell like Lysol and weed, from the day. I kiss your still supple mouth and promise to bring you a coffin suited to a thousand queens of Africa and a million messiahs. You just say, “I love you.”

I jumped the gates for you. I dug up the saint’s grave, to remind God He hates us.
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[14 Mar 2005|06:38pm]
You think you’ll eat yourself alive. For another type of difference, to shock your nestlings into buying the issues of People you’ll proudly grace. He’s a peacock, a real Irish faggot, all eyebrows and fallen skin.
He’ll take anyone for a fuck or just a drink, to share his frustrated sweat, to remind himself of his species.
You know this species. You who have played Jesus and ironized mother Mary. You know how to wear his hat, literally; a towering fruitcake of whistles and bows, to make him think he likes you. Sing your lullabies, listen to his harsh breath.
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[14 Mar 2005|06:38pm]
Think about the strapping girl with wavy hair and bright green eyes. She is what you’ll remember about Georgia; about running from hicks and kissing in the simple rain. About breakfasts on Mclendon Avenue. Swamp Ophelia.
And she. Will she think about you? The shy activist with a country in her eyes, who cooks like a saint and sings even better? Will she read the fragile freedom on your back like a map to Eden, or at least, to Athens? She will. She understands evolution like you get those six sacred strings, and together you are an orgasm of Fate.
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prophets in the graveyard [18 May 2004|08:07pm]
[ mood | happy ]

Latest attempt. Needs a good revision, and doesn't have a real ending.

Summary: A Czech/Chinese girl, having fled from her home in Croatia during their war, boredly tries seducing a co-worker of her corporate step-father's. When she arrives home, she meets someone strange...her soul mate.

Title: What God Knows.

Kindred.Collapse )


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I want a boy so drunk he doesn't talk. [20 Feb 2004|07:04pm]
[ mood | thankful ]

You are such pretty words, when, as the phone message said, you left the note on the table, I do, I do, then hurt me...There is that picture of your dark ashen mouth pressed against my neck, just those simple lines and curves that smack of arithmatic and pixels. Here I am with green tea and the jungle leaves that frame your abandoned doorway, examining the creases in my fingers as though they hold the secret to your tendency to leave and to win me over with Hemingway, time and time again, almost falsely literate as you've always been.

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