ext_1543 ([identity profile] chalcopyrite.livejournal.com) wrote in [personal profile] turps 2011-07-07 04:41 pm (UTC)

With your mask on if you have to, Frank/Gerard

Ghoul can't fucking see.

There's hot dust in his nose and he can't fucking see, because his mask is rucked up over his eyes and the eyeholes are somewhere up around his forehead, probably. Why Party didn't just strip it all the way off he doesn't know. Why he doesn't strip it all the way off he doesn't know, but he doesn't care, either, because he's busy.

There's a loose stone under his boot, and hot cement under one hand, and Party's mouth lush and wet under his own. It's fierce and hungry and like every other kiss that might be the last one, full of meaning Ghoul can't decode right now, another installation of a conversation they keep having. The edge of Party's mask digs into his cheek and it makes him push harder, try to push through.

He doesn't know what might be on the other side.

Party makes a noise: half moan, half grunt. He steps away, and pulls Ghouls' mask back into place before he can do it himself. Ghoul can see the shift: less Party, more Poison. Jetstar and Kobra are already in the car. He licks his lips under his mask.

"Let's go," he says.

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