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arabwelTitle: Metafuck (Or: Just how fucking many is a crowd?)
Author: Arabwel
E-mail. Arabwel at yahoo dot com
Rating: R
Pairing: Johnny Depp/Antonio Banderas, implied Johnny Depp/Enrique Iglesias, Sands/El, Jack/James,
Summary: It’s getting crowded in Johnny’s head, and he’s not the only one…
Disclaimer: Never happened. It’s just make-believe.
Word count: 100
Feedback: Yes, please
Archive: The challenge archive, any Meta archives, anyone who wants this, just drop me a line and you can have
Author’s Notes: Written for the "The Batshit Crazy Metafic o' Doom Challenge" and once again, the victim of lack of sleep and too much caffeine.
All mistakes are mine, since I don’t want to bother my beta with this sort of random crap.
I found out about the challenge 3 days before the deadline, angsted about it for two days, and began writing this just before midnight on the 30th. Ten plot bunnies struck, and the rest is, as they say, history.
The tile comes from a v. bad typo in the original filename….
Dedicated to my therapist, who will probably refuse to read this on account of wanting to hold to what’s left of her sanity.
***
It was getting crowded in his head.
A permanently drunk pirate, a psycho blind gunslinger, a drug-addicted psychic, a writer with serious issues and a split personality, a drug dealer with fucking scary sideburns… just to name a few in the cadre of random idiots he had brought to life with his body and who had decided to stick around.
Then again, he mused, it could be worse.
Orli had an elf in his head… besides a poncy blacksmith, that is, and accompanied by the Prince Paris the Pussy. And what about Keira and her royal handmaidens from space, corset-wearing wannabe-pirate ladies and blue-painted warrioresses?
But they managed to keep them in their heads.
Johnny… Johnny couldn’t do that, not always. The tattoo in his arm was a permanent reminder of the fact that Captain Jack Sparrow was much more insistent than most fictional people. Not to mention the time he had gotten drunk on wine and port, and had almost assaulted that cook in a fit of ferine anger spawned from Sands’ need to balance.
There were times when Johnny wondered if he, too, was a figment of someone’s imagination and did not really belong here, in this body. Perhaps it was Sands who was real, or perhaps it’s Jack Sparrow who had dreamed up all this in rum-induced slumber. Or perhaps they all were sides of Mort’s inner self, just like Shooter was.
On some days, Johnny no longer cared.
***
The Internet was, in Johnny’s opinion, a wonderful thing. When the voices… the people in his head became too insistent, he had to channel them, bleed them somewhere sot that he would not go insane in a way that would land him in a straightjacket… or perhaps the electric chair, if it was one of hiss less-than-sane pers… fri… peo… aspects that took over.
He could very well imagine what Sands could do were he given full rein of Johnny’s body.
Thus, the Internet was a blessing. In the nameless electronic abyss, he could let the words and deeds and emotions of his alter egos go free; He would not need to be the only one to listen to them, to feel their voices, desires, their will to live.
***
Sometimes, he was surprised by what he found in the Internet. He was quite sure, for example, that he had never gotten a blowjob from Enrique. He was not, however, after reading that particularly bizarre piece of fiction, sure about not wanting one.
He blamed that one on Sands; the sick fuck had been giving him strange and unusual visions of Antonio-as-El for the longest time.
Johnny was not gay, not bi, not even curious. He liked women, and especially one particular woman. Namely, Vanessa. But apparently, according to the Internet people, he was gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitroxide. Or, at least his characters were. Sparrow had just laughed at that, and told him it was all his fault; but when had he flirted with Norrington- Davenport, dammit! - He’d just been in character…. It was not his fault that the people who’d invaded his mind were such utter fucking whackoes.
***
So it was not his fault, not really, when it happened; When a reunion party became just a bit too long; when just a bit too much alcohol was consumed; when just a bit too much of the others had bled into him, and when he had spent the night before reading.
It was not his fault.
It was the voices in his head, he later told both himself and Antonio; And Antonio agreed. Admitted that sometimes, he could feel a nonexistent wound in his hand, sometimes felt his fingers itch and curl like there was something he should have been holding on; Sometimes, he found himself admiring horses, and sometimes, he was wondering why the woman in his bed was suddenly blonde.
Antonio had understood.
They did not talk about it again.
But when it happened again… and again… when it became something more than just a repeating accident that made both of them feel more shaken than it should have. When it became clear that it was more than just curiosity, more than just drunken buddy-fucking, more than just a bizarre, career-wrecking, marriage-wrecking, life-wrecking madness that held sway over them.
***
It just went on.
No set times, no set places, just chance meetings that were not so much by chance as by providence; Providence that came from within, from those that had no voices of their own to mutter filthy obscenities and shattered endearments.
It became gritty alleys, Mexican holidays, too much tequila and too much lime, the occasional shot of rum, the strange fascination with sharp things that they should not have kept with them. They shouldn’t have had the other things, either, bit for some reason, they just… appeared.
It became as natural as breathing; Letting them out, letting the impulses bleed out not in words on screen and paper, or in ink and blood staining skin, but in guttural moans and gasped insults, endearments meant not for them but to the others, the ones that demanded the release.
It became harder and harder to hide; there are only so many times an excuse works, and only so many times someone who knows your entire body from the tips of your hair to the soles of your feet can be fooled, or turned away, or even asked to not to turn on the light.
A divorce is just a statistic; star marriages never last. Didn’t Tommy and Nicole prove that one? Even so, they struggled to keep things together, keep things from falling apart, all the while when insidious voices whispered how useless it was to resist.
It shouldn’t have been like that.
When it was all over, when there was nothing left, Johnny wore the sunglasses.
Just like Antonio wore the gauntlet.
And even if sometimes, there was a red bandanna holding back Johnny’s hair, it didn’t matter.
Author: Arabwel
E-mail. Arabwel at yahoo dot com
Rating: R
Pairing: Johnny Depp/Antonio Banderas, implied Johnny Depp/Enrique Iglesias, Sands/El, Jack/James,
Summary: It’s getting crowded in Johnny’s head, and he’s not the only one…
Disclaimer: Never happened. It’s just make-believe.
Word count: 100
Feedback: Yes, please
Archive: The challenge archive, any Meta archives, anyone who wants this, just drop me a line and you can have
Author’s Notes: Written for the "The Batshit Crazy Metafic o' Doom Challenge" and once again, the victim of lack of sleep and too much caffeine.
All mistakes are mine, since I don’t want to bother my beta with this sort of random crap.
I found out about the challenge 3 days before the deadline, angsted about it for two days, and began writing this just before midnight on the 30th. Ten plot bunnies struck, and the rest is, as they say, history.
The tile comes from a v. bad typo in the original filename….
Dedicated to my therapist, who will probably refuse to read this on account of wanting to hold to what’s left of her sanity.
***
It was getting crowded in his head.
A permanently drunk pirate, a psycho blind gunslinger, a drug-addicted psychic, a writer with serious issues and a split personality, a drug dealer with fucking scary sideburns… just to name a few in the cadre of random idiots he had brought to life with his body and who had decided to stick around.
Then again, he mused, it could be worse.
Orli had an elf in his head… besides a poncy blacksmith, that is, and accompanied by the Prince Paris the Pussy. And what about Keira and her royal handmaidens from space, corset-wearing wannabe-pirate ladies and blue-painted warrioresses?
But they managed to keep them in their heads.
Johnny… Johnny couldn’t do that, not always. The tattoo in his arm was a permanent reminder of the fact that Captain Jack Sparrow was much more insistent than most fictional people. Not to mention the time he had gotten drunk on wine and port, and had almost assaulted that cook in a fit of ferine anger spawned from Sands’ need to balance.
There were times when Johnny wondered if he, too, was a figment of someone’s imagination and did not really belong here, in this body. Perhaps it was Sands who was real, or perhaps it’s Jack Sparrow who had dreamed up all this in rum-induced slumber. Or perhaps they all were sides of Mort’s inner self, just like Shooter was.
On some days, Johnny no longer cared.
***
The Internet was, in Johnny’s opinion, a wonderful thing. When the voices… the people in his head became too insistent, he had to channel them, bleed them somewhere sot that he would not go insane in a way that would land him in a straightjacket… or perhaps the electric chair, if it was one of hiss less-than-sane pers… fri… peo… aspects that took over.
He could very well imagine what Sands could do were he given full rein of Johnny’s body.
Thus, the Internet was a blessing. In the nameless electronic abyss, he could let the words and deeds and emotions of his alter egos go free; He would not need to be the only one to listen to them, to feel their voices, desires, their will to live.
***
Sometimes, he was surprised by what he found in the Internet. He was quite sure, for example, that he had never gotten a blowjob from Enrique. He was not, however, after reading that particularly bizarre piece of fiction, sure about not wanting one.
He blamed that one on Sands; the sick fuck had been giving him strange and unusual visions of Antonio-as-El for the longest time.
Johnny was not gay, not bi, not even curious. He liked women, and especially one particular woman. Namely, Vanessa. But apparently, according to the Internet people, he was gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitroxide. Or, at least his characters were. Sparrow had just laughed at that, and told him it was all his fault; but when had he flirted with Norrington- Davenport, dammit! - He’d just been in character…. It was not his fault that the people who’d invaded his mind were such utter fucking whackoes.
***
So it was not his fault, not really, when it happened; When a reunion party became just a bit too long; when just a bit too much alcohol was consumed; when just a bit too much of the others had bled into him, and when he had spent the night before reading.
It was not his fault.
It was the voices in his head, he later told both himself and Antonio; And Antonio agreed. Admitted that sometimes, he could feel a nonexistent wound in his hand, sometimes felt his fingers itch and curl like there was something he should have been holding on; Sometimes, he found himself admiring horses, and sometimes, he was wondering why the woman in his bed was suddenly blonde.
Antonio had understood.
They did not talk about it again.
But when it happened again… and again… when it became something more than just a repeating accident that made both of them feel more shaken than it should have. When it became clear that it was more than just curiosity, more than just drunken buddy-fucking, more than just a bizarre, career-wrecking, marriage-wrecking, life-wrecking madness that held sway over them.
***
It just went on.
No set times, no set places, just chance meetings that were not so much by chance as by providence; Providence that came from within, from those that had no voices of their own to mutter filthy obscenities and shattered endearments.
It became gritty alleys, Mexican holidays, too much tequila and too much lime, the occasional shot of rum, the strange fascination with sharp things that they should not have kept with them. They shouldn’t have had the other things, either, bit for some reason, they just… appeared.
It became as natural as breathing; Letting them out, letting the impulses bleed out not in words on screen and paper, or in ink and blood staining skin, but in guttural moans and gasped insults, endearments meant not for them but to the others, the ones that demanded the release.
It became harder and harder to hide; there are only so many times an excuse works, and only so many times someone who knows your entire body from the tips of your hair to the soles of your feet can be fooled, or turned away, or even asked to not to turn on the light.
A divorce is just a statistic; star marriages never last. Didn’t Tommy and Nicole prove that one? Even so, they struggled to keep things together, keep things from falling apart, all the while when insidious voices whispered how useless it was to resist.
It shouldn’t have been like that.
When it was all over, when there was nothing left, Johnny wore the sunglasses.
Just like Antonio wore the gauntlet.
And even if sometimes, there was a red bandanna holding back Johnny’s hair, it didn’t matter.
