jack st. claire

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Orpheus

     Music spilled out of the door of Club Orpheus, following right behind Jack as he made his less than graceful exit. It had been a great fucking show, and that called for great fucking celebration. Great fucking drinks, great fucking drugs. But it was going on five in the morning, and in order to be able to get up by seven that evening -- Jack needed to go home. So out into the night he’d gone, and he was struggling to hold onto his phone long enough to call the fucking cab service. If he stayed out too long, he was sure to run into some fans that he really could not find the mental capacity to deal with.

To say that this is merely lust wouldn’t do it justice. Lionheart knows lust. He also knows sex. But between them, in this moment, it’s a thunderstorm of electric sparks firing back and forth. It takes a lot for someone to get under Lionheart’s skin, but he can already feel this man forcefully digging his nails into Lionheart’s flesh, and sinking into him. A hand reaching into his insides, fingers tangling in an intricate spiderweb of veins and arteries. Maybe this man can find the core of Lionheart that even Lionheart can’t find. No– that’s asking too much. Never depend on others. Never look to others for answers. His mind is a safe he keeps locked up with a key he swallowed. You won’t get it out of him unless you shoved his hand out of his throat, but you won’t do that. 

     Jack leaned forward in the back seat, and slid open the little, shitty, scratched up plexiglas window that separated the driver from his passengers. He told him his address, albeit in a tone much quieter than his usual. While he wanted Lionheart to accompany him home -- if things went wrong, he didn’t want the other to remember exactly where he was staying for the time being.      For the time being. Because nothing was ever set in stone with musicians on tour, unless you were touring with them. Especially Jack, when you factored basically his entire personality and tendencies into it all. He would be in Los Angeles for about another two weeks playing in clubs around the city, but then he was gone to the next state. The guitarist was transient in every sense of the word, and that was how he’d grown comfortable. He had been since he was born, and as far as he could see, it would stay that way. 

❝ᴇᴡᴡ. That’s not what I imagined it to be like.❞ Katherine tilts her head back and licks her lips in disgust. The taste of his blood is stale and leaves a bitter aftertaste. Well, that’s what you get for feeding on a ‘ʀᴏᴄᴋsᴛᴀʀ’, she guesses.

     Jack lay under the strange woman in somewhat of a trance. The last thing he sort-of consciously remembered were the blinding lights of the Torrent Club down on 86th, awful techno music, an open tab at the bar and a lot of girls. He currently assumed that he’d landed himself in his current predicament by either successfully seducing a girl, or being successfully drugged by a girl. Right now he was leaning towards the latter, as he wasn’t the biggest advocate of vampire play, if that was the right terminology -- as far as he knew. While drugged, he hadn’t minded it, and even found the blood being sucked away quite liberating. But now that he thought about it more, his mind leaned in sort of a what-the-fuck direction, if anything else.

{ brother’s weakness }

     It wasn’t common for Jack to spend his nights at Enzo’s flat. The last few weeks, he’d made quite the habit of going home with Plush’s second guitarist after every show -- and it was something he’d actually come to find himself enjoying. While Enzo had his quirks, Jack preferred his company over most anybody else’s. Because Enzo just got him. He understood about the drugs and the sleepless nights and his old habits with all of the mindless sex -- and he was kind about it every last thing. He had very much taken Jack under his wing, and Jack had gone ahead and made himself comfortable.      That morning wasn’t particularly different than any other, upon the musician’s awakening. He opened his eyes to find himself amidst a fluffy black duvet, in a mostly-black room with numerous guitars and guitar picks scattered across the floor like a confetti canon had gone terribly wrong. But it was normal, it was what he’d been waking up to every morning, and it was home.      Jack took awhile getting himself out of bed. Enzo’s warmth and smell still lingered where he’d slept, so he must not have left too long ago. There was no show to perform that night, so for once in a blue fucking moon, Jack could take it nice and slow. When he eventually did get himself out of bed, he felt a slight pain in his head from the inevitable morning hangover that came after every one of his nights -- but he’d grown mostly used to it, by that point, so he disregarded it and headed for the kitchen; knowing that Enzo would be back sooner rather than later.      But the scene that greeted him in the kitchen was not ordinary, was not normal, and was not what he had been waking up to every morning. This girl wasn’t supposed to be in their home. Brother? Enzo had a sister? Why had he never heard Enzo mention a sister? Jack reached down into his pocket for his phone, but its vacancy provided the slow realization that it was back in the other guitarist’s room some-fucking-where. Fuck. This was fucking awkward.

It’s not as if Lionheart goes around picking up random prey on whim. Well, not anymore. Sure did a fuck lot of that as a kid. That’s what you don’t see the media showing: the kids preying on the adults. But oh, it happens. Age doesn’t mean shit. He’s monstrous. Doesn’t know if he was born that way, or became that way. Nature vs. Nurture, y’know? It’s only when he’s more restless and bored than usual. Or if there’s too much fucking static in his head. He needs someone to quiet down the static, or at least divert his attention from it. This man is beautiful, but more importantly, this man is fucked up. That’s what draws Lionheart closer– both figuratively and literally. Not because he wants to fix Jack. You don’t try fixing people unless they ask. Same goes for the idea of saving. But because he wants to reach inside of Jack, twist his finger the mass of veins and arteries, and tear out all the dark out of this man. Or even just a little of it. So, then Lionheart can swallow that dark himself. Doesn’t understand why, but wants to know how Jack’s dark with react with his own inside of him. What kind of chemical reaction would that be? Is this going to be a catalyst for something disastrous?

     This is exactly what Jack wanted. This was exactly what Jack always wanted. Distractions from his solitary misery that consumed him as night time fell across the world – as the bright, hot, multicolored houselights faded to black over the sea of people beyond the edge of the stage. As the last note of his guitar fizzled out like a flame hesitantly doused with oxygen – as the echoes of Hayley’s beautiful voice diminished throughout their domain. His domain.       Just like some people wake up in the morning, eat breakfast, go to work, come home, eat dinner, and go to bed… Jack woke up in the late afternoon, either did a couple shots or lines, played a show, went to a club, got even more fucked up and fucked, and then somehow made it home to pass out and repeat the next day. He thought it was a healthy enough cycle – he was still living, at least. Making money – blowing it on drugs, yeah – but making money. He liked losing touch with himself; it’s what made him feel good, and you could fuck yourself if you told him anything otherwise.      Jack wanted to be covered with marks of Lionheart. He wanted cuts and scrapes and burns and bruises, and he wanted them everywhere. Jack lived to hurt, Jack lived to be hurt. He leaned his head down to Lionheart’s collarbone, where he scraped his teeth along the pale, exposed skin – working his way to nip the other near the base of his neck before the guitarist spoke once more.  “You come on just like Special K,” he murmured, tracing the length of Lionheart’s neck with his tongue… “and I don’t ever want to crash,” Jack continued, biting and giving a little tug to the other’s earlobe. His voice was lower and more gravelly than usual, as it sometimes happened to be after a particularly energetic show. He wouldn’t admit it if asked, but maybe part of the reason that Jack so consistently found new partners was in the hope of finding something more than lust, too.      He was well aware of the white divine dripping down the back of his throat. The drip. That was the best part of snorting – it served as a gentle little reminder that Jack had successfully ruined himself just a little more that night. If it’s what Lionheart wanted, Jack would scream for him. He would scream until his fucking throat bled. He wouldn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop. The rocking of Lionheart’s crotch against his fingers was the ultimate green light for Jack, who immediately assumed dominance for the moment – reaching around Lionheart’s waist with one arm to reverse their stance. It could have almost been called violent, the way that Jack so forcefully thrust the smaller male against the grimy, damp, brick wall. Both of his hands trailed down Lionheart’s sides – almost claiming Lionheart as Jack’s own – and eventually, both of his pointer fingers hooked around two belt loops, utilizing them to pull the other’s hard crotch against his even harder.  “I’m going to fucking ruin you.”      And just like that, Jack pushed off of Lionheart and adjusted the guitar strap on his shoulder. The faulty streetlamps lighting his way, Jack just expected the blonde to follow. If he didn’t want to, he wouldn’t. If he wanted to, he would. The guitarist pulled a phone out of his pocket, and called for a cab. Gave the address, and walked do the front of the venue. Most fans had cleared out by then, and he was safely encompassed by shadow anyways. The cab showed up in next to no time, and Jack didn’t hesitate to just get right in. 

Is evil something you are? Or is it something you do?