scotchietape19

 Blonde on brunette, quivering lips on dampening hair, gasps on fire. Hearts pounding like they had never  beat before. The music of flesh on flesh humming throughout a dark, shady rendezvous. The risk of being uncovered by the media, the thrill of the suddenness of it all, the everything perfect. The hard body on top of his own, the grizzly brown beard and the mature muscles sliding across his own – two washboards beating against each other. Pounding rhythms leaking from the back door of Hero's Bar, cheers sounding from inside as a busboy opens the door to throw away garbage. The monophonic beep of their call watches - both go unanswer

Francis Bonnefoy. Perfect with the pick up lines, as smooth with his body as a baby's bottom, mister, "Would you like a glass of wine for those delicious lips?" Francis Bonnefoy. Mister, "Can you speak French? Non? Let me teach you with my body" Bonnefoy. More like Mister you get under my bloody skin you promiscuous little frog, Bonnefoy. Arthur clicked the tip of his push pen as he gazed across the table at that ridiculous head of blonde hair. Francis had been in the middle of scribbling a note in red pen, his white teeth lightly biting bottom lip in concentration, his golden mane framing his face. As quickly as he had wrote what Arthur gu

In an ancient land known as Gevrandia, where farmers and shepherds humbly tended to their cattle and sheep, and the dragons' wings tickled the giggling leaves of auburn and scarlet trees among the west where not even the bravest of adventurers dared venture; there, in a land that seemed so much like a dream of crisp fields and too much turkey supper, lived a boy named Wolfgang. Wolfgang was known around the village for being the most talented swordsmen, the most trustworthy towns protector, but above all his kindness and ability to make anyone feel welcome and at home was looked up upon throughout all of his peers; his best friend Canbacon,

With the flow of time I check my clock. With each page I write, I cringe. Are my dreams too big, and the bedrock of my adventures too small? My body feels restless without your own, yet when I am with you, they ache never to move from your side.   The mountains and hills project your name and I feel your breath in the wind; My wind - the one that blows on the opposite side of the tracks. Is the dream I have too large to comply with, or is this town just much too small? We could move away with chance at our backs, And become one with chance instead. It was chance that made us and the high of your touch that drov

There is a certain point at which my breath ends And before my sound begins And there my oxygen blows white And my lungs burn crimson bright And my Alto returns to its melodical flight To shine in the King's court. Let us leave this place where our minds turn black And evil people's minds make bends Past the tragic family, who in death slowly grow And where peace slips feebly and war does absolutely nothing to slow And watch as the starving children's live begin to horribly, painfully go To a time when my breath ends. Yes we'll play with a tempo that is measured and slow And we'll play on the battle fields that had once rained bl

Arthur fell to his knees out of breath. He looked up at the Frenchmen that stood above him, a dull silver gun pointed to his head, raindrops plinking on the cold metal and stinging his eyes. He couldn't help but smile weakly. "After all these years..I thought that you would be the one on his knees begging for mercy, Francis..." England tried to reach for his gun but stopped - what was the point? 'I'm going to die anyway...' the thought as an old memory began to play in the back of his mind. It was a warm spring day and Francis was about to give up on Arthur - he was a hopeless case."If you want to be a strong country Arthur, you will have to