Disclaimer: Melia and fishboy are sorry for doing this to Stefan, Steve and Brian. We have no claim over them, except in fic-land, and well in this story we abuse them a little bit. In short, please don’t sue us.

Rating: Um, keep this away from impressionable kids.

Genre: Melia’s bit: Horror
fishboy’s bit: Comedy

Summary: The aftermath of night out turns ugly, very ugly.

Notes: Thanks to Athena and Melia I’m churning out violent fics like this one. Where has all the mush gone???

‘Not Happening’ by Melia and fishboy

Part 1 (Melia)

I woke up a few minutes ago, bleary-eyed and hungover, cursing 9am photo shoots. What the hell time did I get in last night? What the hell was I doing last night? I.. I can't remember. Last thing I recall was the gig. It went badly. My voice gave out towards the end and we had to cut it short. I think I was complaining to Stefan about having to do interviews all day on show day and then be expected to sing for two hours straight. It's fucking bullshit really, but I digress. Where was I? Oh yes, trying to figure out how the hell Stefan ended up in my bed, bloody and very dead.
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I remember Steve fixing me some green tea after the show. I remember sipping it, savouring the flavour. I asked for another and Steve complied. The rest is a complete blank. Oh GOD, why was this happening? I looked at Stefan again and it was vicious. He was twisted and tangled in my bloodstained sheets. His beautiful, lanky body was mutilated beyond belief and it seemed I was the perpetrator. I was still on the bed next to him and my body ached. Off in the corner of the room I caught the glint of a knife.

..Swinging upwards, coming down like a bullet.
It had been carelessly tossed in the corner. I clumsily, and just barely, made it to the side of the bed before I vomited. I stayed that way, my head hanging upside down, for several seconds while I tried to clear my head. It was no use. My best mate was lying next to me, quietly decaying. I spat again, and climbed out of the bed. I saw myself reflected in the mirror. I was naked and drenched in blood.

..Smear it into my body.. yes....

I lost it then. My whole being cried out for Stefan and for myself, grieving for us both. I felt weak. My stomach cramped and I was seized in a sharp, violent pain. I dropped to my knees. It was then I noticed that not all the blood was Stefan's.

..Cackling maniacally... plunge it in deep..

Fresh spurts of blood dripped from the wound in my side when I doubled over. I must have collapsed after... after... after whatever happened in here. I fell backwards now, staring up at the ceiling in a haze of disbelief. I felt my life seeping out of me in slow gushes. I didn't feel the pain anymore. A gauzy kind of fog settled over my vision. In a far off world, some part of my brain registered a pounding on a door... the sound of splintering wood... someone screaming… it didn't matter anymore.
I faded away...

Part 2 (fishboy)

I surfaced some time later, the acid taste of bile stinging the back of my throat. My body felt raw, striped with despair. Steve had burst in, taking in the scene before him with a panache that made me squirm with desire. The scent of freshly scattered intestines (somewhat musky with a hint of an abattoir) lay over the air like a veil on the features of a belly dancer. Steve had approached me, delicately stepping over the remnants of our band mate. His gaze hadn’t wavered in the slightest as he kissed my fingers, nibbling on the pads, tracing the calluses with a wet tongue. I opened my eyes facing to all outward appearances a blank, sterile wall, but to my fevered im! aginings it was a screen whereupon all my masturbatory fantasies played out in lurid technicolor detail.

…Stefan bending down to a masked man, mouth pulled back grotesquely by the gag…

The blood that covered me was rubbing off on Steve’s body in rusty flakes. It reminded me of the slippery slide of my childhood, the ladder to the top was covered in exactly the same rust flakes. This memory sparked off another one, Helen Pickering offering to show her panties to my eight year old eyes if I pulled myself out. I had pulled down my red overalls with shaking hands, she had turned up her nose and said, "Oh, that!" in such a tone that my already small penis had shrunk further than I thought it possibly could.

…A metal speculum being inserted into the wet hole of Stefan’s arse, the entrance stretching like latex…

It was no use questioning what I had done, it was simply better to lie back and enjoy it. And enjoy it I did, Steve’s body collapsing on me, the tacky wetness of blood and other intimate fluids (both ours and Stefan’s) mingling joyously. If Stefan had been alive, his faggot arse would have loved it, me fucking Steve in the wetness of his body. So what if it was it more than one piece?

…Stefan’s look of rapture as the handle of the instrument was squeezed together making the jaws open wider…

Steve’s eager mouth on my dick, my mind slipping away on clouds of pleasure buoyed by his clever lips and tongue. I ask him how he got so good at sucking guys off if he was straight and he replies, "It’s just you, you inspire me, Brian," and gazing into those honest eyes I believe him utterly. I let myself go, blessing him with my come.

…Stefan is released, the gag pulled off, hobbling because the men have gone a little further than they should have…

I take him home, and he ends up dead. I tell Steve the whole story an! d he smirks wickedly and says, "Well Brian, at least you never pretended to be nice!"