the bathroom window

"Hey kid!"

I grimaced as I turned around. I had been expecting the son-of-a-bitch to hackle me again, needlesstosay I was not prepared for the punch.

I saw his fist and had a vague idea to duck but for some reason nothing happened after that first thought and then came the pain.

He punched me fucking hard and I stumbed back and crashed against the wall. Pure, manly fury surged through me; I ran my tongue over my teeth quickly to make he hadn't knocked out anything important and then I lunged at him.

I lost the last fight I had been in. Richie Stempack beat the shit out of me until a lunch lady had interupted and saved me. No fucking way would I lose again.

My fist connected nicely with his jaw and the feel of blood and bone against my skin was like fucking sex. The hit had been perfect, Ryan's head snapped back and he lost balance. He tripped back and landed with a satisfying crack on the ground.

The look he gave me was deadly. Blood dripped down from his nose and smudges of red were smeared over his lips. He spit and stood up again, fists out. "Mother fucker," he spit again, "Hit me again."

"With pleasure." I rolled my hands into fists and punched him again, a strong upper cut. The bastard fell again and sent me another diry look. I smiled.

I was so fucking hot: light blue jeans stained with blood and dirt, my Trojan condom shirt under a dark brown jean jacket, blood dribbling from my lip, and a fucking nasty shinner forming around my left eye. I felt gracious because of my superiority, "Done."

Ryan jumped back unto his feet. "Like fuck you are, Johnny boy."

The kiss, which was all accidental and all awkwardness, was wet and hot and smooth and gave birth to a whole world of nasty images inside John's head.

"Mmph, goddamn, wha-?" The hard, lean body under John's wiggled until it bucked, throwing the young rocker, dazed, to the side.

"Fucking queer! What the hell was that? Who the hell are you? Fuck, man!" Blazing eyes complete with an angry mouth, Marshall Matthers was in a proper tizzy and a force to be reckened with.

"Ah, well, hi." John felt one rush blood rise into his cheeks and a second fill his loins. "I'm really sorry, I guess I tripped and look - I'm sorry."

Some of Marshall's ire melted. The kid looked like he'd been hit by a truck: hair tousled, breathing heavily, arms and legs in weird places at weird angles... "Fuck it. Whatever. Don't come near me again." He turned, debated giving the kid the finger and decided against it, and stalked off.

"My name's John!"

Marshall's foot stopped in mid step. He turned, his eyebrows furrowed and lips turned up in a sneer. "What?"

Desperate to get him back (get him? Him? Back?!), John pushed aside his pride and personnel respect in an effort to keep Marshall from leaving. "I'm John." He was still on the floor, still all rumpled and delicious, still making a fool of himself. "Nice to meet you."

The guitar twanged and John winced, his ears ringing from the sound. It needed new strings, a new kaypo, maybe even a new neck, goddammit, but he couldn't give his baby a well-needed update for a good week or so, thanks to his schedule. He almost -almost!- threw the guitar to the floor in anger but came to his senses at the last moment and stopped his hand before it committed murder.

Scott was busy, the guys were busy, even his mom was too fucking busy for him to call home. John tilted back in his chair and exhaled an exasperated sigh. No friends, no guitar, no girl... If it wasn't for the XBox he'd be utterly screwed in his solitude.

He leaned forward and pressed the 'on' button knowing that a few hours of blowing up aliens in HALO would improve the situtation.

"Click." Said the Xbox. It whirred and chirred, indescisive, and then in a flash of brillance shut down without having turned on in the first place.

John inched closer. A long finger that inspite of the calases was considered beautiful and inspiring by all the women (and some of the men) in America pressed again on the button and a voice that coaxed moans and sighs from the most cold hearted whispered a prayer to the Microsoft God. "C'mon baby."

The Xbox clicked with aggitation. It flicked a light, beeped once, and turned off.

That same hand that wished only to destroy the guitar for it's insolence now made an attempt on the Xbox's life. "Goddammit! Must... not... kill..."

John stood up in a huff. His hands ran through his hair and both got stuck in some snarles. "Dammit!" Pissed about this lastest diaster he kicked the TV stand and stubbed not only his big toe, but the second, third, and fourth toe on his right foot. "Goddammit!"

He freed his hands and grabbed onto his throbbing foot. Hopping on his yet uninjured appendage he cursed and bounced until he tripped over his couch. "Goddammit!"

He needed to get out -now- before he killed himself. Still swearing John grabbed a nearby coat and stuffed both feet (which were now both aching) into sneakers. "So long you appartment of doom."

a little bit more of the johnxeminem that i wrote a couple of posts back.


The Sprite went flying off some where, spilling a trail of soda bubbles before landing in a plant a few feet from Marshall's chair. The sprinkles of wetness encouraged the opening of one eye, followed swiftly by the other when it focused on a quickly approaching body.

"Timber!" John yelled as he fell, and immediately regretted his idiocy. He was *not* at home, he was *not* with friends, he was *not* allowed to be funny and/or inappropiate, especially as he made a fool of himself.

"Fuck!" Marshall's hands sprang up unconsciously to brace against the weight of the fucker, but John was too much for them and they couldn't stop him from landing, full force, onto the rapper.

In a few seconds of complete chaos that ensued, arms and legs tangled together and two confused bodies were smashed unromantically together in a very intimate embrace. The chair tipped over, the crowed ooh-ed and aww-ed, and John Mayer met Marshell Matthers for the first time.