Plurk paste

Something Somewhere

Sometimes Midwest weather just fucking sucks.
It all started with this rain, which hasn’t stopped for three days in a row. Everything started to stink and mold’s growing out of the floor. Corey and many of his friend, at least he knows most of them, tried to go outside to catch a local music festival. It got cancelled because the lightening started to strike. Shit got worse as it always does, and they had to head back home with this thirst for “something” that grows so fast they weren’t able to release.
It’s the third fucking day. People stared to leave when they got a chance and they were supposed to be fucking partying until the rain’s gone. It was “Corey mother-fucking Taylor and his gang” and now it’s just Corey, Jim and some nerd who feels comfortable to have them in his house, with a name that Corey couldn’t even recall a single letter, now that he thinks of.
It has come to a point where any living animal should be fucking having enough, and Corey decided to do something. Just something. It kills him to just sit there, doing nothing, he only had to stand up to go to the bathroom, vomit from the vodka shots they had a few hours ago along with all the nachos he tried to fit in his stomach—bowls of mysterious, sticky, dark brown stuff he had that nerd’s mom to bring into their room. He’s had enough. Now is the time to end this eternal nothingness. Or he will fucking die.
“Let’s do something.” He stands up, as if he’s the center of the world. Jim stares at him, blinks, lays his eyes back on his guitar, left hand stroking on his index, middle and ring finger of his right hand. The nerd doesn’t even give him any hint of attention, eyes on his computer, playing Minesweeper or some shit—that’s just the way Corey understands it. He knows it is not.
“Hey, you pricks hear me?” He raises his voice, “Do. Something.”
“What do you want?” The man sitting in front of the computer whined, “It’s raining outside! I get you free food and cigarette, you sit here and pretend to be my friend so my mom wouldn’t stick a recruitment ad to my face every fucking day. We had a deal.”
“Fucking hell, the deal was for how long?” He lights a Marlboro while eyeing Jim for an answer.
“A few hours. After the fest, till the next morning.” He replies and puts his attention back to his hand.
“A few hours! Thank you, Jim! It was for a few hours!”
“You wanna go out in this rain? What is wrong with you?” He adjusts his glasses a bit, back to his game. This time, with his headphone on.
“Fuck you. Wasn’t even talking to you.” He sits back down and drags Jim’s hand away from the guitar, “Come on Jim,” begging right now, “do something.”
“…You know I’m still pissed, right?” He puts his guitar aside and turns his head to Corey. That’s his very first guitar. An acoustic guitar. He only plays it when he’s back in Des Moines now. Before he met Corey Taylor, that meant he had nothing else to do, but that now means, he is stuck in one of the parties that Corey throws.
Because he is always stuck with Corey. 247.
He is not complaining, tho. The only problem he has is with the parties. He hates them, especially when Corey being the center of them (which is, unfortunately, usually the case). Corey has so many friends. From some decent dudes who sincerely tells him to drink less, to some fucked-up kids who bring even more bottles of Jäger as if they are free. Some douchebags come in just to see if they can score any kind—any form of drugs or just trying to be the next band to be signed…9 out of fucking 10, party means troubles. He doesn’t like troubles, and he doesn’t fucking want them when Corey is the center of it.
It’s a situation hard to be avoided when that person you’re talking about is Corey Todd Taylor.
“I know, I know. I brought you to another party which you don’t want to be in. I know." He’s trying not to giggle because Jim’s reaction was so adorable. Come on fucker, repent. He tells himself.
“You literally threw it, you know.” He has a hard time believing the shit Corey’s been doing and saying. Slowly blinking in disbelief, he finds out that Corey is trying to sit closer to him. Moving towards him inch by inch.
“Come on! Enjoy it! You are not liking this even for a bit?” Corey yells and peeks the guy in front of the computer. Nothing. The guy hasn’t moved a bit. Is he even breathing?
“The free alcohol, the cigarette, the shitty nachos and the chicks?”
“You know I don’t care about the chicks.”
That seems to be all he needs to answer to. Corey knows the subtext of all this is actually “I don’t touch them, not like you.” And more to it is… Jim is fucking jealous.
Corey smirks while leaning forward, which forces Jim to back off, until his back is against his guitar.
“Wait, what are you doing?” Jim mutters, lowering his voice subconsciously. It sounds like he’s genuinely scared.
“Doing…” He takes a deep drag of his cigarette and puts it on the ashtray, which is already full in just three days, “you.”
Smoke comes out from his lips along with the syllable, lingering around Jim’s face.

He’s like a trap sometimes, and Jim’s scared of him. Not in a bad way.

His lips are now against Jim’s. Jim tries to push him away, but God damn it he’s good at it. The next second Jim’s aware of, Corey has already slide his togue in his mouth.
He can’t say no to Corey. As always.

When drool started to drip from their mouth, Jim had to stop this before the liquid gets on this stranger’s couch, and he doesn’t even know the stranger’s name.
“Fuck.” His hands are on Corey’s shoulders, “You are crazy.” He comments, as if he doesn’t know that. Jim tilts his head to check if that person is still on his seat, and it’s good to find out there’s no surprises.
“You should’ve notice that.” His eyes follow Jim’s, “Don’t worry about the guy. He’ll fucking pay to let us be here.” calms him down as he sees Jim’s concern.
“He didn’t allow us to fuck here, that’s for sure.” Jim inhales, pushes Corey away with his right hand.
This is the single worst decision he’s ever made in his life at this point.
Ok, maybe he’s exaggerating. Falling in love with this motherfucker who’s sucking all the fingers on his right hand is.
Then it turns into biting. It was fine until blood start coming out from three of his fingers.
“Let go,” He tries not to yell, “you’re hurting me.”
Corey lets his hand go, but with this smile on his face that indicates that this is exactly what he wanted.
“What—What are you thinking, huh?” Jim’s turned on and pissed simultaneously. He doesn’t really know how to react to this. He hates saying nothing while he has so much to say, and with Corey, this happens all day long.
“You were thinking about guitar the whole time during this so-called party, weren’t you?” He licks the fresh wound on Jim’s hand.
“Not gonna lie, yes.” He tries to ignore Corey’s action, “Until you started this.”
It’s this moment where Corey admits that he’s also jealous, just like Jim. He knew they are both stupid on this subject matter, but he didn’t know it was this level of stupidity. Holy fuck. He sighs.
“How about now? What are you thinking about?” He leaves some saliva on Jim’s right hand while licking the man’s thickly calloused fingers, Jim can’t tell if he did it on purpose. Now it’s a mess of saliva, blood and sweat.
“Jesus, you know it.”
“What is that? Tell me.”
“…You. Fuck you until you don’t have the energy to do this. Fuck your mouth so you don’t drive me crazy with your words. I don’t’ know. Everything is about you.”
Everything is about you. Corey smiles.
“You know what?” Corey gives him a kiss on the forehead, (he tries pretty hard to reach to it even if they are almost lying down on the couch) “One of my friends doesn’t live in his apartment right now, and I have his keys. It’s a block away.”
Jim Root’s mind goes blank for how desperate Corey is. It’s as bad as himself.
They left the house while Jim tried to remain sane. He gave up the second the door’s shut.
He can taste the rain while kissing Corey on the street, but who gives a fuck. If it’s not about Corey, he's out of fucks to give.