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Musicians/Music Groups Fan Fiction >> Avenged Sevenfold

The following is a work of fiction. Any statements regarding any person, place, or other entity (real or imaginary) is the sole responibility of the author of this work of fiction. Fan Works Inc. takes no responsibility for the content of user submitted stories. All stories based on real people are works of fiction and do not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. All stories based on other copyrighted works are written with authors knowing that these works violate copyright laws.

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Made of Scars
By Warped

 


She finds him alone in the van, surrounded by empty bottles from the night before; head hung low and gaze downcast.

There's a trickle of red seeping down the side of his face and mixing in with the deep russet of his hair, mingling with the sweaty mass of locks so that crimson is barely definable from brown, but she can see it clear enough. It's bright and smattered against the strong line of his cheekbone, dribbling down his jaw-line and almost to the tattoo on his neck, not quite yet though, he hasn't been sat alone that long. But it's getting there.

She closes the door behind her and stumbles her way across to him through the clutter on the floor, her hand seeking his bare shoulder, slick with sweat, in the semi-darkness. She can hear his breathing, and feel the steady rise and fall of his shoulders underneath her fingertips, but he doesn't glance up at the contact - only circles an arm around her slight waist and pulls her to him instead, until she folds into his lap, steadying herself with a hand resting against a barely-defined pec.

(She's always found his lack of muscle adorable; he doesn't have the bulging biceps of the bulky singer, or the body for a muscle shirt like the lead - yet nor does he have the chubbiness of her rhythm guitarist, or the lanky, lean ruggedness of the drummer. He's somewhere in between, only just taller than herself, and he's always given the best hugs. She remembers this as soon as his arms slip around her.)

“Who was it this time?” she mumbles as she rests against him, her face hidden in the shallow crook of his neck. He can feel the vibrations of her voice against his collarbone, and it makes his skin prickle despite the warmth he exudes - he's just walked away from a tussle after all.

“Doesn't matter,” is his reply, spoken into her hair as he twirls a strand of it around his fingertips and watches it fall softly back into place, barely paying attention to the stinging pain in his head.

“You shouldn't let them do this to you…” she argues, pulling away from him slightly so he can see the glint of her eyes in the dim light - her pupils focused searchingly on his face, a face half hidden in shadow.

His response is a simple quirk of the lips, and he leans in, kissing her forehead. “No, no. It doesn't matter,” he repeats, a blizzard of words fighting to slip from his tongue, “it's just their initiation. I'll kick their asses later. I'm biding my time. You'll see.”

She snorts, and even in the darkness he can see her roll her eyes. It makes him smile. “You don't have to be their bitch to be in the band.”

“I'll do whatever it takes.” He disagrees, his gaze tracking her as she hides her face in the crook of his neck again, her breath cool against his burning skin. Her disapproval is obvious; her body is stiffer under his hands now - but this time, like every time, she gives in. She knows it's inevitable.

“I'll talk to Zack.” She says, and the finality in her tone almost dares him to argue with her.

This time he goes quiet and doesn't dispute it -

(like he does every time she mentions Zack's name, if she would take the time to notice; but she never does - she's too angry at the rest of the band for bullying him to notice how his lips press into a thin, taut line whenever the single syllable - Zack, she only calls him Zachary when she's mad at him - leaves her lips. He hates the fondness in her voice, even when she's only talking about the guy, much less than when he sees her lips meet Zack's and the guitarist's rough, smug grin as he claims her as his own)

- and he sighs when she leans in to press a chaste kiss to his lips, feeling that familiar pang of longing in his chest at the knowledge that this is all it will ever be for her; chaste, platonic. She doesn't know what she's doing to him. Even when she slides from his lap and pulls him to his feet, their fingers twining like lovers' should, it's all he can ever have from her. And, he supposes, he should be content with having even that.

“Let's get you cleaned up, Johnny.” He hears the slight smile in her voice, can imagine the subtly curve of her lips, and his chest constricts silently at the way his name rolls off her tongue. But he's not good enough for her, and he's certainly no competitor to Zack, and so he follows her in silence to let her clean up the bloody aftermath, as she always has done.

And that is all! I've been toying with the idea of trying new writing styles for a while so when this idea came to me I thought I'd test it out. What do you guys think?

 

The preceeding was a work of fiction. Any statements regarding any person, place, or other entity (real or imaginary) is the sole responibility of the author of this work of fiction. Fan Works Inc. takes no responsibility for the content of user submitted stories. All stories based on real people are works of fiction and do not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. All stories based on other copyrighted works are written with authors knowing that these works violate copyright laws.

Please see the Terms of Service for more information.

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